the rubber in your neck trying to see all you can before the acts
change. Even the arrival is theatrical. As the train pulled into the
Gare du Nord, after making the last forty-five miles in fifty-five
minutes, I passed our hand baggage out through the open car window to
a porter, and, going out the door myself, told him in a confident tone
“voiture,” which is the foolish French word for cab. He understood,
piloted us through the big station and called a little victoria with
a seat for two. The driver wears a white celluloid plug hat and a red
face. He drives a horse which probably fought with Napoleon. He nods
assent to the name of the hotel as I mispronounce it, takes our three
grips on his seat, and away we go down the street, the Lord and the
cabby only knowing where. On the sidewalks are busy people talking
French, walking French, and gesturing French. The stores and shops
are attractive, for the French shopkeeper puts his best stuff in the
front window, whether he is selling hats or sausages. Big busses, with
people on top as well as inside, motor cars and motor busses with horns
and honks, loaded wagons drawn by heavy Norman horses, street sweepers
with brooms, policemen in red-and-blue uniforms, maids in cap and gown,
porters with their work shirts outside their trousers, restaurants and
little cafés with tables and chairs on the sidewalk and French men
sipping absinthe or cold coffee, buildings almost uniformly six stories
high, built with courts in the center which are often seen through
open doors, and everybody talking, gesticulating and screaming in a
language you cannot understand,--that is the confusion through which we
drive for two miles and for which journey the cabman takes off his hat
when I pay him 35 cents, which includes a 4-cent tip for himself. The
hotel porter, or chief clerk, the head waiter, the pages, the manager
and several assistants meet us at the hotel door, and in response to
inquiries assure us that there is a bath-room in the hotel and that
they have a “very nice” room. As an additional and decisive argument
why we should stop there the chief clerk asserts that they have
ice-water, and the entire company falls back in an ecstatic gesture
which evidently means “What do you think of that?” We examine the room,
agree upon a price, and then and not till then do we dismiss the cabman
and proceed to get settled. We are in Paris, the dirtiest and prettiest
city in the world.
* * * * *
Of course the first thing to do is to get out and see the sights, but
of course it is not. The first thing is to get the mail and the next
is to clean up. After traveling eight hours on a fast train through a
country which has had no rain for two months, one really does not care
for the wonderful things which the world talks about. Then comes the
French dinner, which is something of an affair. A dinner in France goes
like this: Soup, fish or eggs, veal, beef or mutton, and a vegetable
and salad, cakes or tarts, fruit or ice. No coffee is served with the
meal, but it is usually taken later and is an additional charge. Any
attempt to vary this bill of fare is regarded as insane. I tried my
best to get string beans served with my veal course, but I couldn’t.
The waiter said “Oui,” then went and called the other waiters, and I
could see them looking at the crazy American. That made me persistent,
and I sent for the head waiter and told him I wanted beans--and I knew
they had them ready. The head waiter said “Oui” and disappeared, and
soon the clerks from the office strolled by and looked in. By this
time the veal was cold, and I realized that any further attempt might
result in calling the police, so I gave it up. No one refused to get
my beans, but each time I was told “oui,” which means “yes” and is
pronounced “we,” and each time nothing further happened except the
sympathizing and curious mob. Once I traveled in Europe with a friend
named McGregor, who wanted his coffee served with his meal, as it is in
Illinois. He was willing to pay any price and he would put in his order
hours ahead of mealtime. Did he get it? Certainly not. Coffee is not
served with the dinner in France, and that is all there is to it.
American travelers have won on one point--ice. Every hotel and
restaurant which caters to American trade advertises ice-water. No
Frenchman will drink it, but in some way the managers found that
ice could be procured in the summer-time, and as a special favor to
Americans, at a small increase in rates, the hotels give us ice-water.
No real French hotel has a bath-room, to say nothing of a room with
bath. I suppose the French, who look clean, either go to the creek or
swim in the washbowl. Again the American influence is felt. First-class
hotels now have bath-rooms, or a bath-room, and when it is used the
charge appears on the bill, so much for a “grand bath.”
* * * * *
After dinner we went for a walk on the boulevards, just as every
Frenchman who can, does every evening. The boulevards are the wide
streets which run through the city in different directions, and were
constructed at first for military purposes. In the little narrow
streets of old Paris it was easy to start a revolution by merely
throwing a barricade across a “rue,” prying up cobblestones for
weapons and stationing a few old women on the housetops with pots of
scalding water, which are harder on soldiers than leaden bullets.
The revolution habit got so strong in Paris that the boulevards were
constructed so the soldiers could march through the city without being
stopped by barricades and mobs. They are likely to be used for that
purpose again sometime, but just now the boulevards are largely for
parades in which French millinery and hosiery are placed on exhibition
every afternoon and evening. The sidewalks are occupied by cafés, miles
of them it seems to me, and for the price of a drink, from one cent up,
and in substance from coffee down, a Frenchman can occupy a comfortable
seat and observe the wonders of art and glimpses of nature which pass
by. An American can do the same, only a real American can never put in
a whole evening consuming one small cup of coffee or whatever other
beverage he can call for in the French language.
So when I say we “went for a stroll,” we did so in the Parisian sense.
We went for a sit, and let the promenaders do the strolling. Here
and there an orchestra was playing some frivolous air, the street
lights flashed from the lamp-posts, old ladies sold newspapers and
post-cards, and the chattering but musical French language filled the
air with a suggestive touch of the bohemian accent. The later the hour
the larger the crowd, until midnight came, and then the Parisians went
to the dances and parties and the American visitors to the hotels.
The French Character
PARIS, August 13.
It is a little hard to take Paris seriously, because Paris refuses to
take herself that way. There is a cheerfulness and a playfulness about
the French folks that is hard to appreciate from the calm viewpoint of
an Englishman or American. Our standards are different along so many
lines that comparisons are unfair without explanations; and who cares
for long-winded explanations? According to all the rules that are laid
down in the books of American etiquette, the people of this city should
be behind the rest of the world in all the serious and necessary works
of life. And yet French generals have fought and defeated larger armies
with their French soldiers, French engineers have performed marvelous
feats, French scientists are authority, French musicians command the
highest prices, French business men do great things, the French people
are wealthy, and when it comes to literature and art we in America are
really small potatoes. The fact seems to be that the Frenchman who
promenades the boulevard and the French lady who startles the Puritan
in us, are accomplishing just as much with somewhat limited resources,
as we do, and we are the greatest people on earth as we admit ourselves.
* * * * *
The show place in Paris is the parallelogram along the Seine,
consisting of the Champs-Élysées, the Place de la Concorde, the
Tuileries gardens, and the Louvre art gallery. This district is about
three miles long and averages a quarter of a mile wide. It contains the
Champs with beautiful gardens and woods intersected by wide avenues,
then the Place de la Concorde, one of the most beautiful squares in
the world, the Tuileries’ commodious public playgrounds, with ponds
and fountains; palaces with pictures, statues and monuments historical
and allegorical; and the end is in the Louvre, which is said to be the
greatest collection of art in existence. There is not a chord in the
human mind and heart which is not touched beautifully and effectively
by some part of this magnificent public place, which belongs to the
people and is used by them. The more one thinks over this feature, the
more he must realize that although the French do not conform to our
methods they are certainly able to reach many of our best ideals, and
whether they go around or cross-lots to get there depends upon the
viewpoint of the critic.
* * * * *
The old Bourbon kings of France understood their people. While they
made it hard for the common people to get a living they made it easy
for them to have a good time. Whenever the public kicked on taxes,
the king laid out a new park and gave a fête with free drinks and
fireworks. The Bourbons would probably be reigning yet if Louis
the Sixteenth and his wife, Marie Antoinette, had had any sense.
Antoinette was German and did not understand the French ways, Louis
was a poor politician, and when a storm came they lost their heads
figuratively and then lost them actually. The republic lasted a few
years and then Napoleon, who was as great a player to the grandstand
as he was a general, became emperor, and only his foolish desire to
conquer everybody lost him his job. The Bourbons came back as kings,
but they had no sense. The French people want to be fooled, and these
kings couldn’t fool anybody. So there was another republic, and then
Napoleon the Third came to the front on the reputation of his uncle,
the great Napoleon. He worked the French people to a finish, built
palaces, boulevards and playgrounds until he had everybody for him,
and then got captured by the Germans, lost his reputation and throne,
and France became a republic for the third time. This was in 1871, and
the republic has lasted forty years, much longer than expected, but
in fact the government has been wisely conducted and has understood
the French character well. There is another Napoleon, by the name of
Victor, who is likely to come back, and sometime when the government
does an imprudent thing the people will remember the good old times of
Napoleon and return to a monarchy. Victor married the daughter of the
old Emperor of Belgium, and has a big campaign fund.
* * * * *
Of course everybody knows these facts, and I have recited them to
illustrate the French national character. The French are not false,
but they are fickle. They like a change, a novelty, an excitement. A
revolution, or a new government, appeals to their sense of enjoyment
just as does a new picture, a new hat, or a new coiffure. In spite
of this trait they have done great things in all the great lines of
advancement and progress. Theoretically they should be failures, but in
fact they are successful. They consider Paris the greatest city of the
world, and the way the people of other countries come here and add to
the circulating medium seems to prove they are right. They practically
refuse to learn any other language, but all other countries study
French. Thousands of English and American Puritans come to Paris every
year, but the Frenchman who travels for pleasure is unknown. Why is it?
I give it up, unless we have some French tastes along with our English
standards.
* * * * *
The French people are the most temperate, most economical and most
saving of any of the peoples of Europe--or America. With all their
fun they love money, and never forget the necessity of having some
in their old age. Get off the Parisian boulevards, which are spoiled
by visitors, and you see the French, pure and simple, though not so
very pure and not at all simple. They will bargain and figure down to
the “sou,” the popular coin, worth two American cents. Every French
family figures on spending less than it makes, and does it. There are
practically no savings banks and no one much has a bank account, but as
soon as a little money is saved it is invested in government bonds or
municipal or railroad bonds, which bear four per cent interest. Every
family has government bonds, and this habit of investing in securities
is the reason which makes France so great and strong financially. The
people pile their savings into the government treasury, the only bank
they know. The family, which is always small in France, must save for
the daughter’s dot, or she will never be married, and for the last
years of the parents’ lives. There are practically no abjectly poor
people in France. It is not fashionable to be poor, and French men and
French women must be fashionable.
The Place de la Concorde is a wonderful square, larger than a couple of
our city blocks. In the center is an obelisk, presented by Mohammed Ali
when he was viceroy of Egypt and before the bargain sale of obelisks
took place. It is a block of red granite, 75 feet high and covered
with hieroglyphics which tell the deeds of an Egyptian gentleman named
Rameses. The obelisk is surrounded by large fountains with mermaids
and Tritons and dolphins spouting water into lower basins. Around the
square are statues representing the eight principal cities of France.
Since the monuments were erected one of these cities, Strassburg, has
been taken by the Germans. This was forty years ago, but the monument
still stands, and it is draped in mourning. In any other country the
statue would have been quietly removed, but the French are not built
that way. They hang their wreaths around Strassburg, swear vengeance on
the Germans, and have a good time.
* * * * *
This mourning habit is very popular in Paris. The ladies who are called
upon to mourn do so with proper regard for appearances. As near as
I can figure it out the death of a second cousin puts all the female
members of a family into deep black. A mourning-gown with a very hobble
skirt, with the hoisery and millinery to match and with plumes and
décolleté neck to strengthen the effect,--well, it does not detract
from the human interest one naturally takes at such a time.
The Latin Quarter
PARIS, August 15.
As everyone knows, the city of Paris is cut into two parts by the river
Seine, which runs through it from east to west and with its curves is
about seven miles in length within the town. The river is crossed by
many bridges, all stone and substantial, many ornamented by statues.
Little steamboats run up and down like street cars, and the banks are
covered with massive stone walls. About half-way through the city are
two islands, one called the Cité and the other the Isle of St. Louis.
The Cité is the most ancient part of Paris, and was a town in the time
of Cæsar. The coming of Christianity was marked by the erection of a
church, and about the 12th century by the present cathedral Notre-Dame,
one of the famous buildings in Europe, but not one of the finest
cathedrals. By this time the city had spread out on the banks, and
the organization of France into a kingdom with Paris as the capital
was followed by a removal of the royal residence and of most of the
activities to the sides of the stream. On the south side developed
the university, the artists’ studios, and eventually the military
establishments. Big business, the large residences and industrial
enterprises went to the north bank. The Latin Quarter, as the
educational and artistic section is known, on the south, while equipped
with large stores, palaces and public buildings, is a most interesting
and quaint place, and though still Bohemian is very respectable, from a
Parisian viewpoint.
* * * * *
The University of Paris, the original part of which was the Sorbonne,
now an immense structure, has about 15,000 students. It differs from
American universities in many respects. There are no recitations.
The instruction is given by lectures, and a famous authority on law,
or philosophy or science, can lecture to hundreds as easily as to a
small class. There are no dormitories, no fraternities, no football
clubs, no spring parties, no classes, no sports, no colors, no badges,
none of the essential parts of American higher education. Students
of any age or previous training may enroll and become members of the
University, go to the lectures they desire, or not go at all if they
prefer. The public can attend the lectures and the University is open
to women, though the proportion of women students is not large. The
most efficient instruction and the greatest sources of information are
open to the students--if they desire. The Sorbonne was erected in 1629
by Cardinal Richelieu, and named for Robert de Sorbonne, who started a
school for the education of poor boys in theology about 1250. It has
been rebuilt and enlarged until it is a vast pile 800 feet long and 300
feet wide. This building houses the schools in literature and science,
the schools of law and medicine occupying buildings near by.
* * * * *
Although the students at the University of Paris do not have the fun
in athletics and society that the students do in the University of
Kansas, they have a good time in the French way. The quarter is filled
with cafés, large and small, where students and artists congregate and
eat, drink and make merry. The back room of the café is something of
a club, and discussions on art and science mingle with the perfume of
tobacco and fermented grape-juice. While there is a lack of co-eds
there is no scarcity of ladies, who constitute a part of the course
taken by many of the students, not leading to a degree, not even
to matrimony. All of this, which would be regarded with horror in
Lawrence, is quite the thing in Paris and seems to work out most
satisfactorily to the University authorities, for even the professors
do not hesitate to mingle with their students at the evening sessions
in the joints of the Latin Quarter. The men take examinations and
degrees and go their way to promote the advancement of learning, while
the ladies stay and aid in the instruction of the next generation of
students. The original of the old college story took place in the
Sorbonne. A father who had graduated many years before came for a
visit with his son, who had matriculated as a student. The son had
gone to the same lodging-place which his father had occupied in the
years gone by. The old man was recalling his student days, looking over
the familiar place, noticing the changes and the old scenes. “The
same old beamed ceiling, where I carved my name, and here it is,” he
exclaimed with delight. “The same old view from the window. The same
old furniture--” and just then the back door opened and a dashing lady
appeared. “Same old girl,” he cried with rapture. The boy tried to
explain that she was a friend of a friend. “Same old story,” was the
happy comment, “Same old game.”
* * * * *
Near the Sorbonne is the Pantheon, originally built for a church, in
the shape of a Greek cross, located on a hill which is the highest
place on the south side of the river, and with a noble dome that can be
seen for many miles. This is a new building, having been constructed
in the eighteenth century. It was dedicated to Saint Genevieve, the
patron saint of Paris. The revolution converted it into a memorial
temple and named it the Pantheon. It has been a church a couple of
times since then, but is now not used for religious purposes. It is
the burying-place of great Frenchmen. Here are buried Victor Hugo,
Mirabeau, Rousseau, Carnot, and others distinguished in literature
and statecraft. You can see the last resting-place of these great men
by securing an order from the Government or by tipping the custodian:
the latter way I always find the easiest and best. The Pantheon is
beautifully decorated, and the interior with Corinthian columns and
mural paintings is most effective. If it makes any difference to these
men where they are buried they should be glad, for it is the finest
memorial building in Europe.
* * * * *
That leads me to a rather grave subject. As a matter of fact, funerals
are very important events in France. Three or four directors in black
clothes and three-cornered hats march ahead, and the hearse is heavily
draped. If the departed was a man of prominence there are a number of
orations delivered, the crowd goes away excited over the condition
of the republic, and is likely to break windows and show its feeling
toward the political opponents of the deceased. When Zola was buried a
hundred thousand people marched in the procession, and there were a
number of street fights and duels as a climax.
* * * * *
But the biggest thing in the Latin Quarter so far as American tourists
are concerned is the Bon Marché, I suppose the largest retail general
store in the world. In most ways it is like our department stores, and
announces that it has made its success by reason of faithful dealings
with the public and by advertising. It has been running about fifty
years; the original proprietor is dead, but the business moves on
smoothly. The corporation has a method of division of profits among
employés who have been with the store more than ten years. It also
pensions its old employés, provides lectures and amusements for its
workers, and has a paternal and cöoperative side that is interesting,
although the corporation is in fact controlled by a few heavy
stockholders.
Somehow I had the idea that our own country was the leader in the big
department store business. But the Bon Marché and others in Paris took
the idea out of me. It has many clerks who speak foreign languages, and
it is said that a native of Timbuctoo or Arkansas could slip into the
store and find some one who could speak his language.
The clerks in the Bon Marché get from $3 to $6 a week, with the
exception of a few who have special qualifications. So I guess the
old-age pension business is necessary. That is the ordinary wage paid
store clerks in Paris.
It was at the Bon Marché that the ancient joke happened to me. I was
looking at a price-mark, and, not understanding the figure, inquired in
my pigeon French, “Est sees [6] auter set? [7].” The clerk answered “It
is six.”
My French is a joke. From necessity I have learned enough French words
to order a meal, buy a ticket and ask how much. I have found that a
good bluff, plenty of signs and the throwing in of French and German
words on the subject generally get about what I want. But often I fall
down. The word for potatoes in French is “pommes.” I told a waiter I
wanted “fried pommes,” and as the word for cold is “froid,” I got cold
potatoes.
I went for a ride in the underground tube. Bought my tickets and got
onto a train I knew was in the right direction. It stopped, everybody
got out, and the porter insisted that I go too. I knew something was
wrong, and I tackled the platform boss with good English. He couldn’t
understand a word, so he waved his hands and clawed the air and talked
French for a couple of minutes. Then he tried to walk off, but I hung
on. I was away down below the surface of the ground and didn’t even
know straight up. “Correspond” he kept saying, and I assured him I
would be glad to do so if he would give me his address, but first I
wanted to know where I was “at.” I knew he was swearing, but it was
French swear and I didn’t mind. Finally he took me by the arm and
walked me through a couple of passages and pointed to another platform.
A light broke in on me, and I took the train which soon came. I learned
afterward that “correspond” is French for “transfer.”
The Boulevards of Paris
PARIS, August 18.
The boulevards of Paris are one of the wonders of the world. Strictly
speaking there are a number of broad avenues which are called
boulevards, but usually “the boulevards” is a phrase which means
the one long wide boulevard extending for several miles, from near
the Place de la Concorde to the Place de la Bastille, built in a
semi-circle on the north of the old city and on the fortifications
which defended the city in the Middle Ages. Of course later walls and
fortifications were built farther out, and the “grand boulevards” are
through the heart of the present Paris. The boulevard--for it is one
continuous highway--changes its name every few blocks, a fact that is
characteristically French and somewhat confusing to the stranger. The
beginning is a short distance from the Place de la Concorde at the
church of the Madeleine, the fashionable church of Paris. The building
is in the style of a Roman temple, and has an imposing colonnade of
Corinthian columns. The interior decorations are very good, and include
a large fresco above the altar in which Christ, Napoleon and Pope Pius
the Seventh are classified more or less together. The boulevard is
called The Madeleine for about 200 yards, when the name changes to the
Capucines and sticks for a couple of blocks until the grand opera house
is reached. Along this short stretch are some of the wildest music
halls and the greatest cafés of the world. The greatest is the Café de
la Paix, where everybody who visits Paris goes for at least one drink
of ginger ale or cold coffee.