DAYS IN PARIS
The Fairfields spent a few delightful days in Paris. They staid at a
large and pleasant hotel, and their rooms looked out upon the Place
Vendôme, which was one of Patty’s favourite spots in the French capital.
“I own that column,” she remarked to her father, as they looked out the
window at the great shaft with its spiral decorations.
“Indeed!” said Mr. Fairfield; “given to you by the French people, as a
token of regard and esteem?”
“Not exactly that,” said Patty. “I own it by right of adoption, or
rather, appropriation. All the things I specially like, and that are
too big to carry home, I own that way.”
“A fine plan,” commented her father. “And it has the advantage of being
a cheap one too. But you must remember this Vendôme column especially,
for you’ll see its twin in Rome.”
“Another,--just like it?”
“Not just like it, but similar. The one in Rome is Trajan’s Column, and
is of marble. But this one, of masonry, covered with plates of bronze,
was constructed in imitation of the Roman one. This, however, is nearly
twice as high.”
“Oh, pooh, then I shan’t care for such a little sawed-off thing at all.”
“Wait till you see it,” said her father, laughing. “I think you’ll find
it interesting.”
“And is Trajan on top of it, as Napoleon is on this?”
“Trajan was, at first. But he has been replaced by a statue of St.
Peter.”
“I’m glad I’m going to see it,” said Patty, contentedly. “I love
columns.”
“That’s right, child. Learn to know columns and arches and steps, and
you’re fairly started on the road to architecture.”
“Steps!” cried Patty, in surprise, “are steps ever beautiful?”
“Yes, indeed. Don’t you remember I called your attention to them many
times in London. Those of the church of St. Martin’s-in-the-Field, for
instance.”
“Oh, yes, I remember those--I must look up this matter of steps.”
“I’ll show you plenty in Italy. I’m not going to overburden you, Patty,
with instructive lore, but you must acquire a general knowledge of what
you’re seeing.”
“Yes, I want to. I don’t want to talk like the people who say, ‘I don’t
know a thing about art, but I know what I like.’”
“If you ever express that sentiment, I’ll disown you. Some people
invariably like the wrong things.”
“Oh, I know how to find out what’s worth while. You just pick out a
most stupid and uninteresting little picture or statue, and then you
look in your Baedeker and he tells you it’s the gem of the collection.”
“You’re hopeless!” declared her father. “I wash my hands of you, and
you can do your sightseeing in your own way.”
But he well knew she was only jesting, and many a pleasant hour they
spent among the art treasures in Paris, while Patty unconsciously
absorbed a foundation of true principles of worth and beauty.
The statue of the Venus of Milo was her greatest delight. She never
tired of standing in front of it to gaze up into the beautiful face.
“Isn’t it strange,” she said to her father, one day, “that the
expression of that face should be so exquisite, so,--so,--well, so
perfectly lovely that I can’t stop looking at it; and yet, all the
photographs of it are so different. The photographs all make her have
a supercilious, ill-natured air, while the real statue is anything but
that.”
“I agree with you,” said Nan. “I’ve often noticed it. And the plaster
casts, or the bronzes, are not a bit like the original.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Fairfield, “the plaster or bronze of reduced size
can’t be expected to be exact portraits, but surely a photograph should
give the expression of the original face. For, doubtless, the lady
stands still when she has her picture taken.”
“But the pictures _aren’t_ like her,” insisted Patty. “I’ve bought
seventeen different photographs of her, including post-cards, and
they’re not the leastest mite like that dear face.”
“Seventeen!” exclaimed Mr. Fairfield; “are you going to set up a shop
in New York?”
“No, indeed, but I’ve been trying to get a satisfactory picture, and I
can’t.”
On their way home Patty asked to stop at a picture shop so she might
prove her assertions.
“I’m afraid to go in,” said Mr. Fairfield, as she paused at a small
shop on the Rue de Rivoli, “you’ll buy seventeen more, and expect me to
pay for them!”
“No, I won’t. Come on in; I know the dealer and he’ll show us his
wares.”
The proprietor of the shop was a funny little old Frenchman, who spoke
little English. He recognized Patty, and, shaking his head, said
“_Non_, no ones that are new.”
“He means he hasn’t any new photographs of the Venus, since I was here
yesterday,” explained Patty, laughing. “But, now, Father, look at these
and I’ll show you what I mean.”
Together, they looked at a number of photographs of the celebrated
statue, and suddenly Nan exclaimed; “You’re right, Patty! and I know
why. It’s because all these photographs are taken from too high a
level. We look at the face of the Venus from below, it was made to
be looked at that way. But all these photographs have been taken by
cameras raised to the level of the statue’s head, or above it, and that
foreshortens her face the wrong way. Why, look, in this one you see all
the top of her head. Looking at the real statue, you see only the hair
above her brow. I can’t explain it exactly, but that’s what makes her
expression so different.”
“It _is_, Nan,” cried Patty, “it makes her upper lip curl, and her nose
shrink up!”
“Patty, Patty!” said her father, “don’t use such expressions. But I
believe you’re right, Nan, a photograph taken from the same height as
our eyes, would give a far different view of the face.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Patty. “Oh, I wish they’d let me take one.”
“They won’t,” said Mr. Fairfield, “so you’ll just have to engrave her
on your memory.”
Though they were convinced that their theory was right, they couldn’t
persuade the old Frenchman to agree with them. He admitted that the
pictures were unlike the expression of the original face, but he
shrugged his shoulders and said:
“Many photographs,--many postcards,--but only one _orichinal!_” And the
rapt look in his eyes showed that he, like Patty, preferred his memory
of the marble to any possible reproduction of it.
The last day they spent in Paris, Nan declared she was going to buy
things.
“We’ll do plenty of sightseeing in Italy,” she said, “but there’s
nothing there to buy, except heads of Dante and models of the Roman
Forum.”
“And beads,” said Patty. “I’m going to get pecks of beads. Everybody
expects you to bring them home a string or two.”
“All right,” said Nan, “but I mean gorgeous raiment. Paris is the only
place for that. So, to-day, I buy me some wide-reaching hats, and
frippery teagowns and other gewgaws. Want to go, Patsy?”
“’Deed, I do. I adore to buy feathers and frills.”
“You’re two vain butterflies,” said Mr. Fairfield, “but if you’ll
excuse me from going with you on this excursion, I’ll agree to pay the
bills you send home.”
This was a highly satisfactory arrangement, and the two ladies started
out for a round of the shops.
Patty had such good taste, and Nan such good judgment, that they bought
only the most desirable things, and a fine collection they made.
“It’s really economy to buy these, Patty,” said Nan, holding up some
embroidered waists as sheer and fine as a handkerchief, “for they’re
about half the price they cost at home; and as these styles are ahead
of ours, they’ll be all right for next summer.”
“Right you are,” said Patty, gaily; “and what we don’t want ourselves
will be lovely for Christmas presents. And, oh, Nan, do look at these
lace parasols! I’m going to get one for Marian; she’ll be wild over it.”
“No, don’t, Patty; they are exquisite, and would be just the thing for
an English garden party. But Marian would never have an opportunity to
carry that fluff of lace and chiffon and pink roses.”
“I s’pose not,” said Patty, regretfully. “It would look startling to
take to the Tea Cub meetings at Vernondale, and she couldn’t carry it
to New York! Well, I’ll leave it, then, and get her a mackintosh or
something sensible, instead.”
“No, don’t go to the other extreme,” said Nan, laughing, “get her a
hat, if you like, or a feather boa, but get something that the girl can
use.”
“Sensible little stepmother,” said Patty, good-naturedly; “You’re
always right, and I’m proud to be your friend and partner.”
So the buying went merrily on. Sometimes Patty advised Nan against a
combination of colours that didn’t quite harmonise, or a decoration
that wasn’t exactly suitable, and Nan gladly deferred to the younger
girl’s taste.
“One more farewell glimpse of my Venus, and then I’ll go home,” said
Patty, as the afternoon shadows began to lengthen; and telling the
cabman to take them to the Louvre, the two went in for a last sight of
the statue.
“_Isn’t_ she beautiful!” said Patty, for the fiftieth time. “I _know_
there’ll be nothing in all Italy to compare with her.”
“You can’t know that till you’ve been there,” said practical Nan, and
then she had to drag Patty away, and they went back to the hotel. Their
purchases were there awaiting them, so quick are the ways of the Paris
shops, and they found Mr. Fairfield in the middle of their sitting room
completely surrounded by parcels of all shapes and sizes.
“Snowed under!” he declared, as they came in.
Then he good-naturedly helped to untie the bundles, and pack most of
them in trunks to be sent directly to America.
“We want to take whatever luggage we need with us,” he said, “but don’t
take anything we don’t need. Excess luggage is expensive in Italy,
but it’s worth the extra expense if we want it for our convenience or
pleasure.”
So each had a good-sized individual trunk, and another trunk held some
evening gowns for Nan and Patty, not to be opened except when social
occasions required. Still another trunk held indispensable odds and
ends that belonged to all of them, and Mr. Fairfield said that was
enough to look after.
“You’re lovely people to travel with,” said Patty, thoughtfully. “When
I came over here with the Farringtons, they had forty-’leven trunks,
and they never could find what they wanted without going through the
whole lot.”
“Much better to get along with a few,” said her father, “and then you
can find things more easily.”
Mr. Fairfield was a systematic and methodical man, and had always
instilled these traits into both Patty and Nan. So they were always
ready at traintime or a little before, and thus were saved the many
annoyances that follow in the train of delay and procrastination.
The next afternoon they started for Rome. Mr. Fairfield chose to go by
the “Rome Express” a rapid and well-appointed train. Patty was greatly
interested in the strange appointments of the cars. The Fairfields had
two compartments; the larger, double one for the use of Patty and Nan,
the other for Mr. Fairfield. But at first they all sat together in the
double compartment, which was arranged like a state-room, and not at
all like American sleeping-cars. They would be on the train two nights
and one day, and Mr. Fairfield chose this plan because it enabled them
to see the Alps by daylight.
“It’s just like being in our own house, isn’t it?” said Patty, as they
settled their belongings into place. And indeed it was. Shut away from
the other passengers in their cosy little room, they were as secluded
as if at home. The comfortable seats and convenient little tables,
racks and shelves, made room for all their impedimenta, and Patty
declared it was lots nicer than American parlour cars, where everybody
was in the same room.
“Though, of course, you can take a drawing-room,” said Nan.
“Yes, if you’re a millionaire,” said Patty. “But this is fixed so
everybody can be by themselves.”
“Would you rather have your dinner served in here?” asked her father.
“No; I’d rather go to the dining-car. I want to see more of my
fellow-travellers. There may be brigands on board. I always think of
Italy as peopled with brigands.”
“What are they like?” asked Nan, idly.
“Oh, they have big cowboy hats, and red silk sashes, and awful black
beards, and they carry cutlasses.”
“Those are pirates,” suggested her father.
“Oh, yes, so they are. Well, my brigands carry revolvers.”
“Oh, no,” said Nan, laughing; “not revolvers; you might as well give
them tomahawks. Brigands in Italy carry stilettos, of course.”
“Stilettos!” cried Patty, in amazement. “They’re what you use in
embroidery work.”
“Well, you _are_ an ignorant young person,” declared Mr. Fairfield. “An
Italian stiletto is a small dagger or poniard.”
“Poniard! that’s it!” exclaimed Patty. “No well-conducted brigand would
carry anything but a poniard. Do you suppose there are many on the
train, father?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. But we’ll go to dinner now, and if there are
any we’ll scrape acquaintance with them.”
So to the dining-car they went, and Patty cast discreet but curious
glances in at the doors of the other compartments as she passed them.
She saw no brigands, and among the passengers were not many Italians.
They all seemed to be people of their own stamp, probably travelling on
the same kind of a trip.
The dining-car was comfortable and well-lighted. The tables on one side
held four people, and on the other side, each was arranged for two. The
Fairfields sat at a quartette table, and as no one occupied the fourth
seat, they were pleasantly by themselves again.
It was Patty’s first introduction to Italian cookery, and she was much
interested in the strange dishes.
The spaghetti, though very good, was served in such large quantities
that she was amazed.
“Does anyone ever eat a whole portion?” she said.
But she noticed that many of the diners did do so, and indeed she made
large inroads on her own share.
“It’s fine!” she said. “I did not know it could be so good.”
“On its native heath, spaghetti is quite different from an American
arrangement of it,” said her father. “I’m glad you like it, for you’ll
have very few meals without it all the time you’re in Italy.” The
other viands were good, too, and the variety of cheeses and fruits was
positively bewildering.
“How different from an English or French meal,” said Patty, as they
finished. “Isn’t it interesting, the different things that different
countries eat. Do you suppose that’s what makes them the sort of people
they are?”
“Your question is a little ambiguous,” laughed her father, “but it
doesn’t always seem logical. For instance, you’d scarcely think this
innocent spaghetti would produce a race of ferocious brigands, such as
you’re expecting to meet. By the way do you see any?”
“Not one,” said Patty, as she glanced round the car. “I’m fearfully
disappointed.”
“Don’t give up hope yet. Perhaps they’re lying in ambush somewhere, and
they’ll hold up the train in the night.”
After the long dinner, there was not much evening left, so our
travellers soon concluded they were ready for their rest.
“Don’t be afraid,” said Mr. Fairfield, as he left the two ladies, to
go to his own sleeping berth. “I don’t believe there’s a bad-tempered
brigand on the train.”
“I don’t either,” said Patty, “so I shan’t lie awake in shivering
terror.”
Soon she and Nan were sleeping quietly in the funny, narrow beds that
were so like shelves, and the next thing Patty knew was a knocking at
the door of the compartment.
She was awake in an instant and shook the sleeping Nan.
“Wake up,” she whispered, “there’s a brigand knocking at the door.”
“Nonsense!” said Nan, rubbing her eyes, “what do you mean?” The knock
was repeated and Nan jumped up.
“What shall we do?” she said. “Perhaps we’d better not answer at all.”
But the knocks became more peremptory, and throwing on a kimono, Nan
went to the door, and without opening it, said, “Who’s there?”
“Open the door,” said a commanding voice.
“It _is_ a brigand!” said Patty, hopping about on one foot. “Where are
your jewels, Nan?”
“Your father has them. Don’t be silly, Patty; of course it isn’t a
brigand, but who can it be? Perhaps Fred is ill.”
As the knocking continued, and as the voice kept on demanding that the
door be opened, Nan opened it cautiously and saw before her a big
burly man in an official uniform.
“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” he said, “but have you any luggage in
your room?”
“No,” said Nan, “only hand luggage.”
“How many trunks in the luggage-car?” he went on, and Nan told him.
“Anything dutiable in them?”
“Why, I don’t know. What is dutiable?”
“Spirits or tobacco, ma’am.”
“Why, no! Of course we haven’t any of those things in our trunks.”
“Any matches?”
“No.”
“Thank you. Good night, madam. Sorry to trouble you.”
The big man went away, and Patty tumbled back to bed, murmuring:
“Huh, to be waked up and bothered, and then not see a brigand after
all! I do think the customs men might at least wear red silk sashes.
They’d be so much more picturesque. What a queer time for him to come
to see about the trunks.”
“I believe they always come when we cross the border,” said Nan,
sleepily. “Good-night.”
“Good-night,” said Patty.