A Page from the Life of Gibran and Howayek in Paris (17) — Madame Baudet's Restaurant

Georgette told us, as she served us our lunch, that she intended to leave the little restaurant beside the Luxembourg Garden... for the restaurant of "Madame Baudet" — Boulevard Raspail, at the corner of the rue "Léopold Robert."

I talked the matter over with Gibran, and we settled on the view that this latter restaurant suited us as well, for it lay halfway between our two lodgings and close to the free art academies.

We were at the beginning of summer, and some tables had been set out on the wide sidewalk in front of the restaurant, ringed by greenery and flowers; we would sit around them as though in the middle of a garden...

This restaurant of Madame Baudet's was the first restaurant in the Latin Quarter designed in the modern style. That is to say — artistically — it departed from the conception of the classical style that was still prevalent: the lines of the wooden frames, the manageress's desk, the doors and the windows — all of these, instead of being straight and simple, took on winding shapes ending in something like great leaves and strange ornaments — inspired, no doubt, by the artistic revolution.

As for the "style" of Madame Baudet herself, the revolution had not touched it... She kept her classicism pure, free of every blemish... and she retained, at fifty, a full, imposing figure, a round face framed by white hair smoothed back, and two eyes sharp as an eagle's, above all when she stared into the distance or when she pointed her finger to alert one of the waitresses to some matter... When Gibran and I passed her and greeted her respectfully, she would smile at us with a mother's tenderness... and no

And so at Madame Baudet's restaurant we were honored and esteemed; we sat like princes in truth and exchanged talk and discussion as we pleased, reaching out boldly to probe and analyze the great hopes, and touching on the small trivial details, alike...

And at times, when we felt in ourselves no inclination to work at the art academy, and Gibran had no appointment, we liked to stroll along the Boulevard Montparnasse, walking on foot until we reached that corner where the "Lilas" café stands — there we would drink a cup of coffee, contemplating with admiration the statue of Marshal "Ney" brandishing his sword "Forward!" — the work of the sculptor "Rude"... Then we would go on to the garden of the "Observatoire" and saunter around the beautiful basin, raising our eyes with the wonder of children to the statues of the four continents, the work of the sculptor "Carpeaux" — four women, each woman representing one of the four continents in her form and her features — all of them beautiful, naked, lifting the terrestrial globe upward with graceful movements — a true artistic masterpiece! And around it the waters gush from every side... and the tender evergreen trees shade both sides of the broad walk... No taste rises above French taste! — "We are in Paris!" Gibran would exclaim, from sheer gladness and delight!

I close my eyes now, and how quickly the image of Gibran takes shape in my mind: with his tender smile and the ring of his warm voice and the expressive movement of his hand, and his forever-questioning fingers... as if he and I were walking on our way to the Luxembourg Garden... We turn off to the north and sit on the terrace overlooking the palace and part of the garden... It is as if I now hear the echo of

Madame Baudet's Restaurant

wonder, for we were among the distinguished customers: while the ordinary customers paid the waitress a "tip" of five centimes, we paid ten... The servants would whisper among themselves that we were princes from Lebanon... Georgette would hasten, when we came in, to reserve the best table for us, draw our attention to the good items on the menu, and single us out in her treatment from all the customers; so we took comfort in this special consideration and in this distinction that raised us above others... The price of a meal in those blessed days, however dear and costly it might be, did not reach two francs!..

Gibran's voice in my ear:

— We are in Paris, Youssef!. In this verdant garden; before us, on this path, walked the feet of so many of the great scholars and the great artists... I feel the breaths of Puvis de Chavannes and Carpeaux and Balzac and Alfred de Musset and Victor Hugo and Pasteur and Curie and Taine and Renan... It seems to me that I can make out the traces of their footsteps on this path!!..
— And the "muses" — do their fresh footprints not appear to you? The feet of Miss Olga, for instance?!

Gibran smiles his delicate smile and closes his eyes to me, half in a pang, so I leave him absorbed in thinking of the great men... and turn myself to thinking of the muses!..

After a long silence Gibran asks me: What do you say to a visit to the Lady Geneviève, since we are so near her? I have not seen her for a long time, and I long for the sight of her...

Before long we leave the garden and walk in the direction of the rue "Soufflot," until there loom before our eyes the majestic lines of the temple of the "Panthéon," built by the architect "Soufflot" shortly before the Revolution... God! How temple rose upon temple, and the dome crouched above the two temples! On the ruins of an ancient church of Sainte Geneviève this shrine was raised to the patroness of the Parisian people. In the days of the great Revolution it was made a sanctuary to shelter the greatest of men, and it was named the Panthéon, and on its façade was written: "The homeland gives thanks to its great men." When the Revolution ended it was restored as a church... and lately the French Republic returned it as a resting place for the great men... And here we are entering it now, as if we were entering the seat of greatness and grandeur...

The first thing we sought out was the picture of Sainte Geneviève by the painter "Puvis de Chavannes," which Gibran admired intensely... There she stands with her slender figure, on the balcony before her chamber... on her head a white shawl, one end of which she holds in one hand, while the other hand is laid upon the wall. In the moonlight she keeps watch, wakeful, over the sleeping city and its inhabitants — an immortal artistic masterpiece!! This woman one day calmed the terror of the people of Paris as they trembled in panic at the approach of the soldiers of the barbarians — the soldiers of Attila! who in the middle of the fifth century managed to prevail over the Roman emperors in East and West... He swept over the lands and left them in ruin, and occupied France up to the gates of Paris; it was said of him: "The grass did not grow where the hooves of his horses passed"!!! He turned toward Paris and came within sight of its wall... and here is Geneviève, meeting him outside the wall, standing in his face and speaking to him... What did she say to him? What language did she speak? What was the ring of her voice? What were her looks? — until the terrible Attila was persuaded to turn his horse's head and to withdraw from Paris!..

Gibran said, moved: — Is there any serenity broader and deeper than what is upon her face?!
And I added, nodding my head in agreement, without lifting my gaze from the painting: — Thus let painting be, or not at all!

After that we went on to contemplate a second picture along the wall, representing the death of the saint as she blesses those present, the work of J. P. Laurens — here is the classical type in the full sense of the word! Cold, provoking yawns and drowsiness... without soul... And a well-known saying occurred to me: "Perfect beauty belongs to no particular school... it is the feeling of the sincere artist, revealing itself with simplicity... it is the easy that defies attainment!"
Gibran said: As I have told you many times, Youssef, I have never had a taste for the art of the master Laurens — indeed I often feel a loathing for it... I want to be free in my own kind! I said to him: And I likewise.
And we heard the guide calling at the top of his voice: "The door of the crypt is open! Who wishes to visit the crypt?!"
We went down with those descending, and the guide stood on a small rise, pointed his finger at a tomb, and said in a loud, parrot-like tone: "Here lies Voltaire: a great philosopher. A great writer. A great poet..."
Then he pointed to a second tomb: "Here lies Jean-Jacques Rousseau, a great writer. A great thinker..."

And to another tomb: "Here lies Victor Hugo, a great poet..."

Gibran pressed my arm and whispered in my ear: — I have had my fill of "great"... and I would now prefer a stroll along the river.

— I answered him: — You are right; I too have had my fill!. And at our leisure we slipped out from among the ranks of the procession, climbed the stairs, went out, and walked down the Boulevard Saint-Michel toward the river... and we began looking over the books in the shop windows... and the artistic prints. And as we were going down the Boulevard Saint-Michel, Gibran began to speak of the great writers and the role they play in the renaissances of their countries, until he said: Voltaire and Rousseau were the brain of France at the end of the eighteenth century; no wonder they lie beneath the dome of the Panthéon.

So I asked him:

— But do you know what King Louis XVI used to say about them?

— Do you mean that Bourbon whom the men of the Revolution brought to the guillotine?

— Yes, the very one! When he was in the Temple prison, he saw near the Palace of Justice some of the books of Voltaire and Rousseau, and he showed his disgust, saying: — These two men destroyed France — he meant the Bourbon monarchy!.. And destroy it they did!!

— Napoleon too used to say: — Had the Bourbons kept a watchful eye on the literary movement and its output, their star would not have set... Rousseau and Voltaire were not great, but their contemporaries were small!...

— That is true! said Gibran; but what is beyond doubt is that books have their influence in shaping the life of peoples, and men of letters and thinkers spur the people on to think... With Voltaire and Rousseau, France began to think... even Napoleon could not stop her from thinking... When, I wonder, will this miracle happen in the East? When, and with whom, will the East begin to think?...

— With Gibran!.. I answered with fervor and faith; but Gibran stared into my face and imagined that I was only mocking him, so he raised his head and affirmed in a loud tone: —

— Yes, with Gibran the East will begin to think!... And I completed:

— And his countrymen will raise him a Panthéon, high, high!

And we had reached the banks of the Seine, where the books lie displayed in boxes all along the quay!