acres. The site alone cost $2,000,000 and the building over $7,000,000.
The materials are marble and costly stone, and there are statues
of Poetry, Music, Drama, Dance, with other figures, medallions and
allegorical statuary until your head swims. The front of the roof is
sculptured with gilded masks and with collossal groups representing
Music and Poetry attended by the Muses and Goddesses of Fame. Apollo
with a golden lyre and two Pegasuses occupy the dome. The interior
has a grand staircase of marble with a rail of onyx, and the rest of
the interior is be-columned and be-frescoed to match. It is the most
beautiful building in Paris, and could hardly be surpassed if the
attempt were made regardless of expense. I would not try a detailed
description, for it would not convey the real effect, best described by
the word gorgeous.
From the Opera a street runs southerly called the Avenue de l’Opera,
the great shopping street of Paris, and at another angle goes the
Street de la Paix, where the most expensive jewelry stores and
millinery establishments are located. The name of this street is
properly pronounced de la Pay.
But the Boulevard continues, no longer the Capucines, but the Italiens.
Some years ago this was the great shopping-place, and it is not bad
now. As the ladies promenade past the Opera and into the Italiens,
the skirts unconsciously go a little higher. The boulevard proceeds,
the next section being called the Montmartre. This part interested me
a great deal. On the rue Montmartre, a side street to the right, is
the Y. M. C. A., and on Mt. Montmartre, a little to the left, is the
Moulin Rouge.
The Y. M. C. A. in Paris is one of the best things in the city, but
it does not get much newspaper notoriety. It is an English-speaking
organization, with convenient quarters, parlor, reception, billiard,
smoking-and dining-rooms. It is one place in Paris where there is no
café or bar, and it is a great help to young men from America who are
in this city by reason of their business or to study or to visit the
historic places. A great many use the Y. M. C. A. facilities, and a
membership card from Hutchinson or any other association in the world
is good for these privileges in the heart of Paris. I would recommend
to every American that when he goes to Paris he make his headquarters
at the Y. M. C. A., but I am not going to count on many of them doing
it. The Paris atmosphere has the same effect on a Y. M. C. A. that a
nice, warm August sun has on a cake of ice left on the sidewalk in
Hutchinson. I am not telling what I would like to, but I setting down
the facts as they appear to me. The man who goes to Paris and sticks to
the Y. M. C. A. as his loafing-place should have his halo ordered at
once. He has a cinch.
In the other direction, on Mt. Montmartre, is the Moulin Rouge. I do
not recommend it to nervous men, but it is one of the sights of this
city. When I was a boy I read somewhere about a “gilded palace of
sin,” and now I know what that means. The cowboys out west used to
have what they called “free-and-easies,” but the Moulin Rouge is not
free. I shut my eyes as the dancers loped by until a friend said the
next dance would be a quadrille. I once danced quadrilles myself, and
I thought there would be a breathing-place. The young people arranged
themselves as if they were going to dance a Virginia Reel, and I could
feel consciousness returning. The music struck up and the quadrille
began. At first it went as smooth as if it were at the Country Club.
Then each young lady passed the toe of her right foot over the head
of her partner. Then she turned and pointed the toe of her left foot
at the chandelier which hung from the ceiling. And then came the most
wonderful display of things that are put in the store windows at
home and marked “white goods sale,” or “lingerie.”
[Illustration: THE PLAIN QUADRILLE AT THE MOULIN ROUGE]
It was dreadfully embarrassing to me, as it must have been to any other
Kansas man present, but I braced myself, for I knew the worst was yet
to come. I felt like getting right up on my chair and saying, “Ladies,
there are gentlemen present.” But I didn’t, and I have been glad ever
since, for they might not have understood English and thought I wanted
a partner for the next quadrille.
Afterwards the proceedings became almost immodest.
So I do not recommend the Moulin Rouge, though I fear that this failure
on my part will not detract from the rush of strangers who are visiting
in Paris and who might go to the Y. M. C. A. But I will say in passing
that it is no place for a man unless his wife is with him, and it is
somewhat distracting even then.
* * * * *
Returning to the boulevard. It changes its name to the Poissoniere, and
on this part is the office of the _Matin_, the great newspaper, which
has 750,000 circulation, prints only six pages, and pretends not to
care for advertising. The _Matin_ differs from most Parisian newspapers
in really printing news. The general run of papers here are purely
political, and put their editorials on the front page. They are very
abusive, and the editor has to fight frequent duels. The fighting is
done with pistols at a safe distance, and after an exchange of shots
with nobody hurt, the principals rush together and clinch, but it is
to kiss each other on both cheeks and rejoice that Honor has been
Satisfied. I wouldn’t mind the dueling, but I positively would not kiss
these Frenchmen, and so far as I can learn the society editresses do
not duel.
* * * * *
The _Matin_ is the paper that cleared Dreyfus after his trial and
conviction a few years ago. The story is interesting. Dreyfus was made
the victim of a conspiracy, and a document showing details of the
French army was attributed to him as a German spy. Everybody remembers
the trial and the fuss at the time. It became a contest between the
Honor of the French Army and Dreyfus. The _Matin_ took little part,
but, like most of the French, sided with the army. One evening at a
dinner an officer of the court exhibited the original of the document
which Dreyfus had been convicted of writing. Mr. Bueno-Varilla, editor
of the _Matin_, was present, and as the paper was passed around he
looked at it carelessly. That night when he reached home he remembered
that a few years before this same Dreyfus had written him a letter
about some engineering, and he dug up the letter. The handwriting was
not at all what he had seen that evening. He rushed to the telephone
and got the official who had shown the document, who promised to bring
it to him in the morning. They compared the spy information and the
Dreyfus letter which Bueno-Varilla had, and they were utterly unlike.
Next day the _Matin_ printed a photograph copy of the document, and
appealed to anyone who knew the handwriting to advise the _Matin_.
In a day or two a gentleman wrote and said it was the writing of a
drunken bankrupt army officer, named Esterhazey, inclosing letters from
the latter which proved it. Dreyfus was brought back from prison and
pardoned, Esterhazey skipped the country, and the honor of the French
army was flyspecked. All of this because Bueno-Varilla happened to keep
an old letter, and because he owned the _Matin_.
The boulevard next becomes the Bonne-Nouvelle, and then St. Denis and
then St. Martin, and has several other names before it reaches its end
in the Place de la Bastille.
This place is even more important in French history than Independence
Hall in ours. The 14th of July is celebrated every year, just as we
do the 4th of July as Independence Day, because on that date in 1789
the Bastille prison was destroyed by an uprising of the people which
became the French Revolution. The Bastille was especially odious
because political prisoners were confined there, and it only took an
order from the police to send a man or woman to its dungeons. Its use
for this purpose was so flagrant and so despotic that the first fury
of the revolution was directed against its walls, and it was entirely
destroyed, and the jailers and soldiers defending it were killed.
The place is now a large square surrounded by business houses and
ornamented by a statue of Liberty on a column 150 feet high. From the
beginning to the end of this great boulevard with the many names,
are places made historic by great men and hard fights. Now it is a
peaceful, broad avenue, with shops and cafés and handsome buildings,
the promenade-ground for the Parisian and of tourists from all
countries.
Some French Ways
PARIS, August 20.
There are practically no athletic sports in France, none at all in and
around Paris. In America the men put in a lot of time talking baseball,
football, boating and such-like. In France the men talk only politics
or gossip. There are no lodges and no clubs in France. This ought to
be applauded by the women, but as a matter of fact they probably wish
the men would do a little something in that line. There is a secret
order or two, but they are not strong and not recognized by the orders
in other countries. Frenchmen do not seem to care for athletics of any
kind. The nearest approach to it is fencing, and the young Frenchman
learns to use the sword so he can fight duels. The popular Hero is not
a ball-player nor a prize-fighter, but a man who has invented something
new or who has run off with the wife of a friend. They are venturesome
and personally brave, but they can’t stand for team work. The attempt
has been made to introduce a mild form of football, but every man on
the team wanted to be the star. I suppose if the French should organize
a baseball club every one of them would insist on being pitcher. They
will go up in balloons or airships with dashing recklessness and are
brave enough, if that trait is not merely the absence of caution and
calculation. French aviators are numerous and successful, though the
fatalities are still many. They have shown themselves good fighters
but not good losers. They will quarrel over a trifle and then forgive
and kiss each other in a manner that makes an American seasick. They
are polite in a veneer, for they will lift their hats and make goo-goo
eyes at every pretty woman, and they will let an old woman stand up in
a street car. They are industrious, thrifty, temperate, and cheerful.
Just because they look at some things from a different viewpoint is no
reason why we should criticize them, and yet they are so different from
the neighbors that I can’t help mentioning a few things that are very
noticeable.
* * * * *
The French Government has a president, whose name few people know, and
a senate which has little power, and therefore the main factor is
the lower house. This kind of government is a mistake, for the large
legislative body rushes from one extreme to another; whenever its
majority changes, the cabinet resigns, and the result is inconstancy
and instability. Public sentiment is the controlling factor, and
it takes an acrobat to be a statesman in France. Sometimes the
flippety-flop is popular in America, but on the long run he loses. In
France he is succeeded by another just as good.
* * * * *
The French are great lovers of art, and in the Louvre they claim the
largest collection of pictures in the world. They looted Italy to get
them, but they have them. No living artist has a picture in the Louvre.
The fellows now on earth have to hang their pictures in the Salon or
the Luxembourg or some other gallery, a sort of artistic tryout, with
the judging done after they are no longer able to exert any personal
influence. I think modern art is as good as ancient art, or better,
except that every modern picture is not art. And I may add that in the
Paris Salon the pictures painted by the artists of today have just as
good color, better drawing and just as few clothes as the works of the
old masters in the Louvre. I get along right well with the old masters
until they paint Mary de Medici and Mary the mother of Christ sitting
and talking together, and then I want to go outside and say a few
things.
* * * * *
But while Paris is important in the world, politically, historically,
and artistically, its great distinction nowadays is in millinery and
dressmaking. The women go to Paris to shop, and the men go on account
of the women. The men of Paris are about the worst dressers in the
world. The women are the best. The Parisienne has the natural ability
to take a hat and stick a feather in it so the effect is brilliant. She
can wear a dress that costs much less than the gown of an English woman
or an American woman, and she can look stylish when the other women
have hard work to look decent. The American woman is second, and in a
few respects, like shoes and gloves, she can beat the French; but take
it all around, and the world removes its hat to the French milliner.
Of course the milliner is often a man, but he has to have his Parisian
model or he would fail. Let M. Worth or any of the other Monsieurs
who dictate styles in feminine attire go to London and he would be a
second-rater at once. This is true, whether you want to believe it or
not, and the doubter need only spend a few days on the Paris boulevards
to be convinced.
* * * * *
There may be some who think that the latest development in costumes,
the hobble skirt, has reached America. They are mistaken. No real
French hobble skirt could go down the street of an American city
without starting a riot. When one does get to the territory of the
Stars and Stripes the railroads will run excursion trains. The first
day or two in Paris I was nervous about this style of gown. When I saw
a saucy French lady in a dress which looked as if it was put on by a
glove-fitter, I felt that I ought to blush and look at the statuary. I
was told by the best feminine authority with me that in order to wear
one of those skirts it was necessary to discard any wearing apparel
which is usually beneath the female skirt. The poor, pretty things
would go along the street like boys in a sack-race trying to walk, and
by a slit up one side which was not buttoned for several feet from the
bottom, a little motion was secured. But when the lady crossed the
street, or when she climbed to the top of a bus or even stepped into
a cab, it was necessary in order that she maintain appearances that
there be not even a hole in her stocking above the knee. Of course I do
not speak from personal observation. Far be it from me to watch a lady
cross the street or climb into a vehicle. But I knew how it must be
from a careless study of the environment, and my theory was confirmed
by the evidence of all those who did not hide their eyes or observe
the scenery. And I will add that it is extremely difficult to keep the
blinders on while seeing the sights.
I only speak of these matters because they are much more in evidence in
Paris than are the Statue of Liberty, or the Column of Vendôme, or any
of the great places that the guide-books tell about.
* * * * *
The French are delightfully “natural” about many things. It is quite
the proper thing for a man and woman to hug and kiss each other in
public. At first this startled me and I felt that perhaps they were
excited. But no, it is just the proper way to manifest their feelings
at the time. Just imagine how it would be if the Frenchman across the
table from you put his arm around the lady next to him and she snuggled
up to him and patted his cheek with her unengaged hand. I felt like
getting right up and saying, “Excuse me. Am I intruding?” But I soon
learned that they didn’t mind us at all. Their idea of love is to let
go all holds and l-o-v-e. Their theory of matrimony is that it is
an arrangement based on family position, business and prospects. No
young woman can get a husband unless she has a dot, so much capital.
The parents arrange the matches, and usually do so carefully and
thoughtfully. The girl, who has not even been allowed to go to school
with the boys, has no idea of any other arrangement; and the man, who
has never thought of matrimony in another way, considers it a part of
his “career.”
A man in France cannot marry without the consent of his parents until
he is 25 and a woman not till she is 21. This law is strictly obeyed,
and there is no running off to some other state where the rule is
different. I suppose French marriages arranged in this apparently
cold-blooded manner by the parents turn out on the average as well as
they would if they let the young people rush in and “marry for love.”
But it doesn’t seem right to us, any more than our ways seem good to
them. Of course a Frenchman does not insist that his “sweetheart” shall
have a “dot,” so that kind of an arrangement is made by the parties
themselves. All of which seems very wrong to English and Americans; and
yet the French prove it is the best way by using the divorce figures,
for divorce is practically unknown in France. The French woman is the
business partner of her husband, and necessity makes them pull together
just as they were taught to do from their youth up. She doesn’t belong
to clubs any more than her husband does. She has a great deal of
liberty, and in fact is often the head of the firm.
In Dover Town
DOVER, ENGLAND, August 22.
One of the strange things in this old world is a boundary line. You
are on a railway in Germany, hearing no language but German. The train
crosses the imaginary line and you hear an entirely different language,
and if you try to use the words which were understood ten minutes
before, the people do not understand you. They are French, and they
not only speak a different language but they differ in custom, tastes
and looks. It would be just like a traveler from Hutchinson to Kansas
City being able to speak and understand what people said at Argentine,
but on arrival at the union depot in Kansas City finding a different
looking and different talking lot, who could not understand a word he
said. And arriving in the Kansas City depot neither understanding nor
being understood, would be something of an ordeal, especially if you
were trying to change trains and make a sharp connection. It is no
wonder that an ordinary Kansan traveling in this European land puts in
much of his time figuring out his route and a lot more doing it.
* * * * *
Of course it is a joy to arrive in England and be able to talk and
to understand everything that is said. Two hours after we left the
fish-smelly Boulogne I was quarreling in right fair English with a
railroad official because a train was late. In France we would have
had to stand around and look pleasant, for the official would not have
known whether we were cross about the train or the reciprocity treaty.
It often relieves your mind to tell a Frenchman or a German what you
think of him or his country in English, but it doesn’t cause him any
discomfort.
* * * * *
Dover is a most interesting town, with a castle, a harbor, a garrison,
and a history. It is the closest English port to France, and on a
clear day with good eyes and a vivid imagination you can see Calais
in France, 21 miles away. Ever since William the Conqueror came over
and did his conquering, the English have kept Dover fortified in such
a way that it would be difficult for another conqueror to follow his
example. The town lies along the shore and back into a small river
valley. The hills, about 300 feet high, begin at the water’s edge
and go up very rapidly. The biggest hill is on the east, and rises
straight up from the sea 375 feet. The face of the cliff is white, for
the rock formation is chalk, and, topped with green trees and a big
stone castle, makes a fine appearance from the water or from the beach.
There is not only this old castle, which is a fort with a regiment
of soldiers, but the cliff is mined and tunneled, and big cannon are
at the opening in the earth, ready to shoot the stuffing out of any
hostile fleet or army which comes this way. The only time the castle
was ever captured was when Cromwell worked some strategem and got it
away from the Royalists. After looking it all over I don’t see how
any army could possibly capture Dover castle so long as the defenders
stayed awake.
The Romans first built a fort here, and the remains of the old Roman
walls are still a small part of the present fortifications. The Saxons
built some, then the Normans, and after that various generations of
English,--so that the castle contains specimens of a lot of different
styles of architecture. On the whole it is one of the most imposing
castles in Europe, both by location and by construction.
This castle business is peculiar. Sometimes a little runt of a building
with a tower and a high fence is famous in history and story because of
a great fight, or a brilliant robber who lived there. To the tourist it
is a disappointment. I suppose every one gets his idea of what a castle
looks like from the reading done in his youth. When I was a boy I
thought a castle must be a good deal like the court-house at Cottonwood
Falls, which is 80 feet high, with a mansard roof and a jail with
barred windows in the rear. Then I got a larger idea, something like
the Reformatory at Hutchinson. And when I came to personally see these
ancient castles I have frequently had to back up to my early theories.
Now I am an expert in castles, and can talk of them without admitting
to myself it is all guess-work. When we started up the Rhine from Bonn
I occupied an unquestioned place as an authority, for I had been in
the great castle country before. But this time my trip was reversed.
To an admiring company of boat acquaintances I pointed out in the
distance a magnificent castle we were approaching. I started to tell
the legend of the castle, when it became apparent that the structure
was a cement plant. Then I was more careful, but soon located another,
a really splendid castle standing off a little from the river. I would
have gotten through all right if some smart aleck had not butted in
with the uncalled for information that the building was a brewery. But
that is what a real castle looks like, the Hutchinson Reformatory, a
cement plant, or a brewery, whichever comparison comes easiest for you
to understand.
* * * * *
Dover was one of the “Cinque Ports.” Five little towns along the coast
of the channel had a sort of organization which was given recognition
by the government under the early Norman kings. The towns were granted
privileges and relieved from burdens of taxation in consideration of
furnishing ships in time of war. The principal work of a navy at that
time was to capture merchant vessels, slug the crews and keep the
cargoes; so the towns prospered under the arrangement. It has been
only a couple of hundred years since there was a standing army or a
royal navy. When the king declared war he issued a call and the lords
and knights responded with their men, and the army was formed for the
campaign. If any of the nobles got sore on the king, they took their
troops and went home. A navy was raised in the same way, only by the
towns along the coast instead of by individuals. Such an army and navy
was not satisfactory, but the English parliament refused to furnish
money for a standing army until after the days of good Queen Anne,
about 200 years ago. Now the English army is not near as large as the
armies on the continent, but the English navy is kept twice the size
of any other navy in the world. Germany is the country that England
suspects as a possible enemy. Germany and France are crossways right
now over which shall get the most of Morocco, and England is bound
to stand by France in case of trouble. Morocco isn’t worth anything
to anybody, but it may cause a terrible war between the most highly
civilized nations of Europe. And yet some people are opposed to
arbitration because of “national honor.” The opponents of arbitration
ought to come over to these poor countries laboring under the weight of
big armies and navies, and see how people are suffering because of the
foolish feudal notion that the way to decide which is right is to fight
it out.
* * * * *
We ate our lunch today in a restaurant which proudly boasts that its
steps were the place where David Copperfield rested during his search
for his aunt, Betsey Trotwood. Little Dorrit lived at Dover, and the
men and women of Dickens land often visited or made their homes in
this quaint old seaport or in its vicinity. Shut your eyes to the big
cliff and its imposing fortress, forget the harbor with its ships and
men of war, quit observing the narrow streets and crooked lanes which
run up and down the side of the hill, and live with the people that
Dickens made so real that to most of us they surely existed. That is
Dover, a different Dover from the red-coated, fish-smelling, quaintly
architectured place in which people are buying and selling, and a Dover
which will live as long as the English language is read.
Old Canterbury Today
CANTERBURY, ENGLAND, August 24.