THE FAIR.
Fashion, which regulates our amusements, has decreed for some
years past, that when at Easter time we direct our steps to the
Fair du Trône, our little excursion is quite “the correct thing.”
The faubourgs and suburbs no longer enjoy the monopoly of the fun
collected at the foot of the two columns, the caps of the swells
from Vincennes, and the hair-nets of the Cytherean bataillon from
Montreuil-sous-Bois are no longer the sole head-dresses visible.
The Gingerbread Fair has its reserved days like the Opera and the
Comédie, and on Tuesdays and Fridays the largest profits [p038] are
made. Really, if you strolled in that direction about five o’clock
on one of these select afternoons, you would be surprised to see
the long line of carriages standing in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine
and the Boulevard Voltaire. For every three cabs, in which a party
of students are enjoying themselves in somewhat noisy fashion with
their little companions, you will find one gentleman’s carriage with
servants in livery, or, at least, a hired victoria occupied by women
in over-smart dresses, who are making their annual excursion to the
fair, accompanied by the “mashers” of the year. It is curious to
watch these society people when they visit this populous district
which they have never seen except through the windows of mourning
carriages on the road to Père la Chaise, or on the eve of a capital
execution, lighted by the windows of the small taverns in a cruel
bustle of festivity. Secretly, they feel a little uneasy. The too
demonstrative enjoyment, the cries, shouts and songs, the incessant
rattle from the rifle saloons, the explosion of fireworks, the
pushing crowd struggling round the stages of the various booths,
from which the showman harangues the crowd, recall, in spite of
themselves, memories of civil war and the barricades, and produce
a gentle shiver—that shiver which steals down the spine in front
of a wild beast cage, if the thought occurs to one that the iron
bars might give way, and the lion in his fury be free to rush upon
the spectators . . . . . . But in itself, this secret, indefinable
misgiving is rather pleasant, and it is certain that this semi-dread
forms half the pleasure which many pretty women feel in venturing
amongst the crowd and exposing themselves to a somewhat rough
hustling from the people.
[Illustration]
However, when we emerge from the shadows of the [p039] boulevard and
faubourg into the brilliantly lighted square, timid hearts regain
courage, and we at once catch the infection of the gaiety surrounding
us. Every one is come for amusement and intends to get it. We see
all the [p040] monstrosities, all the beautiful Circassians, consult
all the somnambulists, and visit all the booths, make excursions
in the switchback railway and take the traditional turn on the
roundabouts, filling up the intervals by breaking pipes, slaughtering
marionettes with balls, and throwing the hammer at the Turk’s head.
And then the late drive back to dinner in the cool evening air, the
slow recovery from the effects of so much laughter as we roll towards
the Boulevards, with paper roses in our button-holes, the carriage
filled with gingerbread from Rheims, comic figures, symbolic animals,
and effigies of Saint Remo with mitre and crosier, which resemble
primitive bas-reliefs in old oak torn from the stalls of a church
choir.
I also make an annual visit to the Gingerbread fair, but not as a
lounger who follows wherever the crowd leads him. I am accompanied to
the Champ du Trône by the best of guides, one of the most brilliant
correspondents of the _Voyageur forain_ to which I referred just
now—M. Philippe, the editor of the _Tir de la Republique_.
M. Philippe was formerly a sailor; and has retained from his sojourn
on the men-of-war the naval cut of his beard, and the cap which
he wore during the expedition which he made to the North, when he
saluted the Pole in the neighbourhood of the Behring Sea. This
retired sailor is a very intelligent man, of a stamp which only
flourishes in the atmosphere of Paris; a gunsmith by profession, the
vicissitudes of existence and a taste for adventure have made him, as
a last expedient, a showman’s journalist.
[Illustration: THE SHOW.]
To ensure this excursion passing off with due success, it is always
preceded by a short conference held between two glasses of beer, in
which, elbows on table, my guide gravely [p041] reminds me, that I
must be careful to remember the distinction that exists between the
_forain_ and the _banquiste_, the _grande_ and the _petite banques_.
[Illustration]
A _forain_ is technically a merchant, or the owner of a game. The
sweetmeat-maker who, surrounded by a circle of admiring children,
rolls serpentine rings of paste round a flexible wand laden with
little bells is a _forain_, so is the fritter merchant; the same term
describes the rich agent of the manufacturers of Rheims and Dijon,
who travel round the world carrying with them the best brands of
gingerbread. The celebrated M. Exaltier, the director of the American
Galleries, is also a _forain_; by the ingenuity of his inventions he
has revived the public interest in panoramas. The same term describes
the clever M. Chable, the manufacturer of the finest hygienic horses
that have ever been [p042] seen, splendid animals made of varnished
poplar wood, stout as a Flemish mare, which cost him two hundred
francs each.
“They were dearer than if they were alive,” cheerfully repeats M.
Chable, caressing his steeds, “but I save it in the food.”
The post-master of hygienic horses is an important personage in
the _forain_ world, and so is also the proprietor of the “Crystal
Palace,” the most luxurious roundabout of hobby-horses at present in
the Fair du Trône or anywhere else. His tent contains no less than
two organs; one of them cost him 5,000 fr., the other 12,000 fr.
His daily expenses amount to eighty francs for his establishment;
but a fine Sunday doubles his receipts in a marvellous way, and the
“Crystal Palace,” when all the three _sous_ a ride have been counted
up, often makes a thousand francs in one day.
All the keepers of billiard-tables, the owners of wheels of fortune
or lotteries, are _forains_. A complete and most curious book might
be written on the fraudulent games of chance which swarm in a fair,
in spite of the vigilance of the police. I shall write one some day
when M. Carrabilliat, one of the most intelligent and most respected
members of the syndicate, has completed my education. To begin with,
he explained to me the mechanism of his race game, an amusement
which, although forbidden for a time, is now permitted in the fair
since the owners have proved the impossibility of tampering with the
small horses or of preventing the slight bars upon which they move
from turning freely round the course. The good-natured public more
than suspects some tricks. It knows by experience that the rabbit
is never won at the first shot, and that no one within [p043] the
memory of man has ever carried off the clock with its glass shade.
This fact does not prevent it from paying its pennies to the owner
of the wheel of fortune, or check its eager competition with chance
as a partner, for the possession of a little glass chandelier.
Here, as at Monaco, you will find the gambler who gets excited and
ruins himself—alas! the poor fellow loses all self-restraint if the
bystanders gather round him, watching and discussing his luck!
[Illustration] [p044]
I, who know all the secrets of the fair, would charitably whisper
to the imprudent gambler that there are always some accomplices
in cant—“stallsmen”—amongst the lookers-on. These individuals are
particularly addicted to loitering near the rifle saloons, and the
games which require strength and skill. They it is who whisper at
your back—
“Well shouldered! a little too low! What a pity! It would have broken
the egg. Stop, Arthur, perhaps the gentleman will try again.”
The “gentleman” feels flattered, takes some silver from his pocket,
and with an innocent air the proprietor of the saloon pours twelve
caps into his hand.
The rifle-shooting, the hammers, and the rings are all manly sports.
Ladies prefer the hobby-horses and the swinging-boats. You know
what perfection has been attained in this last amusement for the
gratification of those who, like Hippocrates, believe in the utility
of spring remedies. They clear the system. From this point of view
the new swinging-boats are serious rivals to all quack medicines.
Those who have not travelled round the world can enjoy in these cars
all the spasms of sea-sickness and every variety of giddiness. In
these respects the old system gave full satisfaction to many worthy
people; but it appears that, compared with the new fashion, like
the apparatus in the Rue Basse du Rempart, the old swings were mere
child’s play. Some travellers descend from this invention in much the
same state as the wolf which Baron Munchausen turned inside out like
a glove! Where will progress stop? But progress is very inconsiderate
when it attempts to substitute velocipedes and wild beasts for the
old hobby-horses. Have [p045] the inventors of these machines
never spent one quarter of an hour in front of the old roundabouts?
Have they never noticed the defiant, haughty glance which the young
shopmen and little milliners throw at you as they pass in the course
of their revolutions?
[Illustration]
Those people are in a dream. For one whole minute they [p046]
imagine themselves in a higher sphere, riding in couples through
the woods. Intoxicated by the revolving motion which, through the
necessary bend of the body nails them to the saddle, they feel like
accomplished riders, incomparable horsewomen. Watch them there, ye
pioneers of a mistaken progress, who have not taken the instincts of
the heart into your calculation and cannot, therefore, understand
the philosophy of hobby-horses! A little attention will yet avert
the failure which threatens your riding-schools of velocipedes and
carnivorous animals.
[Illustration]
But these are all noisy amusements which the society people avoid.
Do you remember, my dear friend, the drive we took outside the shows
and bands, one fine Easter-Tuesday, brilliant with sunshine? You
dared not leave your brougham, [p047] you were so alarmed at the
hoarse roar of the crowd, the explosion of crackers, the shrieks of
the women in the swings. Still you had one great desire that you
would not own to me, half dreading a reproof, a wish evoked by a most
appetizing odour which made your nostrils dilate.
“I am sure you are longing for some fried potatoes,” I cried
triumphantly at last.
Ah! who would ever forget the glance with which your eyes rewarded me
for guessing your fancy!
[Illustration]
And, much to the disdain of your English coachman and footman, both
sitting so correctly on the box, I fetched you some beautiful hot
potatoes nicely powdered with salt. And in your satin-lined _coupé_,
touching them daintily with the ends of your lavender-gloved fingers,
one by one, you ate them, seasoned with merry laughter.
“Oh, Time, arrest thy flight!” . . . . .
Five o’clock struck: it was the last effort of the fair before
[p048] the neighbourhood commenced the evening meal. The clowns joked
and shouted louder than usual; the rattles, gongs, pipes, drums,
speaking-trumpets, barrel-organs, and whistles of the steam-engines
all sounded together in a final tremendous discord. Through the
clamour, the crowd, eddying like a stream, ascended the Avenue de
Vincennes, going towards the columns erected on the spot where the
fire took place.
Between them, the disk of the setting sun was shining like the Pyx
upon an altar. And as it suddenly disappeared behind the hill, a cry
rose in the air, stifled, agonizing, which threw you trembling upon
my shoulder—a cry which pierced above all the clamour of machinery
and men—the captive lion’s farewell to the darkened sun!
It is a great mistake to imagine that all fairs are alike. Each of
them, although composed of the same booths, assumes such a different
character from the locality where it is installed and the people who
frequent it, that any one interested in such matters, like myself,
could easily make a bet, that carried blindfolded into the midst of
any local festival, when his eyes were uncovered, he could at the
first glance distinguish which fair was being celebrated. And he
could tell, simply through seeing the visitors, who thronged it, and
by inspecting the stalls.
Look, for instance, at the old fair held at Versailles, the fair of
Saint Louis, which, annually, in the heart of August, placards on
the doors of the railway stations, between the lists of circular
excursions and the advertisements of summer pleasures, long
descriptions of its attractions: water-jousts, fanfares of horns
sounded through the alleys of the park, display of fountains in the
Neptune basin, shows accompanied [p049] by big drums, the music of
the roundabouts, the gaiety of the little booths, side by side with
the great empty palace. Is it through the immense width of the alleys
that the noise of the bands seems scattered and lost? Or can it be a
secret dread of disturbing the king’s slumbers, which still haunts
all these small folk, and causes them to subdue the rough music of
their orchestras?
[Illustration]
Surrounded by barriers, this agglomeration of diminutive white
shops resembles a flock of timid sheep huddling close together, not
venturing to ring their bells too loudly through fear of the wolf.
Here, too, are stalls of rosaries, holy-water vases, and crucifixes,
recalling the sacred origin of the fair.
[Illustration]
No doubt you will recognize the same faces that you have [p050]
seen everywhere else; the same brightly painted caravans, with small
muslin curtains in the windows; the same gaufre-seller, mixing the
same paste, in the same moulds, with the same gesticulations; and
lastly the same horrible trumpery, utterly devoid of any originality:
blue-eyed dolls, miniature Zouaves, sixpenny knives, imitation
tortoise-shell frames, rabbits playing the drum, reed pipes, and
brass trumpets. No one knows why workmen are so entirely bereft
of imagination or self-respect as to persevere in the manufacture
of these inferior toys for at least a hundred years; yet these
“fairings” travel all over the world. You will find them in Algiers
as soon as you land; on the threshold of Asia, at Constantinople,
shops full of this rubbish are installed side by side with bazaars
for Turkish carpets; the ships which bring from Japan the delicious
knicknacks which fill our houses, [p051] return to the far East
laden with cargoes of plush frames and rabbits playing drums.
But the idiosyncrasy which distinguishes Versailles and its
neighbourhood, the chosen retreat of literary men and elderly
magistrates, is the presence of the dealer in old books who annually
attends this fair. From a little distance the reddish-brown covers of
his wares resemble gingerbread paving-stones. Men in spectacles bend
lovingly over the stall, the scent of mouldy leather gently tickling
their nostrils.
And every year there is one stall at which a woman sells false hair
by the pound. Hanging round like horses’ tails, side by side, these
poor tresses, collected from the gutter and the hospital, produce a
tragic effect. One anxiously wonders where all these dull-looking
plaits come from; who will wear them next? One day I lingered about
for some time, waiting to see if a customer would appear.
At last a woman drew near.—Ageless, in mourning, basket in hand,
unclassable; yet evidently not a happy woman. At first she dared not
pause, then she regained courage.
“How much is that?”
“Five francs.”
She hesitated for a moment.
“It is too fair for me. Can you see what I want?” And she raised her
veil from her face.
At length she passed on without buying. There was nothing grey enough
for her.
The fair at Versailles is a provincial fair, a fair patronized by
grandfathers and grandchildren, nursemaids and soldiers.
The typical Parisian fair, the _chic_ fair, is held at Neuilly.
In April, when the Avenue de Vincennes, the Boulevard [p052]
Voltaire, and the Faubourg Saint Antoine are decorated with rows
of white stalls, the cold winter wind still sweeps over the earth,
rushes through the wide streets, carrying with it clouds of dust,
blusters through the fair, filling the canvas of the booths like
sails on the sea, powdering the gingerbread stalls as it passes; then
in rough leaps, as though driven by a whip, forms dusty columns in
the air, and rising several feet above the ground triumphantly waves
the flags above the booths and roundabouts.
[Illustration]
It makes the evenings too chilly for sauntering about, hands in
pocket, under the illuminations produced by the waving [p053]
lanterns and the flickering gaslights! one feels too cold to care
for amusement or refreshments. And therefore when after dinner the
frequenters of the _cafés_ on the boulevards hail the club _coupés_,
they never dream, as the door is closed on the still wintry toilettes
of their companions, of saying to the coachman, “To the Fair du
Trône.”
[Illustration]
They turn to the concerts and the circus. There is too much chilly
darkness, too long a drive through the deserted boulevards, between
the dinner and the suburban _fête_. The exhilaration produced by
champagne and laughter would die on the way.
Neuilly is the evening fair. It opens in the heart of summer,
[p054] in the full tide of that excessive heat which renders the
drawing-room and theatre equally unbearable to those Parisians who
wait for the month of August before they go to the sea, and who
live in tea-gowns, fan in hand, sipping ices and lemons, behind
their closed Venetian shutters. Like passengers in the tropics, who
watch for the setting sun before they go on deck, these pretty women
reclining in their bamboo chairs, impatiently follow the course of
the clock-hands, so slowly travelling towards five o’clock. At that
hour they get up, and in the semi-light of the dressing-room, with
lowered blinds and wide-open windows, they leisurely array themselves
in fresh and scented toilettes. They are going to dine in the open
air, on the terrace of some restaurant in the Bois. Capes and mantles
are too heavy during this month, and a young woman can go out without
any wrap hiding her charming dress; she only carries a small shawl
and one of those parasols, which, itself brilliant as a flower,
enhances the effect of the whole toilette and, whilst intercepting
the sun’s rays, throws most becoming shadows on the face.
Then about six o’clock, at the doors of the Ministries and all along
the Quai d’Orsay, a line of light, open carriages may be seen, in
which young women have come to fetch husband or lover, soothing their
impatience for the hour of freedom by noting the admiring glances
of the passers-by. And when at last the lingerers appear in grey
hat, white waistcoat, short coat and smart buttonhole, the couples
lounging back in their carriages, drive through the Avenue des Champs
Elysées, towards the summer restaurants and the shade of the Bois.
The Pavillon d’Armenonville reaps the greatest [p055] advantages
from the vicinity of the fair. The orchestra of the Tzigane Rigo,
hidden in the gardens of the pavillon, first attracts the notice of
the passers-by; they draw near, lean over the hedge, and look in to
see if any one is seated at the little tables.
[Illustration]
“See, there is so-and-so, and so-and-so, C——— and B———.” Political
and literary men, artists, financiers, women of both worlds, the
recognized and the unrecognized, the Luxembourg, the Palais Bourbon,
the theatre, the newspapers, the drawing-room, and boudoirs. The
guests seat themselves under the verandah, to watch the carriages
drive up. The table-napkins are dazzling in their snowy whiteness
against the green leafy trees, the ice melts in the silver bowls, and
the freshly cut cucumbers resemble aquatic leaves, torn from the pond
of [p056] water lilies, which we only glimpse at through the hanging
branches of the willows.
Hours pass pleasantly, languidly, in this festive scene. The Rakoczy
March, the Stephanie Gavotte, give a tinge of gallantry and love to
the reverie into which we fall, daydreams vague as the outlines of
the landscape before us.
And the spell lasts, until suddenly, lights, which are not reflected
from the stars, appear mirrored in the waters of the tiny lake. They
shine from the red lamps of the victorias now being lighted.
Night has fallen.
It is time to go to the fair.
[Illustration]
[p057] [Illustration]