TWO ZOOS
The Tour d'Argent--Frederic's Homage to America--A Marquis
Poet--The Halle des Vins--A Free Zoo--Peacocks in Love--A
Reminiscence--The Museums of the Jardin des Plantes--A
Lifeless Zoo--Babies in Bottles--The Jardin
d'Acclimatation--The Cheerful Gallas--A Pretty Stable--Dogs
on Velvet--A Canine Pere Lachaise--The Sunday
Sportsmen--Panic at the Zoos--The Besieged Resident--The
Humours of Famine.
On the day of one of my visits to the Jardin des Plantes I lunched at
the Tour d'Argent, a restaurant on the Quai de la Tournelle, famous
among many dishes for its delicious canard a la presse. No bird on
this occasion passed through that luxurious mill for me: but the
engines were at work all around distilling essential duck with which
to enrich those slices from the breast that are all that the epicure
eats. Over a simpler repast I studied a bewildering catalogue of the
"Creations of Frederic"--Frederic being M. Frederic Delair, a
venerable chef with a head like that of a culinary Ibsen, stored with
strange lore of sauces.
By what means one commends oneself to Frederic I cannot say, but
certain it is that if he loves you he will immortalise you in a dish.
Americans would seem to have a short cut to his heart, for I find the
Canape Clarence Mackay, the Filet de Sole Loie Fuller, the Filet de
Sole Gibbs, the Fondu de Merlan Peploe, the Poulet de Madame J. W.
Mackay, and the Poire Wanamaker. None of these joys tempted me, but I
am sorry now that I did not partake of the Potage Georges Cain,
because M. Georges Cain knows more about old Paris than any man
living; and who knows but that a few spoonfuls of his Potage might not
have immensely enriched this book! The Noisette de Pre-Sale Bodley
again should have been nourishing, for Mr. Bodley is the author of one
of the best of all the many studies of France. Instead, however, I ate
very simply, of ordinary dishes--foundlings, so to speak, named after
no one--and amused myself over my coffee in examining the Marquis
Lauzieres de Themines' poesie sur les Creations de Frederic (to the
air of "la Corde Sensible"). Two stanzas and two choruses will
illustrate the noble poet's range:--
Que de filets de sole on y consomme!
Sole Neron, Cardinal, Maruka.
Dosamentes, Edson ... d'autres qu'on nomme
Victor Renault, Saintgall, Heredia.
La liste est longue! rognons, cotelettes,
Poulet Sigaud et Canard Mac-Arthur,
Filets de lievre Arnold White et Noisettes
De Pre-sale, Langouste Wintherthur.
Ce que je fais n'est pas une reclame,
Je vous le dis pour etre obligeant.
Je m'en voudrais d'encourir votre blame
Pour avoir trop vante LA TOUR D'ARGENT.
Les noms des OEufs de cent facons s'etalent,
OEufs Bucheron, oeufs Claude Lowther.
OEufs Tuck, Rathbone, oeufs Mackay que n'egalent
Que les chaud-froids de volaille Henniker.
Que d'entremets ont nom de "la Tournelle"!
Et plus souvent, le vocable engageant
Du restaurant, car plus d'un plat s'appelle
(Gibier, beignets, salade) "Tour d'Argent".
Ami lecteur, pour faire bonne chere,
Ecoute-moi, ne sois pas negligent,
Va-t-en diner, si ta sante t'est chere,
Au Restaurant nomme LA TOUR D'ARGENT.
(Odd work for Marquises!)
[Illustration: THE MUSEE CLUNY (COURTYARD)]
On the way to the Jardin des Plantes from this restaurant it is not
unamusing to turn aside to the Halles des Vins and loiter a while in
these genial catacombs. Here you may see barrels as the sands of the
sea-shore for multitude, and raw wine of a colour that never yet
astonished in a bottle, and I hope, so far as I am concerned, never
will: unearthly aniline juices that are to pass through many dark
processes before they emerge smilingly as vins, to lend cheerfulness
to the windows of the epicier and gaiety to the French heart.
Even with the most elementary knowledge of French one would take the
Jardin des Plantes to be the Parisian Kew, and so to some small extent
it is; but ninety-nine per cent. of its visitors go not to see the
flora but the fauna. It is in reality the Zoo of the Paris
proletariat. Paris, unlike London, has two Zoos, both of which hide
beneath names that easily conceal their zoological character from the
foreigner--the Jardin des Plantes, where we now find ourselves, which
is free to all, and the Jardin d'Acclimatation, on the edge of the
Bois de Boulogne, near the Porte Maillot, which costs money--a franc
to enter and a ridiculous supplement to your cabman for the privilege
of passing the fortifications in his vehicle: one of Paris's little
mistakes. To the Jardin d'Acclimatation we shall come anon: just now
let us loiter among the wild animals of the Jardin des Plantes, which
is as a matter of fact a far more thorough Zoo than that selecter
other, where frivolity ranks before zoology. Our own Zoo contains a
finer collection than either, and our animals are better housed and
ordered, but this Parisian people's Zoo has a great advantage over
ours in that it is free. All zoological gardens should of course be
free.
The Jardin des Plantes has another and a dazzling superiority in the
matter of peacocks. I never saw so many. They occur wonderfully in the
most unexpected places, not only in the enclosures of all the other
open-air animals, but in trees and on roofs and amid the
bushes--burning with their deep and lustrous blue. But on the warm day
of spring on which I saw them first they were not so quiescent.
Regardless of the proprieties they were most of them engaged in
recommending themselves to the notice of their ladies. On all sides
were spreading tails bearing down upon the beloved with the steady
determination of a three-masted schooner, and now and then caught like
that vessel in a shattering breeze (of emotion) which stirred every
sail. In England one might feel uncomfortable in the midst of so naked
a display of the old Adam, but in Paris one becomes more reconciled to
facts, and (like the new cat in the adage) ceases to allow "I am
ashamed" to wait upon "I would". The peahens, however, behaved with a
stolid circumspection that was beyond praise. These vestals never
lifted their heads from the ground, but pecked on and on, mistresses
of the scene and incidentally the best friends of the crowds of
ouvriers and ouvrieres ("V'la le paon! Vite! Vite!") at every railing.
But the Parisian peacock is not easily daunted. In spite of these
rebuffs the batteries of glorious eyes continued firing, and wider and
wider the tails spread, with a corresponding increase of disreputable
deshabille behind; and so I left them, recalling as I walked away a
comic occurrence at school too many years ago, when a travelling
elocutionist, who had induced our headmaster to allow him to recite to
the boys, was noticed to be discharging all his guns of tragedy and
humour (some of which I remember distinctly at the moment) with a
broadside effect that, while it assisted the ear, had a limiting
influence on gesture and by-play, and completely eliminated many of
the nuances of conversational give and take. Never throughout the
evening did we lose sight of the full expanse of his shirt front;
never did he turn round. Never, do I say? But I am wrong. Better for
him had it been never: for the poor fellow, his task over and his
badly needed guinea earned, forgot under our salvoes of applause the
need of caution, and turning from one side of the platform to the
other in stooping acknowledgment, disclosed a rent precisely where no
man would have a rent to be.
My advice to the visitor to the Jardin des Plantes is to be satisfied
with the living animals--with the seals and sea-lions, the bears and
peacocks, the storks and tigers; and, in fair weather, with the
flowers, although the conditions under which these are to be observed
are not ideal, so formally arranged on the flat as they are, with
traffic so visibly adjacent. But to the glutton for museums such
advice is idle. Here, however, even he is like to have his fill.
Let him then ask at the Administration for a ticket, which will be
handed to him with the most charming smile by an official who is
probably of all the bureaucrats of Paris the least deserving of a tip,
since zoological and botanical gardens exist for the people, and these
tickets (the need for which is, by the way, non-existent) are free and
are never withheld--but who is also of all the bureaucrats of Paris
the most determined to get one, even, as I observed, from his own
countrymen. Thus supplied you must walk some quarter of a mile to a
huge building in which are collected all the creatures of the earth in
their skins as God made them, but lifeless and staring from the hands
of taxidermic man. It is as though the ark had been overwhelmed by
some such fine dust as fell from Vesuvius, and was now exhumed. One
does not get the same effect from the Natural History Museum in the
Cromwell Road; it is, I suppose, the massing that does it here.
Having walked several furlongs amid this travesty of wild and
dangerous life, one passes to the next museum, which is devoted to
mineralogy and botany, and here again are endless avenues of joy for
the museephile and tedium for others. Lastly, after another quarter of
a mile's walk, the palatial museum of anatomy is reached, the
ingenious art of the late M. Fremiet once more providing a hors
d'oeuvre. At the Arts Decoratifs we find on the threshold a man
dragging a bear cub into captivity; at the Petit Palais, St. George is
killing the dragon just inside the turnstile; and here, near the
umbrella-stand, is a man being strangled by an orang-outang. Thus
cheered, we enter, and are at once amid a very grove of babies in
bottles: babies unready for the world, babies with two heads, babies
with no heads at all, babies, in short, without any merit save for the
biologist, the distiller, and the sightseer with strong nerves. From
the babies we pass to cases containing examples of every organ of the
human form divine, and such approximations as have been accomplished
by elephants and mice and monkeys--all either genuine, in spirits, or
counterfeited with horrible minuteness in wax. Also there are
skeletons of every known creature, from whales to frogs, and I noticed
a case illustrating the daily progress of the chicken in the egg.
And now for the other Zoo, the Zoo of the classes. Perhaps the best
description is to call it a playground with animals in it. For there
are children everywhere, and everything is done for their
amusement--as is only natural in a land where children persist through
life and no one ever tires. In the centre of the gardens is an
enclosure in which in the summer of 1908 were encamped a colony of
Gallas, an intelligent and attractive black people from the border of
Abyssinia, who flung spears at a target, and fought duels, and danced
dances of joy and sorrow, and rounded up zebras, and in the intervals
sold curiosities and photographs of themselves with ingratiating
tenacity. It was a strange bizarre entertainment, with greedy
ostriches darting their beaks among the spectators, and these
shock-headed savages screaming through their diversions, and now and
again a refined slip of a black girl imploring one mutely to give a
franc for a five centimes picture postcard, or murmuring incoherent
rhapsodies over the texture of a European dress.
All around the enclosure the Parisian children were playing, some
riding elephants, others camels, some driving an ostrich cart, and all
happy. But the gem of the Jardin is the Ecurie, on one side for
ponies--scores of little ponies, all named--the other for horses; on
one side a riding school for children, on the other side a riding
school for grown-up pupils, perhaps the cavalry officers of the
future. The ponies are charming: Bibiche, landaise, Volubilite, cheval
landais, Ceramon, cheval finlandais, Farceur, from the same country,
Columbine, nee de Ratibor, and so forth. There they wait, alert and
patient too, in the manner of small ponies, and by-and-by one is led
off to the Petit manege for a little Monsieur Paul or Etienne to
bestride. The Ecurie is a model of its kind, with its central
courtyard and offices for the various servants, sellier, piqueur and
so forth.
[Illustration: LA LECON DE LECTURE
TERBURG
(_Louvre_)]
Near by is a castellated fortress which might belong to a dwarf of
blood but is really a rabbit house. Every kind of rabbit is here, with
this difference from the rabbit house in our Zoo, that the animals are
for sale; and there is a fragrant vacherie where you may learn to
milk; and in another part is a collection of dogs--tou-tous and
lou-lous and all the rest of it--and these are for sale too. This is
as popular a department as any in the Jardin. The expressions of
delight and even ecstasy which were being uttered before some of the
cages I seem still to hear.
The Parisians may be kind fathers and devoted mothers: I am sure that
they are; but to the observer in the streets and restaurants their
finest shades of protective affection would seem to be reserved for
dogs. One sees their children with bonnes; their dogs are their own
care. The ibis of Egypt is hardly more sacred. An English friend who
has lived in the heart of Paris for some time in the company of a fox
terrier tells me that on their walks abroad in the evening the number
of strangers who stop him to pass friendly remarks upon his pet or ask
to be allowed to pat it--or who make overtures to it without
permission--is beyond belief. No pink baby in Kensington Gardens is
more admired. Dogs in English restaurants are a rarity: but in Paris
they are so much a matter of course that a little patee is always
ready for them.
It was of course a French tongue that first gave utterance to the
sentiment, "The more I see of men the more I like dogs"; but I cannot
pretend to have observed that the Frenchman suffers any loss in
prestige or power from this attention to the tou-tou and the lou-lou.
Nothing, I believe, will ever diminish the confidence or success of
that lord of creation. He may to the insular eye be too conscious of
his charms; he may suggest the boudoir rather than the field of battle
or the field of sport; he may amuse by his hat, astonish by his beard,
and perplex by his boots; but the fact remains that he is master of
Paris, and Paris is the centre of civilisation.
The Parisians not only adore their dogs in life: they give them very
honourable burial. We have in London, by Lancaster Gate, a tiny
cemetery for these friendly creatures; but that is nothing as compared
with the cemetery at St. Ouen, on an island in the Seine. Here are
monuments of the most elaborate description, and fresh wreaths
everywhere. The most striking tomb is that of a Saint Bernard who
saved forty persons but was killed by the forty-first--a hero of whose
history one would like to know more, but the gate-keeper is curiously
uninstructed.[2]
[2] I have since learned that this is the same dog, Barry by
name, who has a monument on the St. Bernard Pass, and is stuffed
in the Natural History Museum at Berne. But I know nothing of
his connexion with Paris.
I walked among these myriad graves, all very recent in date, and was
not a little touched by the affection that had gone to their making. I
noted a few names: Petit Bob, Esperance (whose portrait is in
bas-relief accompanied by that of its master), Peggie, Fan, Pincke,
Manon, Dick, Siko, Leonette (aged 17 years and 4 months), Toby, Kiki,
Ben-Ben ("toujours gai, fidele et caressant"--what an epitaph to
strive for!), Javotte, Nana, Lili, Dedjaz, Trinquefort, Teddy and
Prince (whose mausoleum is superb), Fifi (who saved lives), Colette,
Dash (a spaniel, with a little bronze sparrow perching on his tomb),
Boy, Bizon (who saved his owner's life and therefore has this
souvenir), and Mosque ("regrette et fidele ami"). There must be
hundreds and hundreds altogether, and it will not be long before
another "Dog's Acre" is required.
Standing amid all the little graves I felt that the one thing I wanted
to see was a dog's funeral. For surely there must be impressive
obsequies as a preparation to such thoughtful burial. But I did not.
No melancholy cortege came that way that afternoon; Fido's pompes
funebres are still a mystery to me.
But to my mind the best dogs in Paris are not such toy pets as for the
most part are here kept in sacred memory, but those eager pointers
that one sees on Sunday morning at the Gare du Nord, and indeed at all
the big stations, following brisk, plump sportsmen with all the opera
bouffe insignia of the chase--the leggings and the belt and the great
satchel and the gun. For the Frenchman who is going to shoot likes the
world to know what a lucky devil he is: he has none of our furtive
English unwillingness to be known for what we are. I have seen them
start, and I have waited about in the station towards dinner time just
to see them return, with their bags bulging, and their steps springing
with the pride and elation of success, and the faithful pointers
trotting behind.
Everything is happy at the Jardins des Plantes and d'Acclimatation
to-day: but it was not always so. During a critical period of 1870 and
1871 the cages were in a state of panic over the regular arrival of
the butcher--not to bring food but to make it. Mr. Labouchere, the
"Besieged Resident," writing on December 5th, 1870, says: "Almost all
the animals in the Jardin d'Acclimatation have been eaten. They have
averaged about 7 f. a lb. Kangaroo has been sold for 12 f. the lb.
Yesterday I dined with the correspondent of a London paper. He had
managed to get a large piece of mufflon, and nothing else, an animal
which is, I believe, only found in Corsica. I can only describe it by
saying that it tasted of mufflon, and nothing else. Without being
absolutely bad, I do not think that I shall take up my residence in
Corsica, in order habitually to feed upon it."
On December 18th Mr. Labouchere was at Voisin's. The bill of fare, he
says, was ass, horse and English wolf from the Zoological Gardens.
According to a Scotch friend, the English wolf was Scotch fox. Mr.
Labouchere could not manage it and fell back on the patient ass.
Voisin's, by the way, was the only restaurant which never failed to
supply its patrons with a meal. If you ask Paul, the head waiter, he
will give you one of the siege menus as a souvenir.
Mr. Labouchere's description of typical life during the siege may be
quoted here as offering material for reflection as we loiter about
this city so notable to-day for pleasure and plenty. "Here is my day.
In the morning the boots comes to call me. He announces the number of
deaths which have taken place in the hotel during the night. If there
are many he is pleased, as he considers it creditable to the
establishment. He then relieves his feelings by shaking his fist in
the direction of Versailles, and exits growling 'Canaille de
Bismarck'. I get up. I have breakfast--horse, _cafe au lait_--the
_lait_ chalk and water--the portion of horse about two square inches
of the noble quadruped. Then I buy a dozen newspapers, and after
having read them discover that they contain nothing new. This brings
me to about eleven o'clock. Friends drop in, or I drop in on friends.
We discuss how long it is to last--if friends are French we agree that
we are sublime. At one o'clock get into the circular railroad, and go
to one or other of the city gates. After a discussion with the
National Guards on duty, pass through. Potter about for a couple of
hours at the outposts; try with glass to make out Prussians; look at
bombs bursting; creep along the trenches; and wade knee-deep in mud
through the fields. The Prussians, who have grown of late malevolent
even towards civilians, occasionally send a ball far over one's head.
They always fire too high. French soldiers are generally cooking food.
They are anxious for news, and know nothing about what is going on. As
a rule they relate the episode of some _combat d'avant-poste_ which
took place the day before. The episodes never vary. 5 P.M.--Get back
home; talk to doctors about interesting surgical operations; then drop
in upon some official to interview him about what he is doing.
Official usually first mysterious, then communicative, not to say
loquacious, and abuses most people except himself. 7 P.M.--Dinner at a
restaurant; conversation general; almost every one in uniform. Still
the old subjects--How long will it last? Why does not Gambetta write
more clearly? How sublime we are; what a fool every one else is. Food
scanty, but peculiar.... After dinner, potter on the Boulevards under
the dispiriting gloom of petroleum; go home and read a book. 12
P.M.--Bed. They nail up the coffins in the room just over mine every
night, and the tap, tap, tap, as they drive in the nails, is the
pleasing music which lulls me to sleep."
Here is another extract illustrating the pass to which a hungry city
had come: "Until the weather set in so bitter cold, elderly sportsmen,
who did not care to stalk the human game outside, were to be seen from
morning to night pursuing the exciting sport of gudgeon fishing along
the banks of the Seine. Each one was always surrounded by a crowd
deeply interested in the chase. Whenever a fish was hooked, there was
as much excitement as when a whale is harpooned in more northern
latitudes. The fisherman would play it for some five minutes, and
then, in the midst of the solemn silence of the lookers-on, the
precious capture would be landed. Once safe on the bank, the happy
possessor would be patted on the back, and there would be cries of
'Bravo!' The times being out of joint for fishing in the Seine, the
disciples of Izaak Walton have fallen back on the sewers. The _Paris
Journal_ gives them the following directions how to pursue their new
game: 'Take a long strong line, and a large hook, bait with tallow,
and gently agitate the rod. In a few minutes a rat will come and smell
the savoury morsel. It will be some time before he decides to swallow
it, for his nature is cunning. When he does, leave him five minutes to
meditate over it; then pull strongly and steadily. He will make
convulsive jumps; but be calm, and do not let his excitement gain on
you, draw him up, _et voila votre diner_.'"
There is still hardly less excitement when a fish is landed by a quai
fisherman, but the emotion is now purely artistic.