suggestion of the great railway companies, inaugurated this race in 1862,
in imitation of the English Derby, as a means of attracting people to
Paris. The city and the railways each give half of the forty-thousand-
dollar prize. It is the great official race of the year. The President
occupies the central pavilion, surrounded by the members of the cabinet
and the diplomatic corps. On the tribunes and lawn can be seen the _Tout
Paris_--all the celebrities of the great and half-world who play such an
important part in the life of France's capital. The whole colony of the
_Rastaquoueres_, is sure to be there, "_Rastas_," as they are familiarly
called by the Parisians, who make little if any distinction in their
minds between a South American (blazing in diamonds and vulgar clothes)
and our own select (?) colony. Apropos of this inability of the
Europeans to appreciate our fine social distinctions, I have been told of
a well-born New Yorker who took a French noblewoman rather to task for
receiving an American she thought unworthy of notice, and said:
"How can you receive her? Her husband keeps a hotel!"
"Is that any reason?" asked the French-woman; "I thought all Americans
kept hotels."
For the _Grand Prix_, every woman not absolutely bankrupt has a new
costume, her one idea being a _creation_ that will attract attention and
eclipse her rivals. The dressmakers have had a busy time of it for weeks
before.
Every horse that can stand up is pressed into service for the day. For
twenty-four hours before, the whole city is _en fete_, and Paris _en
fete_ is always a sight worth seeing. The natural gayety of the
Parisians, a characteristic noticed (if we are to believe the historians)
as far back as the conquest of Gaul by Julius Caesar, breaks out in all
its amusing spontaneity. If the day is fine, the entire population gives
itself up to amusement. From early morning the current sets towards the
charming corner of the Bois where the Longchamps race-course lies,
picturesquely encircled by the Seine (alive with a thousand boats), and
backed by the woody slopes of Suresnes and St. Cloud. By noon every
corner and vantage point of the landscape is seized upon, when, with a
blare of trumpets and the rattle of cavalry, the President arrives in his
turnout _a la Daumont_, two postilions in blue and gold, and a _piqueur_,
preceded by a detachment of the showy _Gardes Republicains_ on horseback,
and takes his place in the little pavilion where for so many years
Eugenie used to sit in state, and which has sheltered so many crowned
heads under its simple roof. Faure's arrival is the signal for the
racing to begin, from that moment the interest goes on increasing until
the great "event." Then in an instant the vast throng of human beings
breaks up and flows homeward across the Bois, filling the big Place
around the Arc de Triomphe, rolling down the Champs Elysees, in twenty
parallel lines of carriages. The sidewalks are filled with a laughing,
singing, uproarious crowd that quickly invades every restaurant, _cafe_,
or chop-house until their little tables overflow on to the grass and side-
walks, and even into the middle of the streets. Later in the evening the
open-air concerts and theatres are packed, and every little square
organizes its impromptu ball, the musicians mounted on tables, and the
crowd dancing gayly on the wooden pavement until daybreak.
The next day, Paris becomes from a fashionable point of view,
"impossible." If you walk through the richer quarters, you will see only
long lines of closed windows. The approaches to the railway stations are
blocked with cabs piled with trunks and bicycles. The "great world" is
fleeing to the seashore or its _chateaux_, and Paris will know it no more
until January, for the French are a country-loving race, and since there
has been no court, the aristocracy pass longer and longer periods on
their own estates each year, partly from choice and largely to show their
disdain for the republic and its entertainments.
The shady drives in the park, which only a day or two ago were so
brilliant with smart traps and spring toilets, are become a cool
wilderness, where will meet, perhaps, a few maiden ladies exercising fat
dogs, uninterrupted except by the watering-cart or by a few stray
tourists in cabs. Now comes a delightful time for the real amateur of
Paris and the country around, which is full of charming corners where one
can dine at quiet little restaurants, overhanging the water or buried
among trees. You are sure of getting the best of attention from the
waiters, and the dishes you order receive all the cook's attention. Of
an evening the Bois is alive with a myriad of bicycles, their lights
twinkling among the trees like many-colored fire-flies. To any one who
knows how to live there, Paris is at its best in the last half of June
and July. Nevertheless, in a couple of days there will not be an
American in Paris, London being the objective point; for we love to be
"in at the death," and a coronation, a musical festival, or a big race is
sure to attract all our floating population.
The Americans who have the hardest time in Paris are those who try to
"run with the deer and hunt with the hounds," as the French proverb has
it, who would fain serve God and Mammon. As anything especially amusing
is sure to take place on Sunday in this wicked capital, our friends go
through agonies of indecision, their consciences pulling one way, their
desire to amuse themselves the other. Some find a middle course, it
seems, for yesterday this conversation was overheard on the steps of the
American Church:
_First American Lady_: "Are you going to stop for the sermon?"
_Second American Lady_: "I am so sorry I can't, but the races begin at
one!"
No. 20--"The Treadmill."
A half-humorous, half-pathetic epistle has been sent to me by a woman,
who explains in it her particular perplexity. Such letters are the
windfalls of our profession! For what is more attractive than to have a
woman take you for her lay confessor, to whom she comes for advice in
trouble? opening her innocent heart for your inspection!
My correspondent complains that her days are not sufficiently long, nor
is her strength great enough, for the thousand and one duties and
obligations imposed upon her. "If," she says, "a woman has friends and a
small place in the world--and who has not in these days?--she must golf
or 'bike' or skate a bit, of a morning; then she is apt to lunch out, or
have a friend or two in, to that meal. After luncheon there is sure to
be a 'class' of some kind that she has foolishly joined, or a charity
meeting, matinee, or reception; but above all, there are her 'duty'
calls. She must be home at five to make tea, that she has promised her
men friends, and they will not leave until it is time for her to dress
for dinner, 'out' or at home, with often the opera, a supper, or a ball
to follow. It is quite impossible," she adds, "under these circumstances
to apply one's self to anything serious, to read a book or even open a
periodical. The most one can accomplish is a glance at a paper."
Indeed, it would require an exceptional constitution to carry out the
above programme, not to mention the attention that a woman must (however
reluctantly) give to her house and her family. Where are the quiet hours
to be found for self-culture, the perusal of a favorite author, or,
perhaps, a little timid "writing" on her own account? Nor does this
treadmill round fill a few months only of her life. With slight
variations of scene and costume, it continues through the year.
A painter, I know, was fortunate enough to receive, a year or two ago,
the commission to paint a well-known beauty. He was delighted with the
idea and convinced that he could make her portrait the best work of his
life, one that would be the stepping-stone to fame and fortune. This was
in the spring. He was naturally burning to begin at once, but found to
his dismay that the lady was just about starting for Europe. So he
waited, and at her suggestion installed himself a couple of months later
at the seaside city where she had a cottage. No one could be more
charming than she was, inviting him to dine and drive daily, but when he
broached the subject of "sitting," was "too busy just that day." Later
in the autumn she would be quite at his disposal. In the autumn,
however, she was visiting, never ten days in the same place. Early
winter found her "getting her house in order," a mysterious rite
apparently attended with vast worry and fatigue. With cooling
enthusiasm, the painter called and coaxed and waited. November brought
the opera and the full swing of a New York season. So far she has given
him half a dozen sittings, squeezed in between a luncheon, which made her
"unavoidably late," for which she is charmingly "sorry," and a reception
that she was forced to attend, although "it breaks my heart to leave just
as you are beginning to work so well, but I really must, or the tiresome
old cat who is giving the tea will be saying all sorts of unpleasant
things about me." So she flits off, leaving the poor, disillusioned
painter before his canvas, knowing now that his dream is over, that in a
month or two his pretty sitter will be off again to New Orleans for the
carnival, or abroad, and that his weary round of waiting will recommence.
He will be fortunate if some day it does not float back to him, in the
mysterious way disagreeable things do come to one, that she has been
heard to say, "I fear dear Mr. Palette is not very clever, for I have
been sitting to him for over a year, and he has really done nothing yet."
He has been simply the victim of a state of affairs that neither of them
were strong enough to break through. It never entered into Beauty's head
that she could lead a life different from her friends. She was honestly
anxious to have a successful portrait of herself, but the sacrifice of
any of her habits was more than she could make.
Who among my readers (and I am tempted to believe they are all more
sensible than the above young woman) has not, during a summer passed with
agreeable friends, made a thousand pleasant little plans with them for
the ensuing winter,--the books they were to read at the same time, the
"exhibitions" they were to see, the visits to our wonderful collections
in the Metropolitan Museum or private galleries, cosy little dinners,
etc.? And who has not found, as the winter slips away, that few of these
charming plans have been carried out? He and his friends have
unconsciously fallen back into their ruts of former years, and the
pleasant things projected have been brushed aside by that strongest of
tyrants, habit.
I once asked a very great lady, whose gracious manner was never
disturbed, who floated through the endless complications of her life with
smiling serenity, how she achieved this Olympian calm. She was good
enough to explain. "I make a list of what I want to do each day. Then,
as I find my day passing, or I get behind, or tired, I throw over every
other engagement. I could have done them all with hurry and fatigue. I
prefer to do one-half and enjoy what I do. If I go to a house, it is to
remain and appreciate whatever entertainment has been prepared for me. I
never offer to any hostess the slight of a hurried, _distrait_ 'call,'
with glances at my watch, and an 'on-the-wing' manner. It is much easier
not to go, or to send a card."
This brings me around to a subject which I believe is one of the causes
of my correspondent's dilemma. I fear that she never can refuse
anything. It is a peculiar trait of people who go about to amuse
themselves, that they are always sure the particular entertainment they
have been asked to last is going to "be amusing." It rarely is different
from the others, but these people are convinced, that to stay away would
be to miss something. A weary-looking girl about 1 A.M. (at a
house-party) when asked why she did not go to bed if she was so tired,
answered, "the nights I go to bed early, they always seem to do something
jolly, and then I miss it."
There is no greater proof of how much this weary round wears on women
than the acts of the few who feel themselves strong enough in their
position to defy custom. They have thrown off the yoke (at least the
younger ones have) doubtless backed up by their husbands, for men are
much quicker to see the aimlessness of this stupid social routine. First
they broke down the great New-Year-call "grind." Men over forty
doubtless recall with a shudder, that awful custom which compelled a man
to get into his dress clothes at ten A.M., and pass his day rushing about
from house to house like a postman. Out-of-town clubs and sport helped
to do away with that remnant of New Amsterdam. Next came the male revolt
from the afternoon "tea" or "musical." A black coat is rare now at
either of these functions, or if seen is pretty sure to be on a back over
fifty. Next, we lords of creation refused to call at all, or leave our
cards. A married woman now leaves her husband's card with her own, and
sisters leave the "pasteboard" of their brothers and often those of their
brothers' friends. Any combination is good enough to "shoot a card."
In London the men have gone a step further. It is not uncommon to hear a
young man boast that he never owned a visiting card or made a "duty" call
in his life. Neither there nor with us does a man count as a "call" a
quiet cup of tea with a woman he likes, and a cigarette and quiet talk
until dressing time. Let the young women have courage and take matters
into their own hands. (The older ones are hopeless and will go on
pushing this Juggernaut car over each other's weary bodies, until the end
of the chapter.) Let them have the courage occasionally to "refuse"
something, to keep themselves free from aimless engagements, and bring
this paste-board war to a close. If a woman is attractive, she will be
asked out all the same, never fear! If she is not popular, the few dozen
of "egg-shell extra" that she can manage to slip in at the front doors of
her acquaintances will not help her much.
If this matter is, however, so vastly important in women's eyes, why not
adopt the continental and diplomatic custom and send cards by post or
otherwise? There, if a new-comer dines out and meets twenty-five people
for the first time, cards must be left the next day at their twenty-five
respective residences. How the cards get there is of no importance. It
is a diplomatic fiction that the new acquaintance has called in person,
and the call will be returned within twenty-four hours. Think of the
saving of time and strength! In Paris, on New Year's Day, people send
cards by post to everybody they wish to keep up. That does for a year,
and no more is thought about it. All the time thus gained can be given
to culture or recreation.
I have often wondered why one sees so few women one knows at our picture
exhibitions or flower shows. It is no longer a mystery to me. They are
all busy trotting up and down our long side streets leaving cards.
Hideous vision! Should Dante by any chance reincarnate, he would find
here the material ready made to his hand for an eighth circle in his
_Inferno_.
No. 21--"Like Master Like Man."
A frequent and naive complaint one hears, is of the unsatisfactoriness of
servants generally, and their ingratitude and astonishing lack of
affection for their masters, in particular. "After all I have done for
them," is pretty sure to sum up the long tale of a housewife's griefs. Of
all the delightful inconsistencies that grace the female mind, this
latter point of view always strikes me as being the most complete. I
artfully lead my fair friend on to tell me all about her woes, and she is
sure to be exquisitely one-sided and quite unconscious of her position.
"They are so extravagant, take so little interest in my things, and leave
me at a moment's notice, if they get an idea I am going to break up.
Horrid things! I wish I could do without them! They cause me endless
worry and annoyance." My friend is very nearly right,--but with whom
lies the fault?
The conditions were bad enough years ago, when servants were kept for
decades in the same family, descending like heirlooms from father to son,
often (abroad) being the foster sisters or brothers of their masters, and
bound to the household by an hundred ties of sympathy and tradition. But
in our day, and in America, where there is rarely even a common language
or nationality to form a bond, and where households are broken up with
such facility, the relation between master and servant is often so
strained and so unpleasant that we risk becoming (what foreigners
reproach us with being), a nation of hotel-dwellers. Nor is this class-
feeling greatly to be wondered at. The contrary would be astonishing.
From the primitive household, where a poor neighbor comes in as "help,"
to the "great" establishment where the butler and housekeeper eat apart,
and a group of plush-clad flunkies imported from England adorn the
entrance-hall, nothing could be better contrived to set one class against
another than domestic service.
Proverbs have grown out of it in every language. "No man is a hero to
his valet," and "familiarity breeds contempt," are clear enough. Our
comic papers are full of the misunderstandings and absurdities of the
situation, while one rarely sees a joke made about the other ways that
the poor earn their living. Think of it for a moment! To be obliged to
attend people at the times of day when they are least attractive, when
from fatigue or temper they drop the mask that society glues to their
faces so many hours in the twenty-four; to see always the seamy side of
life, the small expedients, the aids to nature; to stand behind a chair
and hear an acquaintance of your master's ridiculed, who has just been
warmly praised to his face; to see a hostess who has been graciously
urging her guests "not to go so soon," blurt out all her boredom and
thankfulness "that those tiresome So-and-So's" are "paid off at last," as
soon as the door is closed behind them, must needs give a curious bent to
a servant's mind. They see their employers insincere, and copy them.
Many a mistress who has been smilingly assured by her maid how much her
dress becomes her, and how young she is looking, would be thunderstruck
to hear herself laughed at and criticised (none too delicately) five
minutes later in that servant's talk.
Servants are trained from their youth up to conceal their true feelings.
A domestic who said what she thought would quickly lose her place.
Frankly, is it not asking a good deal to expect a maid to be very fond of
a lady who makes her sit up night after night until the small hours to
unlace her bodice or take down her hair; or imagine a valet can be
devoted to a master he has to get into bed as best he can because he is
too tipsy to get there unaided? Immortal "Figaro" is the type! Supple,
liar, corrupt, intelligent,--he aids his master and laughs at him,
feathering his own nest the while. There is a saying that "horses
corrupt whoever lives with them." It would be more correct to say that
domestic service demoralizes alike both master and man.
Already we are obliged to depend on immigration for our servants because
an American revolts from the false position, though he willingly accepts
longer hours or harder work where he has no one around him but his
equals. It is the old story of the free, hungry wolf, and the well-fed,
but chained, house-dog. The foreigners that immigration now brings us,
from countries where great class distinctions exist, find it natural to
"serve." With the increase in education and consequent self-respect, the
difficulty of getting efficient and contented servants will increase with
us. It has already become a great social problem in England. The
trouble lies beneath the surface. If a superior class accept service at
all, it is with the intention of quickly getting money enough to do
something better. With them service is merely the means to an end. A
first step on the ladder!
Bad masters are the cause of so much suffering, that to protect
themselves, the great brother-hood of servants have imagined a system of
keeping run of "places," and giving them a "character" which an aspirant
can find out with little trouble. This organization is so complete, and
so well carried out, that a household where the lady has a "temper,"
where the food is poor, or which breaks up often, can rarely get a first-
class domestic. The "place" has been boycotted, a good servant will
sooner remain idle than enter it. If circumstances are too much for him
and he accepts the situation, it is with his eyes open, knowing
infinitely more about his new employers and their failings than they
dream of, or than they could possibly find out about him.
One thing never can be sufficiently impressed on people, viz.: that we
are forced to live with detectives, always behind us in caps or dress-
suits, ready to note every careless word, every incautious criticism of
friend or acquaintance--their money matters or their love affairs--and
who have nothing more interesting to do than to repeat what they have
heard, with embroideries and additions of their own. Considering this,
and that nine people out of ten talk quite oblivious of their servants'
presence, it is to be wondered at that so little (and not that so much)
trouble is made.
It always amuses me when I ask a friend if she is going abroad in the
spring, to have her say "Hush!" with a frightened glance towards the
door.
"I am; but I do not want the servants to know, or the horrid things would
leave me!"
Poor, simple lady! They knew it before you did, and had discussed the
whole matter over their "tea" while it was an almost unuttered thought in
your mind. If they have not already given you notice, it is because, on
the whole your house suits them well enough for the present, while they
look about. Do not worry your simple soul, trying to keep anything from
them. They know the amount of your last dressmaker's bill, and the row
your husband made over it. They know how much you would have liked young
"Croesus" for your daughter, and the little tricks you played to bring
that marriage about. They know why you are no longer asked to dine at
Mrs. Swell's, which is more than you know yourself. Mrs. Swell explained
the matter to a few friends over her lunch-table recently, and the butler
told your maid that same evening, who was laughing at the story as she
put on your slippers!
Before we blame them too much, however, let us remember that they have it
in their power to make great trouble if they choose. And considering the
little that is made in this way, we must conclude that, on the whole,
they are better than we give them credit for being, and fill a trying
situation with much good humor and kindliness. The lady who is
astonished that they take so little interest in her, will perhaps feel
differently if she reflects how little trouble she has given herself to
find out their anxieties and griefs, their temptations and
heart-burnings; their material situation; whom they support with their
slowly earned wages, what claims they have on them from outside. If she
will also reflect on the number of days in a year when she is "not
herself," when headaches or disappointments ruffle her charming temper,
she may come to the conclusion that it is too much to expect all the
virtues for twenty dollars a month.
A little more human interest, my good friends, a little more indulgence,
and you will not risk finding yourself in the position of the lady who
wrote me that last summer she had been obliged to keep open house for
"'Cook' tourists!"
No. 22--An English Invasion of the Riviera
When sixty years ago Lord Brougham, _en route_ for Italy, was thrown from
his travelling berline and his leg was broken, near the Italian hamlet of
Cannes, the Riviera was as unknown to the polite world as the centre of
China. The _grand tour_ which every young aristocrat made with his
tutor, on coming of age, only included crossing from France into Italy by
the Alps. It was the occurrence of an unusually severe winter in
Switzerland that turned Brougham aside into the longer and less travelled
route _via_ the Corniche, the marvellous Roman road at that time fallen
into oblivion, and little used even by the local peasantry.
During the tedious weeks while his leg was mending, Lord Brougham amused
himself by exploring the surrounding country in his carriage, and was
quick to realize the advantages of the climate, and appreciate the
marvellous beauty of that coast. Before the broken member was whole
again, he had bought a tract of land and begun a villa. Small seed, to
furnish such a harvest! To the traveller of to-day the Riviera offers an
almost unbroken chain of beautiful residences from Marseilles to Genoa.