THE TOWN
The English-speaking traveller finds Versailles vastly more foreign than
the Antipodes. He may voyage for many weeks, and at each distant
stopping-place find his own tongue spoken around him, and his
conventions governing society. But let him leave London one night, cross
the Channel at its narrowest--and most turbulent--and sunrise will find
him an alien in a land whose denizens differ from him in language,
temperament, dress, food, manners, and customs.
Of a former visit to Versailles we had retained little more than the
usual tourist's recollection of a hurried run through a palace of
fatiguing magnificence, a confusing peep at the Trianons, a glance
around the gorgeous state equipages, an unsatisfactory meal at one of
the open-air _cafés_, and a scamper back to Paris. But our winter
residence in the quaint old town revealed to us the existence of a life
that is all its own--a life widely variant, in its calm repose, from the
bustle and gaiety of the capital, but one that is replete with charm,
and abounding in picturesque-interest.
[Illustration: Automoblesse Oblige]
Versailles is not ancient; it is old, completely old. Since the fall of
the Second Empire it has stood still. Most of the clocks have run down,
as though they realised the futility of trying to keep pace with the
rest of the world. The future merges into the present, the present fades
into the past, and still the clocks of Versailles point to the same long
eventide.
[Illustration: Sable Garb]
The proximity of Paris is evinced only by the vividly tinted automobiles
that make Versailles their goal. Even they rarely tarry in the old town,
but, turning at the Château gates, lose no time in retracing their
impetuous flight towards a city whose usages accord better with their
creed of feverish hurry-scurry than do the conventions of reposeful
Versailles. And these fiery chariots of modernity, with their ghoulish,
fur-garbed, and hideously spectacled occupants, once their raucous,
cigale-like birr-r-r has died away in the distance, leave infinitely
less impression on the placid life of Versailles than do their wheels on
the roads they traverse. Under the grand trees of the wide avenues the
townsfolk move quietly about, busying themselves with their own affairs
and practising their little economies as they have been doing any time
during the last century.
Perhaps it was the emphatic and demonstrative nature of the mourning
worn that gave us the idea that the better-class female population of
Versailles consisted chiefly of widows. When walking abroad we seemed
incessantly to encounter widows: widows young and old, from the aged to
the absurdly immature. It was only after a period of bewilderment that
it dawned upon us that the sepulchral garb and heavy crape veils
reaching from head to heel were not necessarily the emblems of
widowhood, but might signify some state of minor bereavement. In Britain
a display of black such as is an everyday sight at Versailles is
undreamt of, and one saw more crape veils in a day in Versailles than in
London in a week. Little girls, though their legs might be uncovered,
had their chubby features shrouded in disfiguring gauze and to our
unaccustomed foreign eyes a genuine widow represented nothing more
shapely than a more or less stubby pillar festooned with crape.
But for an inborn conviction that a frugal race like the French would
not invest in a plethora of mourning garb only to cast it aside after a
few months' wear, and that therefore the period of wearing the willow
must be greatly protracted, we would have been haunted by the idea that
the adult male mortality of Versailles was enormous.
"Do they wear such deep mourning for all relatives?" I asked our hotel
proprietor, who had just told us that during the first month of mourning
the disguising veils were worn over the faces.
Monsieur shook his sleek head gravely, "But no, Madame, not for all. For
a husband, yes; for a father or mother, yes; for a sister or brother, an
uncle or aunt, yes; but for a cousin, _no_."
He pronounced the _no_ so emphatically as almost to convince us of his
belief that in refusing to mourn in the most lugubrious degree for
cousins the Versaillese acted with praiseworthy self-denial.
There seemed to be no medium between sackcloth and gala-dress. We seldom
noted the customary degrees of half-mourning. Plain colours were
evidently unpopular and fancy tartans of the most flamboyant hues
predominated amongst those who, during a spell of, say, three years had
been fortunate enough not to lose a parent, sister, brother, uncle, or
aunt. A perfectly natural reaction appeared to urge the _ci-devant_
mourners to robe themselves in lively checks and tartans. It was as
though they said--"Here at last is our opportunity for gratifying our
natural taste in colours. It will probably be of but short duration.
Therefore let us select a combination of all the most brilliant tints
and wear them, for who knows how soon that gruesome pall of woe may
again enshroud us."
Probably it was the vicinity of our hotel to the Church of Notre Dame
that, until we discovered its brighter side, led us to esteem Versailles
a veritable city of the dead, for on our bi-daily walks to visit the
invalids we were almost certain to encounter a funeral procession either
approaching or leaving Notre Dame. And on but rare occasions was the
great central door undraped with the sepulchral insignia which
proclaimed that a Mass for the dead was in prospect or in progress.
Sometimes the sable valance and portières were heavily trimmed and
fringed with silver; at others there was only the scantiest display of
time-worn black cloth.
[Illustration: A Football Team]
The humblest funeral was affecting and impressive. As the sad little
procession moved along the streets--the wayfarers reverently uncovering
and soldiers saluting as it passed--the dirge-like chant of the
_Miserere_ never failed to fill my eyes with unbidden tears of sympathy
for the mourners, who, with bowed heads, walked behind the wreath-laden
hearse.
Despite the abundant emblems of woe, Versailles can never appear other
than bright and attractive. Even in mid-winter the skies were clear, and
on the shortest days the sun seldom forgot to cast a warm glow over the
gay, white-painted houses. And though the women's dress tends towards
depression, the brilliant military uniforms make amends. There are
12,000 soldiers stationed in Versailles; and where a fifth of the
population is gorgeous in scarlet and blue and gold, no town can be
accused of lacking colour.
Next to the redundant manifestations of grief, the thing that most
impressed us was the rigid economy practised in even the smallest
details of expenditure. Among the lower classes there is none of that
aping of fashion so prevalent in prodigal England; the different social
grades have each a distinctive dress and are content to wear it. Among
the men, blouses of stout blue cotton and sabots are common. Sometimes
velveteen trousers, whose original tint years of wear have toned to some
exquisite shade of heliotrope, and a russet coat worn with a fur cap and
red neckerchief, compose an effect that for harmonious colouring would
be hard to beat. The female of his species, as is the case in all
natural animals, is content to be less adorned. Her skirt is black, her
apron blue. While she is young, her neatly dressed hair, even in the
coldest weather, is guiltless of covering. As her years increase she
takes her choice of three head-dresses, and to shelter her grey locks
selects either a black knitted hood, a checked cotton handkerchief, or a
white cap of ridiculously unbecoming design.
No French workaday father need fear that his earnings will be squandered
on such perishable adornments as feathers, artificial flowers, or
ribbons. The purchases of his spouse are certain to be governed by
extreme frugality. She selects the family raiment with a view to
durability. Flimsy finery that the sun would fade, shoddy materials that
a shower of rain would ruin, offer no temptations to her. When she
expends a few _sous_ on the cutting of her boy's hair, she has it
cropped until his cranium resembles the soft, furry skin of a mole, thus
rendering further outlay in this respect unlikely for months. And when
she buys a flannel shirt, a six-inch strip of the stuff, for future
mending, is always included in the price.
But with all this economy there is an air of comfort, a complete absence
of squalor. In cold weather the school-girls wear snug hoods, or little
fur turbans; and boys have the picturesque and almost indestructible
bérets of cloth or corduroy. Cloth boots that will conveniently slip
inside sabots for outdoor use are greatly in vogue, and the comfortable
Capuchin cloaks--whose peaked hood can be drawn over the head, thus
obviating the use of umbrellas--are favoured by both sexes and all ages.
[Illustration: Mistress and Maid]
As may be imagined, little is spent on luxuries. Vendors of frivolities
know better than to waste time tempting those provident people. On one
occasion only did I see money parted with lightly, and in that case the
bargain appeared astounding. One Sunday morning an enterprising huckster
of gimcrack jewellery, venturing out from Paris, had set down his strong
box on the verge of the market square, and, displaying to the admiring
eyes of the country folks, ladies' and gentlemen's watches with chains
complete, in the most dazzling of aureate metal, sold them at six sous
apiece as quickly as he could hand them out.
Living is comparatively cheap in Versailles; though, as in all places
where the cost of existence is low, it must be hard to earn a livelihood
there. By far the larger proportion of the community reside in flats,
which can be rented at sums that rise in accordance with the
accommodation but are in all cases moderate. Housekeeping in a flat,
should the owner so will it, is ever conducive to economy, and life in a
French provincial town is simple and unconventional.
[Illustration: Sage and Onions]
Bread, wine, and vegetables, the staple foods of the nation, are good
and inexpensive. For 40 centimes one may purchase a bottle of _vin de
gard_, a thin tipple, doubtless; but what kind of claret could one buy
for fourpence a quart at home? _Graves_ I have seen priced at 50
centimes, _Barsac_ at 60, and _eau de vie_ is plentiful at 1 franc 20!
Fish are scarce, and beef is supposed to be dear; but when butter, eggs,
and cheese bulk so largely in the diet, the half chicken, the scrap of
tripe, the slice of garlic sausage, the tiny cut of beef for the
_ragout_, cannot be heavy items. Everything eatable is utilised, and
many weird edibles are sold; for the French can contrive tasty dishes
out of what in Britain would be thrown aside as offal.
On three mornings a week--Sunday, Tuesday, and Friday--the presence of
the open-air market rouses Versailles from her dormouse-like slumber and
galvanises her into a state of activity that lasts for several hours.
Long before dawn, the roads leading townwards are busy with all manner
of vehicles, from the great waggon drawn by four white horses driven
tandem, and laden with a moving stack of hay, to the ramshackle
donkey-cart conveying half a score of cabbages, a heap of dandelions
grubbed from the meadows, and the owner.
[Illustration: Marketing]
By daybreak the market square under the leafless trees presents a lively
scene. There are stalls sacred to poultry, to butter, eggs, and cheese;
but the vegetable kingdom predominates. Flanked by bulwarks of greens
and bundles of leeks of incredible whiteness and thickness of stem, sit
the saleswomen, their heads swathed in gay cotton kerchiefs, and the
ground before them temptingly spread with little heaps of corn salad, of
chicory, and of yellow endive placed in adorable contrast to the scarlet
carrots, blood-red beetroot, pinky-fawn onions, and glorious orange-hued
pumpkins; while ready to hand are measures of white or mottled haricot
beans, of miniature Brussels sprouts, and of pink or yellow potatoes, an
esculent that in France occupies a very unimportant place compared with
that it holds amongst the lower classes in Britain.
[Illustration: Private Boxes]
In Versailles Madame does her own marketing, her maid--in sabots and
neat but usually hideous cap--accompanying her, basket laden. From stall
to stall Madame passes, buying a roll of creamy butter wrapped in fresh
leaves here, a fowl there, some eggs from the wrinkled old dame who
looks so swart and witch-like in contrast to her stock of milk-white
eggs.
Madame makes her purchases judiciously--time is not a valuable commodity
in Versailles--and finishes, when the huge black basket is getting heavy
even for the strong arms of the squat little maid, by buying a mess of
cooked spinach from the pretty girl whose red hood makes a happy spot of
colour among the surrounding greenery, and a measure of onions from the
profound-looking sage who garners a winter livelihood from the summer
produce of his fields.
[Illustration: A Foraging Party]
Relations with uncooked food are, in Versailles, distinguished by an
unwonted intimacy. No one, however dignified his station or appearance,
is ashamed of purchasing the materials for his dinner in the open
market, or of carrying them home exposed to the view of the world
through the transpicuous meshes of a string bag. The portly gentleman
with the fur coat and waxed moustaches, who looks a general at least,
and is probably a tram-car conductor, bears his bunch of turnips with an
air that dignifies the office, just as the young sub-lieutenant in the
light blue cloak and red cap and trousers carries his mother's apples
and lettuces without a thought of shame. And it is easy to guess the
nature of the _déjeûner_ of this _simple soldat_ from the long loaf, the
bottle of _vin ordinaire_, and the onions that form the contents of his
net. In the street it was a common occurrence to encounter some
non-commissioned officer who, entrusted with the catering for his mess,
did his marketing accompanied by two underlings, who bore between them
the great open basket destined to hold his purchases.
[Illustration: A Thriving Merchant]
A picturesque appearance among the hucksters of the market square is the
_boîte de carton_ seller. Blue-bloused, with his stock of lavender or
brown bandboxes strapped in a cardboard Tower of Pisa on his back, he
parades along, his wares finding ready sale; for his visits are
infrequent, and if one does not purchase at the moment, as does Madame,
the opportunity is gone.
The spirit of camaraderie is strong amongst the good folks of the
market. One morning the Artist had paused a moment to make a rough
sketch of a plump, affable man who, shadowed by the green cotton awning
of his stall, was selling segments of round flat cheeses of goat's milk;
vile-smelling compounds that, judged from their outer coating of
withered leaves, straw, and dirt, would appear to have been made in a
stable and dried on a rubbish heap. The subject of the jotting, busy
with his customers, was all unconscious; but an old crone who sat, her
feet resting on a tiny charcoal stove, amidst a circle of decadent
greens, detecting the Artist's action, became excited, and after eyeing
him uneasily for a moment, confided her suspicions as to his ulterior
motive to a round-faced young countryman who retailed flowers close by.
He, recognising us as customers--even then we were laden with his
violets and mimosa--merely smiled at her concern. But his apathy only
served to heighten Madame's agitation. She was unwilling to leave her
snug seat yet felt that her imperative duty lay in acquainting Monsieur
du Fromage with the inexplicable behaviour of the inquisitive foreigner.
But the nefarious deed was already accomplished, and as we moved away
our last glimpse was of the little stove standing deserted, while Madame
hastened across the street in her clattering sabots to warn her friend.
The bustle of the market is soon ended. By ten o'clock the piles of
vegetables are sensibly diminished. By half-past ten the white-capped
maid-servants have carried the heavy baskets home, and are busy
preparing lunch. At eleven o'clock the sharp boy whose stock-in-trade
consisted of three trays of snails stuffed _à la_ Bourgogne has sold all
the large ones at 45 centimes a dozen, all the small at 25, and quite
two-thirds of the medium-sized at 35 centimes.
The clock points to eleven. The sun is high now. The vendors awaken to
the consciousness of hunger, and Madame of the _pommes frites_ stall,
whose assistant dexterously cuts the peeled tubers into strips, is fully
occupied in draining the crisp golden shreds from the boiling fat and
handing them over, well sprinkled with salt and pepper, to avid
customers, who devour them smoking hot, direct from their paper
cornucopias.
Long before the first gloom of the early mid-winter dusk, all has been
cleared away. The rickety stalls have been demolished; the unsold
remainder of the goods disposed of; the worthy country folks, their
pockets heavy with _sous_, are well on their journey homewards, and only
a litter of straw, of cabbage leaves and leek tops remains as evidence
of the lively market of the morning.
[Illustration: Chestnuts in the Avenue]