THE BIRD CHARMER OF THE TUILERIES
The Paris subway system is the best in the world. We make this boast
without fear of contradiction. In London the various lines do not
connect, and require a life study to arrive at the quickest combination.
Even then, old Londoners are in doubt. They say to you, "Piccadilly
Circus? Ah let me see--" Then your guide contradicts himself two or
three times before giving you directions of which he is reasonably sure.
In New York, you have to be certain you are on the uptown or downtown
side, and that you have not mistaken the Broadway line, where you drop
the money in the box, for the Seventh Avenue line, where you buy
tickets. Experience with the Forty-second Street shuttle teaches you
that it is quicker to walk than to ride: you have to walk most of the
way anyhow. New York subways are filthy and stuffy. In Boston you have a
bewildering variety of trolley-cars, stopping at different parts of the
platform and going every which way.
But Paris underground is clean, well-ventilated, orderly. You can go
from any part of the city to any other part quickly and without
confusion. The resident knows his way instinctively. The stranger has
only to follow the abundant and clearly-marked signs. In every station
the signs bear the name of every other station, and if you are in doubt,
there is a map before you. On the doors of cars the stations are marked,
with junction-stops in red, and all the stations of the line you are
taking are indicated on a map which you cannot fail to see.
The subway system of Paris is superb because it has to compete with
excellent surface transportation. It has also to compete with the beauty
of Paris. Unless you are in a hurry or it is a very rainy day, riding
underground is folly. One never tires of going through the streets of
Paris. The joy is constant. I am proud of the "Métro" and "Nord-Sud," as
the two subway systems are called. But I use them as little as possible.
An open _fiacre_ is a temptation never to be resisted. And, until the
last year of the war, it was a temptation thrust under your nose. Best
of all, I love to walk. Our way to the Rive Droite is down the Boulevard
Raspail. At the foot of the boulevard, you have three choices. You can
go straight ahead through the Rue du Bac and over the Pont Royal, by the
Boulevard Saint-Germain and across the Pont de Solférino, or to the end
of the Boulevard Saint-Germain and across the Pont de la Concorde. Each
route is equally inspiring. By the Pont Solférino you have before you a
perfect vista of the Vendôme Column and Sacré-Coeur in the background.
By the Pont de la Concorde you have the Obélisque and the Madeleine in
the background. But I used to prefer the Rue du Bac and the Pont Royal
because of Monsieur Pol. Alas that I have to say "used to"!
After crossing the Seine by the Pont Royal, you enter the Tuileries
Garden at the end of the Louvre. On the left-hand side, before you
reached the Rue de Rivoli, ever since I can remember a little group was
gathered around a man feeding birds. I had to be in a great hurry on the
day I did not join that group.
There is an old saying that every man drifts into his means of
livelihood. That is the reason so few people are doing what they planned
to do, and why there are so many queer ways of earning one's living.
Certainly the first time Monsieur Pol threw bread crumbs to the sparrows
in Tuileries he did not think of doing it for a living. Nor did he dream
that he would become as familiar a Paris landmark as Paul Deroulède in
marble and Jeanne d'Arc in gilt near by. A generation of Parisians may
have forgotten the features of former presidents of the Republic. But
who would not recognize Monsieur Pol? In fact, I have seen Emile Loubet
standing unrecognized in the crowd around the bird charmer.
One day a one-legged soldier limped his way through the crowd to a good
place. In the lines of his face you could read suffering, but the
expression was of a happy child absorbed in the wonder of the moment. On
the sand around the old man's chair a hundred sparrows faced his way,
heads uplifted.
"Get out of this, you rascals! I have had enough of you," cried Monsieur
Pol, stamping his foot and shaking a fist at his battalion. Do you think
they budged? The bird charmer shook his head, and remarked with a gentle
sigh, turning to the crowd, "You see, they have known me a good while.
Mind how you behave," he shouted, addressing the birds again, "here is a
soldier looking at you. Think how he will laugh if you do not stand up
straight. Look how well he's standing himself--with one leg gone."
The birds heard a speech praising their defender, which turned into a
glorification of our _poilus_ in general. How those birds had to listen
to lessons in politics, shrewd comments on the news of the day, the
latest Cabinet crisis, talked-about play, scandal in high life! Since
the war it has been the Germans in Belgium, the Turks in Armenia,
Kerensky and the Bolshevists, and the last three o'clock _communiqué_.
The birds gave their attention to the end. They seemed to know when the
speech was done, when the lesson of faith in France and optimism had
been driven home. They began to fly about the charmer, billing around
his neck and perching on his wide-brimmed hat in search of
bread-crumbs.
Feeding the sparrows was "_un métier comme un autre_." He had names for
all his pets. With "the Englishman" he talked about Edward the Seventh,
Sir Thomas Barclay and the Entente Cordiale, and pressed him on the
subject of the tunnel under the Channel. He complimented "the
Englishman" on the bravery of the Tommies and told him what the French
thought of Sir Douglas Haig. "The Deputy" received frank comments on the
doings at the Palais Bourbon. "The Drunk" was twitted for having to go
without absinthe, scolded for his excesses, and at the end of the
afternoon invited to accompany Monsieur Pol for a drink, the price of
which invariably came from someone in the crowd. Monsieur Pol and his
sparrows would have earned a fortune at any vaudeville house. He was as
witty as a cowboy rope-juggler I saw once in New York, and his lectures
to the birds, if taken down in shorthand, would have made a valuable
contemporary commentary on Paris during the Third Republic. Monsieur Pol
depended upon occasional gifts and the sale of postcards.
During the war he grew gradually more feeble, but could not be persuaded
to accept the care of loving hands stretched out to him on all sides in
spite of the preoccupation of the struggle. When the bread restrictions
came in, he never lacked a sufficient supply for his little friends. I
have seen people give him strips of their own bread tickets. Monsieur
Pol kept coming to the Tuileries until he died in action as truly as
any soldier at the front. His best epitaph is a little verse on the
postcards he sold:
"Auprès de ces petits, je suis toujours heureux.
Car je vois l'amitié pétiller dans leurs yeux,
Et j'éprouve aussitôt, avec un charme extrême,
Le plus doux des bonheurs: être aimé quand on aime."[E]
[E]
"Among these little ones I am always happy.
In their innocent eyes glows friendship,
And with swelling heart I know the charm
Of loving and of being loved."