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Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..08eae9b --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #68469 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/68469) diff --git a/old/68469-0.txt b/old/68469-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 2dabef4..0000000 --- a/old/68469-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7345 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of French life in town and country, by -Hannah Lynch - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: French life in town and country - -Author: Hannah Lynch - -Editor: William Harbutt Dawson - -Release Date: July 7, 2022 [eBook #68469] - -Language: English - -Produced by: ellinora and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian - Libraries) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRENCH LIFE IN TOWN AND -COUNTRY *** - - - - - - -OUR EUROPEAN NEIGHBOURS - - -Edited by WILLIAM HARBUTT DAWSON. 12ᵒ. Illustrated. Each, net $1.20. By -mail, $1.30 - - _NOW READY_ - - =French Life in Town and Country.= BY HANNAH LYNCH. - - =German Life in Town and Country.= BY W. H. DAWSON, author of - “Germany and the Germans,” etc. - - =Russian Life in Town and Country.= By FRANCIS H. E. PALMER, - sometime Secretary to H. M. Prince Droutskop-Loubetsky (Equerry - to H. M. the Emperor of Russia). - - =Dutch Life in Town and Country.= By P. M. HOUGH. - - =Swiss Life in Town and Country.= By ALFRED T. STORY. - - _IN PREPARATION_ - - =Spanish Life in Town and Country.= By L. HIGGIN. - - =Italian Life in Town and Country.= By LUIGI VILLARI. - - G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS, NEW YORK AND LONDON - - - - - OUR EUROPEAN - NEIGHBOURS - - EDITED BY - WILLIAM HARBUTT DAWSON - - FRENCH LIFE IN TOWN AND - COUNTRY - - - - -[Illustration: THE PEASANT AT HOME—THE CANDIDATE - -_Michelena_] - - - - - FRENCH LIFE - IN TOWN AND - COUNTRY - - BY HANNAH LYNCH - - ILLUSTRATED - - G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS - NEW YORK AND LONDON - The Knickerbocker Press - 1902 - - COPYRIGHT, 1901 - BY - G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS - - Set up and electrotyped March, 1901 - Reprinted August, 1901; January, 1902 - - The Knickerbocker Press, New York - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - CHAPTER I - - FRENCH RURAL AND PROVINCIAL LIFE 1 - - CHAPTER II - - PARIS AND PARISIANISM 28 - - CHAPTER III - - SOCIAL DIVERSIONS AND DISTINCTIONS 58 - - CHAPTER IV - - THE ARMY AND THE NATION 87 - - CHAPTER V - - SECULAR AND RELIGIOUS EDUCATION 112 - - CHAPTER VI - - NATIONAL INSTITUTIONS 147 - - CHAPTER VII - - HOME-LIFE IN FRANCE 173 - - CHAPTER VIII - - PEASANT AND ARTISAN 202 - - CHAPTER IX - - THE PRESS AND THE PEOPLE’S COLLEGES 229 - - CHAPTER X - - THE PARISIAN LECTURE AND SALON 250 - - CHAPTER XI - - THE “LITTLE PEOPLE” OF PARIS 264 - - CHAPTER XII - - ORGANISED PHILANTHROPY AND PUBLIC ASSISTANCE 283 - - INDEX 307 - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -ILLUSTRATIONS - - - PAGE - - THE PEASANT AT HOME—THE CANDIDATE _Frontispiece_ - _Michelena._ - - BLESSING THE WHEAT 16 - _J. A. Breton._ - - THE PARDON OF SAINT ANNE (BRITTANY) 42 - _Guillou._ - - A REVIEW AT LONGCHAMP 88 - - CONSECRATED BREAD 114 - _Dagnan-Bouveret._ - - THE REFECTORY 120 - _A. Bouvin._ - - THE CHAMBER OF DEPUTIES 130 - - THE FRENCH ACADEMY 148 - - THE FOYER OF THE OPERA-HOUSE 170 - - A SEASIDE SERVICE 190 - _Edelfelt._ - - AN OUTDOOR MEAL 206 - _Zimenez._ - - GLEANERS 262 - _J. A. Breton._ - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -FRENCH LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY - - - - -CHAPTER I - -FRENCH RURAL AND PROVINCIAL LIFE - - -Among the nations of the earth there exists no more striking contrast -than that between the people of Paris and the people of France. While -the capital is a political furnace, where all sorts of conflicting ideas -and opinions are continually boiling with such a rage of effervescence -that the inhabitants, unaccustomed to the sense of calm and security, -work, dance, and rest on the brink of an ever-menacing revolution; in -the provinces town life drags through its monotonous days, absorbed in -dull provincial interests, and rural life knows no other changes or -menaces than those of the seasons. We distribute to each race certain -broad characteristics, and trace out for them in all circumstances -an ideal of conduct from which, if they will be true to their blood, -they must not deviate. And so we are all decided upon the general -French characteristic, excitability, forgetting the immense provincial -differences that are to be found in the people of France as well as -elsewhere. The heavy Flemish natives of Picardy, large eaters, deep -drinkers, hard workers, slow of speech, somewhat coarse and unperverted, -are as French as the natives of Latin Provence, garrulous, sober, alert, -and exuberant. They are not less French than the wily, hard-bargaining -Norman, who eats and drinks as much, but brings a clearer brain into -business, and may always be relied upon to get the better of his -neighbour in all transactions; or the dreamy Celt of the Breton coast, -the thriftless slave of superstition, with brains to spare as well as -prejudices, but not intended by nature as a pillar of the Temple of -Wisdom. Not less French the rich green midlands than the white and -sunburnt south, the champagne vineyards eastward, and the rocky Cévennes -rolling southward. Could anybody differ, more from the morose and -inhospitable Lyonese, in whose eyes every outsider is the enemy against -whom he sedulously barricades his doors, in whose esteem the pick of -humanity is the prosperous silk-merchant, than the pushing, loud-mannered -Marseillais, with what he would fain have us take for his heart so -aggressively upon his sleeve, emotion so transparently transient ever on -the surface, subtly disguising self-interest and calculation? - -For every diversity of character equal diversity of scenery—from the -Alpine grandeur of the Dauphiny land to the beautiful lagoons of the -Marais; the Vendean plain washed by the long blue roll of the Atlantic; -Provence, land of salt lagoons and dead old cities of Greece and Rome; -the central provinces, with their lovely rivers and chestnut woods; -Celtic Brittany, half English; Normandy, with its glorious capital, one -of the fairest of France; the radiant cities of the Loire, French river -of romance; the bright and witching little kingdom of Béarn, exquisite -Roussillon, with its old hum of wars and troubadour songs, its delicate -sweetness of herb and leaf and bloom, its quaint old towns breathing -of Spain, and its high air of legend; the east, with its mountains and -dense pine forests, up to sunnier Ardennes. And the _patois_ of these so -different districts are not less distinct than the scenery, the note of -town and province, and the characteristics of each race. Shelley most -seriously wrote that there was nothing worth seeing in France. Even the -tourist will find more to delight his eye in going from one department -to another than he will find place to record in the most voluminous -note-book. Let him only content himself with such a province as Touraine, -with its rich and pleasant landscape, its castles of undying interest, -its river of thrilling associations. Or let him wander in summer amid the -cherry orchards of the Jura country, with the rampart of mountains above -the pine-tops and the touch of Swiss beauty around; or dream away the -present in musing upon forgotten Mediterranean glories among the ruins of -dead Provençal cities between the grey-green silver of the olive and the -sapphire waters beyond the broad grey river bends. - -It is true that the townsman all over the land is largely governed by -a need for excitement, and having, as a rule, no personal initiative -to enable him to minister to it, he contents himself with looking -toward the capital with envy, and devours the newspapers from Paris in -eager expectation of the “something” he is in daily hope of happening. -But whatever does happen in Paris rarely makes itself felt in the -intellectually sleepy, industrious provinces; thanks to which wide-spread -spirit of commercial and bucolic denseness to the inflammatory influences -of the capital, France thrives now as she throve before the war, when at -a word she could produce funds to pay off an enormous indemnity, without -flinching or hesitating. - -When you travel in the country or through small French towns, you are -struck with the gaiety, intelligence, and good-will of the people and -of the little shopkeepers, and with a certain unintelligent stiffness, -pretension, and moroseness of the middle class, whose ambition it is to -pass for the aristocracy, or at least for _des gens de bonne famille_. -As these pretensions are rarely in keeping with their actual fortunes, -these ambitious provincials, the victims of the political follies born -of hostility to the Third Republic, think fit to garb themselves in -the unbecoming vices of ill-humour, rancour, and idle pride. These -they conceive to be the adjuncts of noble birth. If the fathers have -refrained, the sons are certain to announce themselves, sooner or later, -by titles of their own choosing. The general preference runs to count and -viscount, though baron is not despised. I have known of a respectable -middle-class family in the provinces, where the eldest son, a lawyer, -is content to remain a republican, and the second son, an officer, a -gentleman of aristocratic instincts, eager to profit by the present -enthusiasm for the army in anti-governmental circles, calls himself a -count. The humorous part of the situation lies in the fact that the wife -of the plain Monsieur is not satisfied with her lot, since destiny, ruled -by her brother-in-law’s will, has given the latter a title; and so at the -recent marriage of that military worthy, the newspapers spoke of M. le -Comte giving his arm to his sister-in-law, Madame la Comtesse, while the -disgusted republican elder brother stayed in the country, indifferent to -the self-appointed glories of his relatives. - -Within late years, tennis parties are beginning to introduce a little -stir in certain select circles of small provincial towns, where these -entertainments are still regarded as novel; but, speaking generally, -the dulness of such centres in France cannot be surpassed anywhere. -Social life is at as low a level as intellectual life. Few books are -read, fewer still are discussed. The very aspect of the streets—with -their sealed doors, shut persiennes, sullen absence of neighbourly trust -and geniality, high-walled gardens—is morose and incommunicative. They -wear, however, as compensation, a look of distinction, not infrequently -accompanied by a picturesque charm. Should a river roll in view, or a -little street slope down to a busy quay, where the washerwomen kneel and -lend mirth and colour to the scene, while above, an old historic castle, -high against the sky, on a dusty square, or the grey of Gothic stone -and delicate spire add a hieratic note to the quaint picture you forget -the unfriendly reserve of those barred and blinded houses, you forget -the somewhat aggressive coldness and inhospitality of their front, in -recognition of the tempered brilliance, the graceful and distinguished -effects around you. Mingle then with the market-folk, and listen to -their speech—pleasant vocables, rendered pleasanter still by vivacity of -gesture and vividness of gaze; neat peasant women, in spotless caps and -sabots, who look all the merrier because they are so hard-worked; tanned, -wrinkled faces, that smile as they did in youth, hard-set, but not -unkindly, in the rapacity of commerce; responsive to a joke, unflinching -in the teeth of trouble, not destitute of a promise of comfort in life’s -softer hours—though softness is the very last quality they betray. A -genial hardness is, perhaps, the dominating character of the French -peasant woman’s expression: it would never be safe to trust in the hope -of finding her head napping and her heart too wide awake. But if she is -not soft to others, she is implacably hard to herself. Her industry is -amazing, and only less amazing is her resourcefulness. A more competent -woman does not exist anywhere. Nothing of a dreamer, she is contented -with her lot, provided only there is neither thriftlessness, waste, nor -idleness about her. She will willingly work for four, if the men will -honestly work for one. And while the men loiter and squander substance -and health in the wineshops, this gallant creature continues to labour -and save and scold, to deprive herself of small comforts in favour of -others—a son, a daughter, as the case may be; and, thanks to her, the -country ever prospers. - -Country life is, of course, far less dull than provincial town life; less -unneighbourly, and less destitute of all the charities of existence. -For one thing, nature is the eternal friend, benefactor, and instructor -of man. The thousand vulgarities of towns are forgotten in the midst of -her bounties. A man who lives in bucolic silence, watching the seasons -and counting new-born things, dreaming of oats, of crops, of fruit, -is essentially the superior of his fellows who dwell amid the sordid -details of small towns, commerce, and rivalries, the gossip and drivel -which make a spurious animation in the circles of the provinces. There -are diversities among the type _hobereau_ (a kind of French squire), as -among all other types in France and elsewhere. Many years ago I travelled -through a charming south-western province, furnished amply with letters -of introduction. I well remember the extraordinary contrast between two -families of _hobereaux_ I once visited. A relative of the small squire, -who lived in a dull, quaint little town, drove me out to see her bucolic -son-in-law and his bucolic parents. The family was described to me as -“exceedingly rich.” We entered a brilliant bit of park and avenue on -a hot afternoon in July, drenched with the dews of heat, athirst from -the dust of the broad, long white road. On the _perron_ stood the young -couple and their parents to receive us. The bride was gaudily and -hideously attired in yellow and brown satin and silk; the groom in grey, -with straw hat and leggings, more appropriately adorned the landscape. -He was a heavy-eyed, high-complexioned, silent youth, who seemed at -ease and happy only in the society of his most beautiful dogs. To them -alone did he sometimes discourse in heavy undertones, while he surveyed -me furtively under his lashes in unmistakable awe, but addressed me no -word. His father-in-law looked like a farmer or a yeoman, and cracked -small jokes. He quizzed his son, who blushed the hues of fire, and his -son’s mother-in-law, who ingeniously strove to make me believe that she -did not understand him, and he nudged his daughter-in-law in a way she -must have resented. Without exaggeration, I have never met a more peasant -type of country gentleman in my life. His wife was a simple, ill-mannered -person, who talked chiefly about the weather. The grounds were lovely, -the orchard a splendid dream, but the floors of the “château,” as every -country-house in France is pretentiously called, were mere unvarnished -planks; not a rug anywhere, not a hint of beeswax, and even the -drawing-room was disfigured with ugly presses. When liquid refreshment -was called for—chartreuse and iced water—we were served in coarse -glasses, and the iced water was brought in in a kitchen jug. There -was not even a flower in a vase, not a pretty window curtain, and the -drawing-room chairs were of horsehair. Whatever occult advantages their -wealth may have procured them, it cannot be said that beauty, comfort, -the joy of living, were amongst them, for a more undecorated interior and -duller persons I have never met, and yet, with so much comfortlessness, -there was not a touch of vulgarity. The squireen was a rough son of the -soil, but you accepted him as the animals of the field; you felt he -belonged to the land, and, as such, claimed indulgence. You would not -elect to pass your days in his society, any more than you would care to -have a bear prancing about your drawing-room, but you instinctively felt -his superiority to the town fop, who thinks himself a very fine fellow, -with a little tailoring and a vast amount of pretension. - -The second _hobereau_ dwelt in the same department, but I visited him -with very different results. I was invited to lunch, and my host drove me -seven miles in a pony-cart. Here, also, were an imposing park and avenue, -and an immense manor, which seemed all windows. There was among the -guests a magistrate from Poictiers, who was witty as only a Frenchman can -be witty. Our host was a charming, bright-eyed, lean little old man, full -of vivacity, of charm, and intellectual alertness. He was voluble, and -avid for information, and walked me up and down a delightful _berceau_ to -obtain my views of the woman’s question and the relative positions of the -young French and English girl. He even pressed me to contrast the French -and English novel, and said he greatly preferred Scott to Zola—an opinion -I endorsed with fervour. People drove over from neighbouring places, -and we were quite a large party at lunch. The talk was capital—local, -but interesting; no cheap gossip, but plenty of genial wit, anecdote, -and repartee. The women were dowdily dressed, as provincial Frenchwomen -frequently are. I judged them as dense, impervious to ideas, utterly -uncultivated, never, in all probability, having read anything except the -thin religious literature on which the virtuous ladies of France nourish -their minds; but they could well hold their own in conversation, could -cap a phrase with elegant neatness, and the hostess deserved well of her -kind for the evidence she furnished of a perfectly ordered household. -It would, however, be a mistake to credit them with grace because they -are Frenchwomen. Nothing comes with such a shock upon the traveller in -France, used to the feminine grace and charm and witchery of dress in -Paris, as the dowdiness and want of ease, the total lack of taste in -dress, the heavy figures and unexpressive faces of many of the women -of the provinces. They dress shabbily, will even wear cotton gloves -and badly cut boots when they consider themselves extremely exclusive, -and carry off these defects of costume with a singular and unmistakable -air of distinction. The commoner kind prefer to shine in fashions and -colours unfamiliar to the eye of Paris; and, as a rule, look clumsy and -obtrusive in their fine feathers. The same applies to the men. These, -when they prefer to be shabby and roughly arrayed, look far better than -the pretentious gallants who, by means of obvious tailoring, offer -destruction to the susceptible dames around them. There can be no doubt -that an elegant male costume is out of place and a vulgar blot along a -sleepy little street where men in blouses pass and bonneted girls and -women wheel barrows before them. - -The farmer’s life has undoubtedly a larger share of natural interests -than that of the _hobereau_. It is more purely animal, without any -attachments to a world unconnected with the land. Ask a farmer what he -thinks of politics, and he will tell you that he has nothing on earth to -do with idiots or tricksters. He who must warily watch the humours of -the seasons cannot trouble himself with the humours of electors and the -ravings of voluble deputies. He walks his dew-washed meadows at dawn in -wide-leafed felt; and, as he surveys the produce of his labour, his long -hours of sweating travail, can he feel other than contempt of the highly -remunerative and windy profession of the politician? The superiority -of the lord of the soil to whom he pays tribute, he will readily -acknowledge, but none other. In the west he will speak of his family -as “my sons and the creatures,” meaning his daughters. In the land of -the Cévennes, his children are _les drôles_, and the same unquestioning -obedience is expected from both sexes by this rough and silent tyrant -of the soil. Outside his farm he has little esteem to waste upon his -fellows; within, is far from prodigal of tenderness to his women-folk. -These he expects to stand at meals in a corner of the kitchen, while he -and his sons sit to eat. He governs haughtily, with few words; but in his -rude heart he knows that the real, the silent, and unobtrusive government -lies in the hands of his wife, who, with the tact and watchfulness of -affection, corrects the errors of his harsh temper, and smooths out the -asperities of home-life. It would be difficult to find a people to whom -modern feminism is more repugnant than the French, and hard to name one -that owes more to the intelligence, good-will, and incessant labour of -women. Frenchmen object to women in the liberal professions, and make a -desperate hue and cry the day a talented lady seeks leave to wear the -lawyer’s toque and gown. Yet the fields are tended by women; flags are -waved at railway gates by them; in the lower ranks they bravely do all -the rougher work of men, and nobody lifts a voice in protest. Woman may -leave her home to make money in the humbler walks of labour, and cause -no flutter in male bosoms; but let her elect to do so in paths where -ambition lures and pay is higher, and instantly a howl of dismay runs -through the ranks of her oppressors and slaves. And yet, if common sense -and logic were general instead of rare virtues, even in France, it would -be understood that the abandonment of the homes by peasant women is of -much more serious consequence to a nation than the infrequent flight into -legal and medical circles. The woman lawyer will always be the exception, -and if she makes a good thing of her venture nobody is a penny the worse. -But examine the home where the wife and mother spends her day in a -factory, in the field, whose occupation requires no talent or ambition, -and their physical and moral effects are of a very different nature from -those that follow the winning of diplomas. The woman works as hard and -as long as her husband, and is paid less. They return home to a cold -hearth, an uncooked dinner. The man, never an angel where his stomach -is concerned, swears and threatens, then sulks and goes off to the -wine-shop. There is no compensation for the missing comfort in the few -miserable francs earned. No women are more admirably adapted for making -the home happy than Frenchwomen. Their general competence is matched only -by their industry; and it is a pity to see these fine domestic qualities -wasted on outdoor work. Of course, in the case of widows nothing can be -said. When the bread-winner is taken away, the woman must perforce shut -the house door, and go abroad in quest of the right to live. Girls are -in their proper sphere, too, in working manfully on their father’s farm -until their marriage, and fatherless girls, without that most useful of -national institutions, the _dot_, must needs find bread wherever they -can. But the outside labour of the wife and mother can never be too -deeply deplored, above all in the case of the best of wives or mothers, -such as Frenchwomen, taking them as an average, usually are. - -[Illustration: BLESSING THE WHEAT - -_J. A. Breton_] - -Connected with rural and provincial life are some quaint and pretty -religious ceremonies. I need not refer to the _Fête-Dieu_, familiar -to all travellers in Catholic countries. The sight of this well-known -procession will please or repel you according as it appeals to your -head or your imagination. But a far more picturesque procession, and -one containing an element of poetry not at all discoverable in the -_Fête-Dieu_, is the blessing of the fields and orchards between dawn and -sunrise. What a novel and peaceful treat I used to find this ceremony in -my far-off French schooldays, whereas the Corpus Christi procession was -but a scorching misery! To rise in the blue crepuscular light, with the -early birds just stirring in their nests and heard behind the unshuttered -windows, and emerge from the deep convent porch into the dew-washed -country, following and followed by all the town, walking in two long -lines, widely apart, behind the priests in their stoles and surplices, -and chanting solemn Latin hymns! It was a rich Norman land we wandered -along, now by glittering rills, with the smell of violets in the air, by -narrow green paths through the newly ploughed earth, while the mounting -sun cast joy into our faces, warming the chill spring wind, and provoking -the birds to rival our hymns with their clearer and sweeter notes; then -through continents of apple bloom, whole lakes above of pink-white -blossoms on either side, with rivulets of upper blue seen through the -tracery of foamy waves. Who, watching that solemn procession of amiable -enthusiasts, chanting hymns to God and beseeching Him with confidence -and fervour to bless the earth and all its produce,—wheat, wine, fruit, -and flower, the water we drink, and the grass we tread upon,—could smile -or carp at the sprinkling of the ground, of trees, of river-bed with -holy water? There was something deeply impressive in the hymns sung at -that early hour, while the towns still slept and the woods were scarce -awake. As a superstition it seemed to carry us back to the great primal -superstitions that have run through the earlier religions. It remains -ever upon memory as a large and noble and beautiful form of belief, where -Pagan and Christian of all time meet in their fear of inclement nature. -Religion has ever associated itself with the rural dread of disaster. -Priests say masses for sick cattle, and if the cattle do not benefit by -this harmless custom, the peasants are thereby greatly comforted; they -have the satisfaction of knowing, at any rate, that should the cattle so -prayed for die, it was in the design of Providence, against which even -the prayer of devout man was inefficacious. If religion never made more -injurious concessions than these to ignorance, the wildest freethinker -that ever unsheathed a sword against it must be shamed into laughter at -his bellicose attitude. Indeed, it is not only the Catholics of France -who expect their ministers to stand between them and rural misfortunes -by prayer and holy water; in the Protestant Cévennes a pastor of the -Reformed Church has been known to exorcise a field of evil spirits, or -tackle by prayers the devils in a poor beast, and even in an entire herd -of cattle; and the peasants dread even more than the devil a mysterious -god called the _Aversier_.[1] An apologist for these peculiar customs -maintains that since Christianity cannot prevent superstition it is wise -in directing it,—sending it thus into a right and beneficial channel. -This is surely debatable ground. Superstition is by no means the appanage -of ignorance only, and we must be grateful when we find it inoffensive -and poetical. - -[1] The maker of rains. - -In Paris to-day, you will meet educated Frenchwomen who are convinced -that St. Anthony of Padua went to heaven and was canonised in the -exclusive interest of their lost property. A friend of mine, witty, -cultivated, a wide reader and traveller, accompanying me on a walk, -dropped one of her gloves just outside the avenue door. She perceived her -loss when we had gone a few paces ahead. “Oh, dear good St. Anthony,” she -exclaimed fervently, “make me find my glove, and I will light a candle -in your honour. And now I am reminded, dear St. Anthony, that I owe you -already a candle for my note-book which I lost and found last week; I -will pay both on the recovery of my glove.” I listened to the prayer in -stupefaction. We turned on our heel, and there at the _porte-cochère_ -lay her glove. She pounced upon it, and cried, “Thanks, thanks, good St. -Anthony, you will have your two candles this afternoon.” Now, this was -not a peasant, a servant, an ignorant little bourgeoise. She was a woman -of liberal education, a frequenter of the noble Faubourg, the friend, -guide, and philosopher of several authentic counts and countesses and -marchionesses and diplomats, a woman who had travelled in Russia, Poland, -Germany, and England, and admired all these races; in fact, a charming -old lady, a mass of pride and prejudice, yearning to-day for another St. -Bartholomew, and yet devoted to several Protestants and to at least one -freethinker; who professes an _ancien-régime_ hatred and scorn of the -lower classes, and treats her servant, her portress, her _frotteur_, the -woman who sells her milk, and the woman who sells her vegetables as her -dearest friends, from sheer largeness of heart and generosity of nature. -She is not the first person of whom I can truthfully say, “Her virtues -are all her own, her vices belong to her religion.” - -In Brittany it is the custom to bless houses, and this ceremony is not -always accomplished without some bluster; above all, if the spirit of the -dead should be attached to it. When a Breton suspects his house to be -under ghostly domination, he sends for a powerful fellow in sacerdotal -raiment to dislodge the devil. The priest comes, clad in surplice, and, -holding his stole in hand, takes off his boots, so that he “shall be -a priest to the very ground.” We are told that the staircase and the -floors are inevitably covered with sand as evidence of the traces of the -ill-intentioned dead. The priest must follow those sandy traces as far -as the chamber where they stop. There he shuts himself up, bursts into -fervent prayer, and has a hand-to-hand fight with the evil spirit. His -triumph is asserted as soon as he succeeds in casting his stole over -the neck of the dead, who has taken the shape of an animal, usually a -black dog. The beadle and the sacristan are told off to carry away the -possessed animal. They lead it to a sterile marsh, or a forsaken quarry, -or a meadow hollow, and the priest cries, “Here shalt thou henceforth -dwell,” and lets the evil spirit go free; saying this, he makes a wide -circle, and departs.[2] - -[2] “Satanism” by Jules Bois. - -Coming from a feverish centre like Paris, where, as a rule, lives are too -crowded with interests, one wonders at the limited interests of rural -and provincial life. Sometimes you will meet a country gentleman who -dabbles in literature, writes a local guide or an historical essay on -some personage or fact connected with his own particular town or village, -and then you may count yourself fortunate. Depend upon his natural wit to -make the place interesting to you. Such a pleasant squire once imparted -a sort of glow and charm for me to Taillebourg, and that dullest of -little towns, St. Jean d’Angély. He peopled the neighbourhood with great -names, and the very pavements instantly grew sacred. His erudition went -so far as to revive Blue Beard, an ancestral neighbour, and show me the -Marquis of Carabas, with his immortal feline friend, getting married in -the reign of Francis I., from the castle at which I was a guest; and -though the life at that summer castle was frightfully monotonous, one -forgot the monotony in romantic associations. But this is an infrequent -blessing. Unless you form one of a hunting party, I know nothing that -palls more quickly upon the outsider than the kind of existence led in -French châteaux. There are no day or evening amusements. Ladies between -meals sit under trees and talk. If they always talked brilliantly upon -general topics, this would be pleasant enough, but as all roads lead -to Rome, so do all topics to-day in France lead directly or indirectly -to politics, and this is fatal. Literature is only a tepid discussion -on the latest novel: and this does not carry one far. Then there is a -solemn walk with your hostess about the grounds, or a drive outside, -and in the evening after dinner a game of bezique with somebody, or the -pleasure of watching somebody else play “patience,” and conversation of -a not too thrilling kind. Should your hostess or any other visitor be -exceptional, delight and pleasure can be extracted from notable talk; -but in the case of ordinary men and women, it is very trying to meet -together for the dismal satisfaction of being bored simultaneously. The -proprietors naturally do not realise this. They have the excitement -of receiving guests, whose arrival must be a change in the burthen of -inalterable routine. But I have never left a French château without -a feeling of sincere gratitude for not possessing one. The sensation -of imprisonment, of futile chains, is oppressive. Here, as elsewhere, -individuality is effaced by inexorable common law. To be original is to -be amusing, no doubt; but, still more, unseemly and mad. You may be a -little wild in speech, provided you walk the respectable step of your -fellows without the slightest deviation. Your wit, if you happen to have -any, will never be more appreciated, for on that ground the French are -exquisite judges; but if you cross your knees, or pick blackberries, or -dance a hornpipe, or climb a tree, or smoke a pipe, or whistle a tune -(I mix up the offences of both sexes against French propriety), you are -safe to go forth with a blighted reputation. Many years ago, before I -knew these things, I shocked an amiable country gentleman and his son, a -correct young officer down from St. Cyr, by breaking away from them to -gather and eat lovely blackberries along our path. They told me it was -considered extremely improper in France. They mentioned, upon pressure, -so many other things that are regarded in rural esteem as improper, -that I suggested writing, with their aid, the things a man and a woman -(especially a woman) cannot do in France, but on consideration found it -would make too large a volume. Here is exhibited the lasting charm of the -French character. Had I said such a thing to an Englishman, imbued with -a sense of his own correctness, he would have resented it as a foreign -impertinence. My French host was charmed with a criticism which he -understood to be meant good-naturedly, and added, “I have ever wondered -at the reputation we give the English in France for excessive formality, -for, personally, I have always found them to be a great deal more genial -and easy than ourselves, and I readily recognise that we are much more -formal.” When you read French and English newspapers, and see these two -great races, the greatest of the world, showing their teeth like angry -dogs, you might believe both nations incapable of a just or generous word -of each other. Well, I, who am neither French nor English, can testify to -the magnanimous recognition of national virtues of both to each other. A -feeling of rivalry, of jealousy, of bitterness, may exist on either side, -but I know none who have expressed more cordial admiration of British -qualities than the French, none who have returned the compliment to them -so generously as the English. I still remember the words of a gallant -French officer to me one evening after dinner: “It is an unfortunate -misunderstanding, exploited by infamous journalists of both countries, -between two races made to sympathise with and admire each other. English -and French, we complete one another, and as friends would hold the -world.” And how true this is! There are faults on both sides, as there -always are in a misunderstanding. The English are admirable, the French -are lovable, and both have the defects of these qualities. - -Even now, as I write these lines, feeling runs high in both countries, -one against the other; higher and more aggressive in France, I admit, -than in England, and yet I should fill a volume were I to attempt to -repeat the splendid and noble things I have lately heard said of England -in France, the proofs of regret for this lamentable and, I trust, -fugitive state of affairs which I have received from various sources, -beginning with cultured men of letters and science, then from Catholic -women of the world, who see no reason to hate England because their -newspapers tell them to do so; and lastly from workmen, women of the -people, from my washerwoman, who once wisely said to me, “If we listen -to the newspapers, French or English, we shall all become as stupid and -degraded as the Boxers of China.” - -What one first remarks about the French peasantry is the clean and -comfortable aspect they present: tidy blue blouses, sabots, strong shoes, -neatly patched trousers, and their air of natural breeding. Among the -mountains they are of rougher build and manners; but in the plains of -Berry, in the flat, green department of the Loiret, where the landscape -looks like a little bit of Holland on the edge of the still and sedgy -Loire where it ceases to be navigable, the very labourers more resemble -well-to-do and well-bred farmers than the class to which they belong. -Their breeding and neatness, if you come upon them in the wild solitude -of the fields, are in keeping with the gracious silence of shepherd life, -instead of being a blot upon it, and their civilised speech does not jar -upon the banks of grey, flowing water, or among the warm, sunlit meadows. - -Farther south-west the manners are less commendable. Mistrust of the -foreigner is more visible; and if you ask your way, you risk falling -upon the practical joker, who deliberately sends you wrong out of -gaiety of heart. Landscape is decided by region, and local character is -decided by religion. Volubility and Catholicism seem to go hand in hand; -rigidity and sternness with Protestantism. La Rochelle and Rochefort are -Protestant towns on the coast; the Cévennes territory is Protestant, -also the towns of Nîmes and Montpellier in Provence. Speaking broadly, -I should say the French Protestants are more intelligent, the Catholics -brighter; the Protestants deeper in brains and sentiments, the Catholics -more winningly vivacious. You esteem the Protestants, you like the -Catholics; and your sympathy for each will be prompted by temperament, -intellect, and instinct. Catholics will always regard Du Chayla, the -Christian persecutor of the Cévennes, as a martyr; Protestants, more -justly, will pronounce him a hateful persecutor. Religious persecutors, -the world over, find their fervent apologists, and it may be said that -a large proportion of the French race approve to-day of their St. -Bartholomew, and yearn for a repetition of it; just as the good Catholics -of the Spanish race find little to condemn in the horrors of the -Inquisition. If there should break out a second Revolution in France (we -have been living so long on the brink of it that I am constantly reminded -of the story of the boy and the wolf, and ask myself in dismay, How long -have we to run before meeting with the famous moral of the story?), -be sure this time that religion will prove the provocation. I cannot -predict on which side it will burst, but assuredly the red flag will be -“anti-Semitism.” In the provinces this sentiment runs in a feebler, less -aggressive channel, and the rural atmosphere seems to cleanse the air of -it entirely. Here religious feeling is either stagnant because of the -absence of religious rivalry, or it is a dull assertion of hostility in -abeyance, only waiting for the occasion to break out in a torrential -downpour. In provincial circles known as clerical, bicycling is regarded -as improper, because it has been pronounced unfashionable. At Orleans -you will see women and young girls punting as you wander out beyond the -suburbs towards the source of the Loiret, in the charming demesne of the -Polignacs, but you will not encounter a woman on a bicycle, for Orleans -is a clerical town, and, consequently, all that is most fashionable and -pretentious. France is aware of the ills which clericalism has brought -upon Spain; yet, for the moment, she is deliberately walking backward, -through the strenuous efforts of the snobs and of a defunct aristocracy. -These reactionary influences are the work of a coterie of intriguing -women and ambitious priests in Paris, and now even material and private -interests are menaced by conspiring malcontents. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER II - -PARIS AND PARISIANISM - - -The exaggerated Parisianism of the foreigners who settle in Paris is -one of the things the French of to-day profess to resent; it is one -of the reasons of the great Nationalist cry, “France for the French!” -as the Chinese yell more murderously, “China for the Chinese!” Such a -feeling of resentment ignores the tribute paid by these foreigners to -the indescribable charm and fascination of Paris. For it is not the -affairs of France that the foreigners meddle with, but exclusively -those of Paris. The provinces are much like other provinces, and you -might live therein a half-century and fail to find out that there was -anything particularly catching in French politics,—anything absorbing -in the questions of the hour. I have known foreigners established for -years in Florence, in Venice, in Rome, who have never once opened an -Italian newspaper; who take not the slightest interest in anything -that concerns Italy beyond that which picturesque Italian peasants and -noble stones may inspire. Not so with this bewitching and exacting -Paris. Everything here combines to force your powers of resistance; and -while you are musing in the Louvre or the Musée de Cluny, behold, the -roar of revolution is heard without, and down the solemn halls must you -hurry into the blithe air,—forgetful of past, of dreams, of historic -associations, of sentimental reveries in front of Leonardo’s “Gioconda,” -to learn the latest whim of a petulant city, to learn the latest black -deed of whichever party you have come to detest as a personal enemy. - -Elsewhere will you meet architectural effects more beautiful,—quaint -old streets a thousand times more captivating, reaches of river more -lovely and more strange,—but nowhere else will you find modern life -unrolling in an atmosphere of such beguilement, set in a frame of such -large and harmonious beauty. Nowhere else will you find the very poorest -in a measure to be envied, since even they, with a little good will and -an eye to look about and enjoy, may make something cheerful of their -lives by reason of their environment. The perspective of starvation is -not an agreeable one anywhere on earth, but surely a dry crust may be -not altogether ungratefully munched walking along the quays of Paris, -with those broad sweeps of lines and hues of enchantment upon either -horizon; and something not unlike a step of delight may be danced -along the joyous, noisy “Boul’ Mich’” with an empty pocket, even if -one be the victim of the remorseless term-day, or have no prospect but -the shelter of the doss-house at night. For there is no squalor in -Paris, no griminess, and penury itself is decent, discreet, admirably -self-respecting; and even drunkenness, though of a far more perilous -character, if we are to believe the newspaper reports, than in London, -abstains from the revolting outrages against sight and hearing we are -accustomed to in the cities of the British Isles. To be poor in London is -to be the poorest of poor devils upon the globe, for there life offers -you no compensation. You live in such a slum as the Parisian eye has -never gazed upon; the faces around you are sour or bloated, according to -temperament and habits. There is no lightness of air, no brilliance of -perspective, to distract the eye from the inward contemplation of daily -misery, unless you put on your hat and trudge endless miles to get a -glimpse of the long, bright boulevard of Piccadilly, or the sophisticated -wonders of the Strand. The attractions of these I willingly admit, and -own the Strand, on a wet, lamp-lit winter’s evening, to be a beautiful, -strange vision of grandeur and diversity. But then how far these all are -from the slums, and the way in London is long, and if your pocket is -empty, how are you to get on the top of an omnibus to enjoy a change of -view? - -But in Paris, should your pocket be empty and your room sordid, you -need only saunter into the clear, vivacious air to find yourself within -walking distance of every charming point of the radiant city. Between -her broad and winding river, Paris lies, a two-volumed tale of romance; -on every leaf, as you turn it, matters for musing and rapture, life -around you full to overflowing,—the life that has been lived still vivid -to remembrance, not clothed in sadness, but in the gracious gaiety -of tradition. The scenes of dead hours are animated with floating -suggestions. In the Marais, with all these neat, alert workwomen, well -hosed, hair alluringly dressed, contented with their lot, which is -laborious and frugal, so long as they can brighten it with laughter -and the customary joys of beautiful objects which abound here on all -sides,—who is to weep for the days of old, and the great historic dames -who made its ancient glory? You remember the great ladies of yore, and -you are thankful for the sight of the sympathetic workwomen of to-day, -and greet them with a tributary smile. For it is the women of Paris who -create the better part of its living charm, whether in the populous -quarters, where they toss their morning greetings to each other, or to -their swains, along the freshly awakened faubourgs and clean streets, -with their shining runlets of water which you must dexterously jump, by -broad boulevard and acacia avenues; or, later in the day, in the regions -of luxury and millions, where the sirens of fashion, arrayed with a -taste Solomon never dreamed of at the time sacred tradition supposes him -to have envied the lily of the field, corollas emerging from exquisite -sheaths, with the plumage of paradise upon their frivolous heads, -pass and repass on their mission of smiling destruction, of ruthless -rivalry, of scented glory. As well dream of a city of London without its -trousered armies, rushing on the wings of time in pursuit of gold, as -try to imagine a Paris with woman dethroned. She holds all the strong -places; she vivifies the town from the old Place of the Bastille to the -heights of Montmartre, where the texture and trimming of her garments -is the topic of the hour; and men gather on the boulevards at the hour -of absinthe, in devout expectation of seeing her pass by. Whether they -discuss politics or art, be certain she is at the bottom of all their -talk. The talk is assuredly not of the most respectful kind, nor is the -attitude of Parisians to her such as we could with accuracy describe as -clean or chivalrous, but they give to her what she, light-minded as she -is, demands,—their full attention, a consideration of her charms, her -dress, her vagaries, her virtues, her vices,—an attention that never -wanders, the most generous measure of contempt, admiration, eternal -gratitude, and eternal faithlessness that the perversest witch ever -clamoured for. Such is her power that I am tempted to believe that if -her ideal were a high, instead of a low, one, she might invent a type of -Parisian very different from the well-known _boulevardier_ and hero of -French romance. But alas! this is her failing. She has no other ideal -than that of ruling by the senses, and mastering the worst in man by the -worst in herself. The ideal in her is wrecked on the alluring rock of her -own making,—dress, for which she lives, and without which Paris would -not be the Paris we know; and, being frail and human and sadly silly, as -the best of us are,—Heaven be praised!—we admire even when we would fain -deplore. - -The finest impression the life of London leaves on memory is that of the -wealthy quarters. The pageant of Rotten Row is unforgetable. The splendid -roll of life and movement along Piccadilly, the bright impressiveness of -Park Lane, of those squares of lofty town palaces, give such a notion -of privilege and purse as may be had on no other spot of the globe. But -the happiest and most lasting impression of Paris lies in the poor and -populous quarters. Who in memory dwells most on the magnificence of the -Champs Elysées? Who in after years, remembering Paris, cares about all -the luxury of the Park Monceau, with its fashionable and expensive -avenues? But what we do remember, with pleasure and surprise, are the -agreeable aspects of labour, of every-day life, of outdoor breathing, -the variety, labour, vivacity, and insistent beauty, at every turn, of -public existence. It is the delights of street study which hold our -imagination enthralled. In Paris we realise that the Revolution has -indeed brought about something very near to human equality, since here -the poorest know and love the feeling of independence, and we understand -the world to be made for them and not exclusively, as in London, for the -privileged few. Here aristocracy is an incident in social existence, and -any attempts at insolence or haughty airs, which thrill to admiration -the soul of the British burgess and small shopkeeper, would in this -democratic Paris speedily bring insult on the head of the offender. -The Parisian workman will “Monsieur-le-Comte” the aristocrat to his -liking, but Monsieur le Comte must mind his manners and be careful -not to trespass. He took his head off once, and he hopes that will -prove enough, not being more bloodthirsty than his own interests and -privileges demand. Who can consistently pity a populace, however hard it -may work, and however ill it may feed, that has the right of way along -such well-kept thoroughfares; that has such fine statuary and elegant -architecture to keep it in good humour! Who is really poor that may -refresh his eye upon the terrace of the Tuileries, across the Concorde -Place, and take his airing along the boulevards, or in the lovely, -old-fashioned Luxembourg Gardens? What point of Paris is dull to look -at? Where are the shop-fronts that do not fascinate? Take even one of -those old aristocratic streets of the noble Faubourg Varenne, or of Saint -Dominique. At first glimpse it looks a long, dull harmony of stone,—a -uniform grey, with high emblazoned gates and closed lodges. But note the -peeps into flowery old courtyards, the charming tufts of garden foliage -lifting their green branches above the high walls. Glance down the sudden -break in the street, where a kind of tall walled terrace runs, trellised, -rich in leafage, as silent as the street of a dead city, where wealth -shelters itself from envy by its tone of subdued and sober elegance. And -yet it is not more trim than are the haunts of commerce, the abodes of -labour. Who would not envy the flower-women of the Quai des Fleurs, with -their glorious vista of stone and waterway? The curving Seine, ribboned -round its beautiful old island, grey-walled, upon the river’s brink; the -spire of the Sainte Chapelle, painted gold, upon a soft or brilliant sky, -and the magnificent gates of the Palace of justice, as much theirs as -are the rich man’s priceless possessions in his own house. The pleasure -of possession alone is lacking in their enjoyments; but they miss its -anxieties, and they have not to pay for the keeping in order of all those -splendours upon which their eyes daily repose. - -To talk of taste in connection with Paris seems as unnecessary to-day as -to speak of coals in Newcastle. And yet it is the prevalence of taste -everywhere that perpetually surprises inhabitants of less privileged -places. Whatever these people do, whatever they make, whatever they -wear, the result is pleasing to the eye. If the picturesque is not -always achieved, be sure neatness is. Give a poor woman an old skirt or -bodice, and instantly will she go home, take it to pieces, and make a -new skirt or bodice out of it that will gladden the eye, once upon her. -So in her modest way will she improve the general view, and freshen up -a porter’s lodge or little doorway. It is by the united action of all -those various devices of a race of unerring taste and an indestructible -sense of neatness, that Paris, in all its open corners, and byways, and -thoroughfares, is, by outward manifestations, the home of permanent and -unchequered grace and suavity. - -It is a particularly pleasant feature of Parisian life that people of -small means can live both decently and economically there. Of course, -economy is the chief virtue of the race; and though it would be difficult -to name a less attractive one, because of its close alliance to -avarice and meanness, it deserves our respect because of its national -significance. To it do we owe the exterior neatness of person and home, -the tidiness of the poorest interior of Paris. Where else but in Paris -will you find a _concierge_ living with her family in one small room and -a kitchen just large enough to turn in, and able to preserve that space -scrupulously clean, inoffensive to sight and smell, with not so much as -an article of clothing hanging about, nor a speck of dust visible, nor an -ornament or chair disturbed? I have not penetrated into the ragpicker’s -City of the Sun, about which Maxime du Camp wrote so eloquently in the -_Revue des deux Mondes_ some years ago; but I have no doubt that even -in that elemental nest of humanity I should find orderliness, as far -as it is compatible with the ragpicker’s trade, to be the general law. -Does not M. de Haussonville, in his _Enfance à Paris_, assure us, after -repeated visits to the doss-houses of London and Paris, that the striking -difference between these fugitive shelters for the refuse of mankind in -both capitals is a certain dim striving towards cleanliness and taste -noticeable in the Parisian outcast, and utterly lacking in the London -pariah? The impartial traveller, who knows little of France and French -characteristics, will have no difficulty in believing this when he -crosses the Channel, and the first thing his eye encounters in London -is the frowsy female, with horrid bonnet or atrocious hat and feathers -askew, hateful alcoholic visage, and sordid frippery all in tatters. -Need one follow the squalid and ghastly vision to its lair to guess -the conditions of its dwelling, the habits of its home? There are many -blessings France might fittingly borrow of England and be the better for -them, but we cannot deny that England, the mightiest empire of the world, -would be improved by imitation of French exterior decency. It would -brush from English public life many a brazen horror. The love-making of -the masses would then be relegated to the privacy of four walls, and we -would not see at every turn of our path Harry and his girl with their -arms round each other’s waist, or giggling girls in omnibuses sitting on -soldiers’ knees, or sights far worse than these, that scare the virtuous -and make foreigners stare. - -It is a settled thing that Paris is the home of vice. French novels of -the day attest this fact; so do the lyrics of the halls of pleasure, -where that decadent songstress, Yvette Guilbert (admired of decadent -London), offers the strangest entertainment that ever delighted mankind -in search of distraction; so, above all, do the songs of the unpublished -poets of Montmartre, who fondly and seriously take themselves for -misprized genius in the lump, and pose as so many Verlaines. Yet nothing -in Paris offends the eye of the casual lounger through its streets as -the eye is offended constantly in London. In Paris you have to look for -manifestations of wickedness, and then it is known that you will find -them in abundance, but they are not thrust under your nose at every -street corner. You may walk the streets and boulevards at the small hours -of the morning, or in the full glare of evening gas, or in the gathering -gloom of midnight, when the lights are being put out, and if nobody -assassinates you, you risk no evil sight or sound. There are quarters, -we know from the daily papers, where vile creatures of both sexes -group themselves for the peril of the passer-by, where blood is shed, -and hideous language befouls the air, but these lie off the travelled -highways of the city; and if you never read a newspaper, you might live -for fifty years in Paris and never suspect that such a thing as crime -took place within its fortifications. - -Rents in Paris are comparatively high, and space is precious; hence the -exiguity of the average home of the middle and lower classes. Spare rooms -are unknown, and closets and presses must be packed with the nicest -precision. But it is surprising how soon one becomes reconciled to want -of room in a French flat, and in how short a time one learns to pity the -London householder—above all his wife and servants—for his superfluity -of chambers. Once you have climbed up the stairs of your flat, there -is no more climbing, no futile running up and down stairs. Everything -is at hand. You walk from your dining-room into your salon and across -a level floor into your bedroom; and it needs no excessive labour to -keep all things straight, and polished, and spotless. If you are fond -of experimental cooking and light housework, you can dispense with the -trouble and cost of a servant; avail yourself of the services of a _femme -de ménage_, in a land where women of the people are admirably competent -and honest, and potter about your doll’s-kitchen to your liking. Fuel -you will find much cheaper than in London, thanks to the little charcoal -furnaces in enamel fireplaces, which can be lit and extinguished at will, -at a nominal expense. And so a poor lady, a teacher, or a student, can -live respectably and agreeably in Paris on an income that would mean -squalor and misery in London. A flat consisting of three bright rooms, -a kitchen, several presses, a closet large enough to stow away endless -boxes in, and serve as well as a hanging-clothes closet, plenty of water, -and excellent sanitary arrangements may be had in an enviable spot, -with pleasant outlook and good entrance, for six hundred francs a year -(£24); a _femme de ménage_ who will cook, market, mend, and clean up as -a French woman knows how, for six sous (threepence) an hour; and if you -treat her fairly well and secure her loyalty, she will give you devotion -and friendship, as well as excellent service and amazingly intelligent -speech. For here you need never be at the expense or trouble of cooking -complicated dishes. These are sold at the pastry-cook’s or the baker’s -for considerably less than they will cost you at home; so that you can -live well and keep your household bills within your means, even if meat -in Paris be dear. And then, when you want amusement, should your income -not permit of frequent theatre-going what need to open your purse? You -have but to open your house door, and emerge upon the public Place. On a -summer afternoon or evening a ride on the top of an omnibus or tram is -better entertainment than that offered by many a theatre in London. A -walk through old Paris, or along the ever lovely quays, is refreshment -enough for eye and fancy. Three sous will take you from the Madeleine -to the Bastille; and where is it you may not go from the Bastille for -another three sous? If the chestnuts are in bloom, on foot, or on the -_impériale_ of a public vehicle, in imagination you are wandering through -your own avenues; and you really have little envy for the rich in their -cushioned victorias. This is why I contend that the philosopher of either -sex, whose purse is light and whose tastes are frugal, can make shift -with less in Paris than elsewhere; can live and be infinitely happier -there on small means than in London. So much beauty is provided for him -gratis, that he must be a churl who can spend his time in moaning and -whining because his private walls are undecorated, or costly carpets -do not cover his floors. Let him go to the Louvre or Cluny Museum when -the fit takes him, and count himself a king without the cost and care -of sovereignty. Let him sit in the Tuileries, and call them his private -gardens while he feeds the sparrows; let him loaf among the book-stalls -of the Seine, and leisurely turn the pages of books he means not to buy. -Where will he better such luxuries, even at his own price, if fortune -stepped his way? In London, poverty is galling because there is no escape -from its meannesses and its miseries. That is why the poor in London -may be pardoned for taking to drink. That seems the only door, for it -would need that a poor man living in a London slum should be very drunk -indeed to find beauty of any kind in his environment. But poverty in -Paris may be found both amusing and instructive. I am not sure that it -is not the poor, the needy, the small clerk, the overworked teacher, the -shop-girl, the underfed student, who do not get the best of Paris; feel -to the fullest measure its common joys, which lie not in wait for the -rich and worldly. These are in too great a hurry between their amusements -and frivolities, their dress, their precarious triumphs, their fugitive -passions and idle loves, the consuming cares of social ostentation and -rivalry, to understand Paris, to seize the thousand-and-one delights of -its streets and squares and river-bends, to realise how much enjoyment -may be got out of an hour in the Luxembourg or Tuileries Gardens, of a -penny run down the river to Auteuil, and from Auteuil to Suresnes. When -I read a fashionable Parisian novel, where the titled heroine, doubly -veiled, is invariably driving in a fiacre to a perfumed and luxurious -bachelor’s _entresol_, in a house with two exits; and the hero, when he -is not in an elegant “smoking” costume, is making most fatiguing love to -his neighbour’s wife in evening dress, I am always very sorry for these -misguided creatures, and think how much better employed they would be, -how much happier and high-spirited they might be, if they only went down -the river in a penny boat, or watched the children play, and fed the -sparrows in some dear nook of the enchanting public grounds of Paris. - -[Illustration: THE PARDON OF SAINT ANNE (BRITTANY) - -_Guillou_] - -Another source of pleasure are the markets of Paris. The great Halles -Centrales one generally visits once, and no more, as a truly wonderful -sight; but the flower-markets of the quays, of the Madeleine, and St. -Sulpice are scenes of perpetual delight. There are many markets in the -different quarters of Paris, where your servant may go in search of -vegetables, fruit, eggs, and fowls for the national _pot-au-feu_. It is a -small luxury, however, which I do not recommend, though widely practised -by the bourgeois, who has a positive genius for the slow and ingenious -saving of sous. - -It is for all these reasons, and thousands more that creep into the -blood and the brain beyond the range of analysis, that Paris takes such -a grip of the foreigner, and becomes the birth-town of his maturity. In -other towns you sojourn as a stranger or a contemplator. You live apart, -either in your own world of dreams, among old stones, ruins, and faded -pictures, amid the dim aisles of Gothic poems, or else you form part of a -foreign coterie, and give and go to afternoon teas, living like invaders, -in insolent indifference to the natives around you, except in your -appreciation of them should they be courteous enough to lend themselves -to your notion of the picturesque, or treat you with the consideration -and kindness you naturally deem yourself entitled to expect along the -highways of Europe. But Paris will have none of this patronage. If you -settle there it is inevitable that you will become Parisianised. I do not -say anything so flattering as that your taste in dress, if you happen -to be a woman, will, of necessity, become that of your adopted sister, -but there will be a chance that her eye for colour will modify your -barbaric indifference to it, and the cut of her gown and shape of her -hat will insensibly beguile you into altering yours. Nor, in the case of -the young gentlemen of Great Britain, would I imply that long residence -in Paris will affect their excellent tailoring, or turn them into the -overdressed popinjays of the boulevards. The Englishman and the Parisian -woman will always remain the best-dressed of their kind wherever they -may live; and, while the Frenchman, in morals and manners, can descend -to odious depths unsuspected by the blunt and open-minded Saxon, he can -also, when the race shows him at his best, reveal virtues of subtler -and more captivating quality. I know no form of young man more charming -than a good young Frenchman, and can never understand why he figures so -little in French fiction. There is nothing of the prig about him. He does -not spend his days in being shocked at his neighbour; he is under no -compulsion to be narrow and dull; he does not quote the Bible, nor does -he desire, like the British virtuous youth, to mould all humanity upon -his own stiff and starched effigy. His wisdom is woven with a great deal -of gaiety; and when he happens to be dull, he carries off his dulness -with an imperturbable amiability. This type of Frenchman a woman will -never find offensive. He can oblige her with simplicity, and courtesy and -gentleness are the most distinctive features of his character. - -Foreigners in Paris seem to be very much swayed in their judgments and -adoption of French politics by the mental and moral atmosphere they -breathe, as well as by their own natural tendencies. The average Briton -far too rarely stoops to consider the question of Republicanism, but -condemns it beforehand on aristocratic principles. Mr. Bodley, who wrote -a singularly pretentious work on France, frequented Bonapartist circles, -and sat at the feet of the Comte de Mun, and sundry other political -noblemen of the same mind; and the consequence is two tomes to prove -that what France wants is another Napoleon—the very thing that nearly -ruined her. The daughter of a sister Republic carries her millions into -France by marriage with some needy nobleman, who has already figured -in no estimable light in the pages of contemporary history written by -fashionable romancers, under the guise of fiction, and she perhaps -brandishes her parasol at the head of a band of miscreants, called _La -Jeunesse Royaliste_, in enthusiastic admiration of its mission to batter -the hat of a guest, an old man, the Head of the State, the Representative -of France before the world. Mr. Bodley’s ideal appears to be not the -good of France, but the triumph of the ideal of the archbishops and -owners of castles. The Republic is bad form, and he would fain see it -overthrown for the pleasure of his good friend, the Comte de Mun. What -the Parisianised, ennobled American subject wants is to see her admirable -and chivalrous husband Court Chamberlain, or something of the sort;—she, -too, yearns for the life which every other countess in Paris wants, a -Court to confer a forgotten dignity upon herself, and if she longs for -the re-establishment of the old privilege, it is in order to patronise -and protect those she fondly deems her inferiors. Other rich or needy -foreigners in Paris wish for a Court to shine at, a monarchy or an -empire, to be able to boast of their powerful relations. And what none -of them will see is that France, in her several experimental moods, is -seriously labouring to discover the form of government best suited to her -needs, and that the elect of the people still hope, through trial and -blunder, to reach the ideal of a progressive liberality. But the passion, -the earnestness, of all these Parisianised foreigners in their adoption -of the several prejudices and aspirations of Paris prove the truth of -my assertion, that Paris absorbs us in her furnace of ardent sentiments -and theories as no other place does. We can not stand by and view the -spectacle of her follies and furies like a philosopher. Needs must we go -down into the fray, which in reality does not concern us, and brandish -the stick or parasol of revolt, whatever our nationality. Needs must we -adopt a party in the land which regards us mistrustfully as foreigners, -and rewards our generous enthusiasm for its multiple causes by calling -us “Sans-patrie,” “Jews,” and “Traitors from Frankfort,” subsidised -by a mythical syndicate, like the Czar, the Emperor of Germany, the -King of Italy, and the Pope of Rome. Needs must we fret and fume, grow -irritable and ill, perhaps long to hear the tocsin ring for another St. -Bartholomew’s, if we are on one side,—that of the large, unenlightened, -and foolish majority; yearn to people the Devil’s hole with sundry -scoundrels we have come to hate if on the other side, that of the elect -and liberal minority, with a passion of hatred no public men in our own -country have ever inspired. What is the meaning of it? Is there some -subtle magnetism in the air of Paris which makes us see French rascals -as so different from other rascals, French tragedy as more poignant -and intense than any other? I know I could cheerfully get through the -remainder of my days in Spain or Italy without giving a thought to either -government or caring a straw whether Sagasta or Crispi were in or out of -office. I never see much difference between the gentlemen who in turn -manage the affairs of England; in fact, I never have the ghost of an idea -who is at the head of each department, and could not for the life of me -distinguish between Mr. Codlin and Mr. Short. Not so in this brilliant, -variable, light-headed, light-hearted, graceless, and bewitching Paris. -I am burningly anxious to know all there is to be known about each -minister of war, and take their repeated defections almost as a personal -grievance. I eagerly examine the interpellations and their consequences, -count majorities and minorities in the turbulent Chamber, follow the -fortunes of the Senate, applaud, disapprove of all that happens with the -ferocity of a citizen who pays to keep the machine going. I know well -that I am a fool for my pains, and that I would be far better employed -in minding my own business. But it is all the fault of Paris for being -so abominably, so mischievously interesting. She it is who will not let -you let her alone. She is like a vain woman; she must have all attention -concentrated upon herself. She clamours for your notice, and despises you -for giving it. If you stand aside with folded arms and look elsewhere, -she will get into a passion, create a frightful scene to attract your -attention, and when you obey her and give it in unstinted fashion, she -turns on you and sneers and rails at you for a foreign spy and busybody. -Poor Mr. Bodley, all ignorant of the fretful indignation he often roused -in France by his thirst for information, was for long regarded by many an -honest Frenchman as a spy. - -Oddly enough, I hold that the pleasure side of Paris, its fashionable -world, is the least of all to be envied. If I were a millionaire, I -think I should prefer London, with its larger public life, its more -varied hospitalities, for the investing of my millions in the thing -called experience. Even a British ass, with time on his hands, and -millions to squander, can discover an original method of going to the -dogs and casting his millions into the bottomless pit. But what can the -French idiot do after he has sent his shirts to London to be washed, and -invested in an automobile? He is such a superlative dandy and humbug—I -would fain use a hideous word, which describes him still better in -three letters, if it were not for its inexcusable offensiveness—that he -cannot bring sincerity to bear upon his imaginary passion for sport, and -looks ten times more absurd when he is playing the athlete than when -he is contentedly playing the fool. He is “the sedulous ape,” not to -literature, like Stevenson in his young days, but to the Anglo-Saxon; and -the folly lasts on to the brink of age. - -The Faubourg holds itself more aloof than ever. It is now not even on -saluting terms with the Republic. Still its life must be lived after a -fashion, and it must give balls, if for no other reason than the ignoring -of ministers and their wives. It cannot be said that the country at large -is much affected by its doings; and if we are to judge the inhabitants by -the fiction of the day,—the dialogue novels of Gyp, of Lavedan, of Abel -Hermant, the psychological studies of MM. Bourget, Hervieu, Prévost,—the -sane and intelligent person may thank his stars that he is still free -to choose his society, and is not condemned by an accident of birth to -tread such a mill of vaporous frivolity and futility, of intellectual -blankness and arrogance, and of senseless corruption. I do not presume -to say that these clever writers are invariably accurate in their -delineation of fashionable Paris, nor do I deny that there may be a good -deal of exaggeration in their sombre and revolting pictures,—for what -lies under the sparkling effervescence of the brightest and wittiest of -Gyp’s earlier work if it is not a dead-level of inanity and perversity? -But their singularity consists in the fact that all are unanimous in -their conclusions, in the general tenor of the life they portray. Pride -of birth is the only sort of pride this class seems to possess, and for -a nod the heroines of all those heraldic pages fall into the arms of -the first comer and the last alike. When you make the acquaintance of -a viscount, you may be sure he has an _entresol_ somewhere for varied -clandestine loves, and passes his time between encounters here, _le -boxe_, and his “circle.” One solid, useful action never seems to be -entered to his account. His days and nights are devoted to accomplished -idleness and seduction, and his busiest hours are those spent on his -toilet. And the women of this dreary and monotonous fiction,—how shall -we qualify them? They have all the frailty of the wicked, red-heeled, -minuetting eighteenth century without any of its charm, its wit, and real -intellect. For if the marquise of the old school, passed into perfumed -memory, were a rake, she was not a fool, she was not a rowdy, and she had -a feeling for great deeds and great thoughts. She stands on a picturesque -eminence in the history of her land. We cannot say the same for the -titled rake of to-day. It is the fashion to treat her as a _détraquée_, -because she subsists mainly upon excitement. But what needs altering -is her standard; what should be overthrown is the altar upon which she -sacrifices her futile existence. Not that she is the only example of -her class, but somehow the novelists have not thought fit to present us -with any other. The strange thing about it is, that she and her mate in -the game of battledore and shuttlecock with reputation and morality, -the incorrigible viscount, have been brought up under a supervision and -care exceeding northern conception. Neither was permitted a moment of -licensed childhood. Priest and nun were at the side of each, in constant -attendance upon their minds and manners and morals. The male cherub lost -his wings when the abbé made his last bow and retired, leaving his charge -alone on the brink of temptation, a youth with a budding moustache. The -maid ceased to be an angel before the honeymoon had well begun; and, -if we are to believe polite fiction, was already one of the pursued of -snaring sinners before she was a week a bride. - -The Paris of this class is not the Paris that charms and holds you in -its spell. The fast, luxurious, and expensive Paris belongs to it; -the cosmopolitan Paris, kept going by the millions of the foreigners -who come here to amuse themselves. Theirs is the Rue de la Paix, the -Concours Hyppique, the Arménonville Restaurant, the Bois, the avenues -of the Champs Elysées and the Parc Monceau, the race-courses, the -Théâtre Français “Tuesdays,” the charity bazaars, the flower feasts and -exhibitions, the automobile competitions, the “five-o’clocks,” and M. -Brunetière’s lectures on Bossuet. This is the rowdy, reactionary Paris, -ever on view, which disapproves of the Pope, and would assuredly array -itself in garments of gaiety if M. Loubet were assassinated. This is -the Paris which sneers at _rasta-quouères_, and is ever on the lookout -for American heiresses for its needy titled sons, which is rabidly -anti-Semitic, and supports its prestige upon Jewish millions. Quite -recently, when anti-Semitism was raging in France, and we were informed -in every tone of fury and contempt that no self-respecting Catholic -could possibly regard a Jew as an honest man or a French subject, an -authentic French marquis married the daughter of a Hebrew millionaire, -and to console themselves for the obligation of profiting by their noble -comrade’s good fortune, his friends summed up the young lady’s qualities -in three amusing lines:— - - “Belle comme Vénus, - Riche comme Crœsus, - Innocente comme Dreyfus.” - -The raillery did not prevent “tout Paris” from being present at the -splendid marriage ceremony, and inscribing its best names upon the -wedding gifts. It could not do less, seeing that its king and master, -Philip of Orleans, the _digne_ (for alas! there is no English equivalent -of that indescribable French word as applied to a man) representative of -the House of France, is said to have accepted a million from the bride’s -anti-Semitic Hebrew mother. - -There is another side, less known, of aristocratic Paris. This is the -quiet, exclusive, genuinely religious side, that of old-fashioned, rigid -noblewomen, who live apart in their dull, old houses of the Faubourg, -given up to prayer and good works. There is a charming distinction -about them, a musty, conventual odour, as you enter the halls of their -faded hotels. They preside over _ouvroirs_, where ladies of their like -meet to make church articles and decorate altar pieces. Sometimes they -carry piety and good-will to the poor to excess, for I know of one, a -baroness, who neglected her children to make perfume and soap of her own -invention, which she sold for the benefit of the poor. The instinct of -trade so developed that she ended by opening a shop, on which she duly -bestowed a saint’s name; and here, if you are willing to pay exorbitant -prices, you may find wherewithal to wash and scent yourself with the -labours of aristocratic hands, and tell yourself you are doing so for -the good of mankind. Not that I would laugh at those ladies, who are the -salt, the redemption of their class. I once lodged in the dismantled -hotel of such a countess, and was edified by the stately, chill dignity -of her austere existence. Her private rooms were furnished with a -touching simplicity. Even in winter there was not a carpet anywhere, no -sign of luxury or comfort; but in her private chapel, where Mass was -celebrated every day, the vestments and ornaments were both beautiful -and precious. She herself had nothing whatever to do with the frisky -countesses of French fiction. She was in every sense of the word a great -lady,—handsome, with aquiline features, and with hair worn high off a -noble forehead, reserved, possibly too haughty in bearing and expression -for her reputation of piety, but essentially one of the elect of this -earth, the kind of woman that an aristocrat should be, and too rarely -is, to justify her privileges and pretensions. - -Here, far off from the roar of reaction and the rumble of revolt, -such women dwell amidst the dim splendours of an impoverished house, -unfamiliar to the frequenters of routs and races; whose names never -appear in the society columns of the _Figaro_; who are chiefly known -to the poor and the priests of their neighbourhood; and they it is who -preserve some charm for the Faubourg, who help us to regard it with some -indulgence and sympathy in its futile discontent. For what can be the -benefit to itself or to France of this fine attitude of disdain? Every -part of a nation should go with the times, and the Faubourg would have -served its own cause as well as its country’s in abandoning its belated -ambitions, and making the best of its existing circumstances. It feeds -its pride on its absurd exclusiveness; and who is the better for this? It -is largely due to this insane vanity, that Paris has become the centre of -rowdy cosmopolitanism, the pleasure-ground of the entire world, for it -is the titled malcontents who attract the class they are pleased, with -signal ingratitude, to call, contemptuously, _rastas_, instead of looking -after the affairs of their country. Since they will not earn their right -to live, they must be amused, and amusement is the costliest thing in -the world. Not having enough money for this profession, they needs must -set themselves out for the capture of alien millions; and then when the -foreign millions fall into their laps, by way of Frankfort, or New York, -or South America, they mourn and lament because the foreigners take root, -Parisianised by the sorceress Paris, and cry out that France no longer -belongs to the French, and that Paris is sold to a band of cosmopolitan -miscreants. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER III - -SOCIAL DIVERSIONS AND DISTINCTIONS - - -With a race that has so thoroughly mastered the art of living, and not -merely working or vegetating, the question of diversion is of paramount -interest. In the fashionable world, sport monopolises the better part -of man’s hours. This is an overseas passion, adopted with frenzy and -fervour. M. Rémy de Saint Maurice has given us the odyssey of the record -cyclist in an amusing and humorous book, _Le Recordman_, where we see -the wealthy idlers of France in awed adoration before the prowess of the -racing-wheel. The champion cyclist raises storms of emotion wherever he -runs, be it in Paris or in the provinces. When he returns to his native -town, all the authorities come to meet him and do him honour. - -The French race is essentially a conversational and not a sporting one. -It has a natural predilection for the amenities of life, and we feel how -inappropriate is this present craze for rude and unsocial games. You need -only watch a Frenchman on horseback, and contrast him with a British -horseman to assure yourself of the fact that the point of view of each -is quite different. The Anglo-Saxon rides ahead with the air of thinking -only of his horse. The Frenchman trains his beast, like himself, to have -an eye to the arts and graces, to curvet and prance minuettingly, to arch -its neck as he himself bows, and he brings a suggestion of the salon -among the shadows of the Bois de Boulogne. Should there be a mortuary -chapel on their road to this sophisticated paradise, stand and note the -pretty way these dashing creatures will salute death. Spaniards would -do it, I admit, much more gracefully, for in the art of salutation the -Spaniard comes first beyond a doubt. But you will not see anywhere in -the British Isles so pleasing a spectacle. Some bend altogether over -their steeds, hat curved outward on a wide sweep; others pause midway, -less ostentatious and theatrical in their respect, and hold their hats -in a direct line from their eyebrows, admirably suggestive of diplomatic -reticence, younger and elder men all expressing every shade of effective -recognition of alien grief with a subtlety, a dramatic felicity of -movement and line the stiff Anglo-Saxon could never hope to achieve. Of -course the supercilious Englishman would say he had no mind to play the -monkey, and find a cause for just pride in the rigidity of his body, and -the stoniness of his well-trained and inexpressive visage. But here I -differ from him. A man loses nothing by outward grace, and there is no -reason on earth why he should rejoice in the fact that he cannot bow. - -The motor craze has superseded the cycle craze. The _bourgeois_ bicycles -so much that the youth of fashion needs something to distinguish him on -the road from his inferior brother. So somebody came to his rescue with -the motor-car. Go to Paris if you would realise what a perilous thing -the crossing of a street may be. In such a neighbourhood as the Place -Pereire it is almost mortal. I imagine it as a machine invented by the -upper classes to replace the guillotine, and run down the miserable -foot-passengers to avenge the beheadings of a century ago. Whenever I -return home, and discover that I have lost a purse, a book, a packet -according to my invariable habit, I am so thankful to feel that I am -still alive, in spite of the automobile which charges through the streets -in such a dreadful way, that I balance loss and gain, and count myself -still a winner in the game of life by every new day to my account. In -London you are everywhere enveloped in a sense of public protection. The -cab drivers know how to drive, a feature of their trade they are most -imperfectly aware of in Paris. The policeman is there when he is wanted, -and, thanks to him, the nervous passer-by is valiant and unafraid. But in -Paris the driver regards him with an eloquent hostility. His one hope is -to get a free chance of running over him. He is insolent, overbearing, -and menacing, unfettered by policeman or law in his man-crushing career. -And, as if regretting the very slight limits still left him, Paris cast -forth upon the public way the motor-car. This machine of destruction -hisses along, leaving a trail of petroleum in the air, and you have -barely time to start back for its passage, such is the fury of the horror -in the hands of its fashionable owner. There are many motor-cars in -use for the big shops and public offices; but these, being in no sense -competitive in luxury, measure the ground by a speed less fatal, the -drivers seem to desire to leave you whole, and suggest by their pace and -bearing, some glimmering of humanity in their heart. For it is only the -rich young men who give one the notion of wishing to avenge the massacres -of the French Revolution. For the benefit of these flowers of the race, -exhibitions of motor-cars take place, under the patronage of dukes and -counts more or less authentic. And, so encouraged, these wild Parisians -set out in their automobiles for the harmless and distant provinces, -and charge down the long French country roads with purpose often more -deadly than that displayed in the capital. The newspapers acquaint us -with frequent accidents; and whatever the general sentiment regarding -these accidents may be, I always feel that they are a well-merited -chastisement. Why must the poor, the obscure, the inoffensive clerk and -shop-girl, go in fear and trembling of their lives, that the privileged -few may add a fresh sensation to their list of entailed emotions? Is not -the luxury of a horse good enough for those busy idlers, without adding -heart disease to our inherited disorders? - -Boxing and fencing are also favourite exercises, as well as polo and -tennis amongst games. One of the more serious of diversions is the duel, -the first of which must be fought in early youth, and the last when -temperament and politics shall have said their final word. Then come the -amusements of club life, which absorb a good deal of masculine leisure, -of course, and where men meet to talk and be entertained, as well as to -eat, and read the newspapers. The races and the horse-show are sources -of pleasure at which every self-respecting Parisian drinks. Not to be -connected with horses or exhibitions would be almost as bad as not to -possess an automobile, not to be seen in the _foyer_ on great theatrical -nights, not to have fought a duel. But beyond even all these pleasures -are the noisy suppers of the fashionable restaurant, where everybody -who is anybody meets “tout Paris”; where the dresses of the women find -rivalry in the decorations of the men, and the scene approaches the -ideal paradise, the mundane city peopled with brilliant personages. - -In all things the French _bourgeoise_ is more difficult to divert than -her aristocratic sister. She is much more particular and infinitely -more restricted in her ideas upon feminine liberty. While the women of -the upper class arrogate to themselves the right to amuse themselves -in whatever fashion they like, with lovers or without them, bicycling, -skating, shooting, on horseback, in automobile (the Duchesse d’Uzès was -the first Frenchwoman to obtain a certificate as woman driver of the -motor-car), private theatricals, they can smoke or scale the mountains -of the moon with impunity. All these varied avenues of distraction -are rigorously denied the _bourgeoise_. She is the most conventional -of creatures, and anything like marked originality in one of her sex -terrifies her and fills her with distrust. She was bred in the conviction -that girls should resemble their great-grandmothers, be clothed until -marriage in the integrity of imbecility, and after marriage in the -narrowness of piety, and know no other amusements than those strictly -suitable to a “feminine” woman. The path her mother and grandmother trod -is the path she must never deviate from. She must be just as religious -as they were, taking care, however, to follow the fashions of her own -class, in order to guard from so dangerous and disreputable a pitfall -as originality, which, with her, means pronounced eccentricity. When -she lives in Paris she dresses well; but the province often transforms -her into an inconceivable shape of dowdiness. In Paris, thanks to the -lectures, music, drama, literature, the multiple elements of culture, -it is impossible for her to escape, unless her days be entirely devoted -to domestic economy and good works; she is rarely destitute of that -agreeable worldliness that makes commerce with her, however shallow and -superficial she may be, facile and often instructive. And when she has -the hardihood to plunge into deeper waters and think for herself, when -she ceases to be beset with a craving for the ordered in conventional -circles, and to think ill of originality and individual character; there -is no woman on earth more charming, more capable, of readier wit, of less -intellectual prudery, wedded to a wholesome independence of judgment and -principle. - -But as I have said, the amusements of the _bourgeoise_, “big” or -“little,” are very restricted: books, theatres, balls, dinner-parties, -with the excitement of religious ceremonies, an academy reception, a -noisy sitting of Parliament, the hourly expectation of revolution, a -correct evening party,—the dullest thing on earth wherever it takes -place. But, on the other hand, we may be sure she will find ample -entertainment in looking after her admirably managed establishment, -in making her own and her husband’s means go a very long way in -accomplishing a thousand little domestic meannesses unknown to the -thriftless Anglo-Saxon, and all with a certain geniality and discretion -that win her the esteem and goodwill of her fellows. For of womankind she -is the most genial and well-mannered, and though she may, in straitened -circumstances, deny every pleasing luxury to her family, her good humour -will keep those around her in good humour, and the counting of lumps of -sugar and of grains of coffee will seem a slight matter compared with the -flavour of domestic courtesy that accompanies the process. I have known -of an English family where at table forced strawberries and peaches were -daily eaten, and vegetables at a fabulous price, upon the finest damask -and priceless china, to the accompaniment of glasses flung by sisters -and brothers at an argumentative head, plates flying, and oaths showered -like missiles. Who would not prefer the economical French middle-class -table, where, in well-to-do families, lunch is often served on shining -oilcloth or table as polished as a mirror, to save washing, and where the -amenities are as carefully guarded as if the household were on view? - -In this world the young men, as elsewhere, have the best of it. Theirs -the licence of manhood in all things. The moment dinner is over they -put on their evening suit and file off (_filer_, as they say themselves, -in their pleasant French slang) in the quest of pleasure. If they are -well-to-do they have no difficulty in getting accepted in the world of -third-rate titles. Tarnished dukes will cordially shake their hands. As -there is no peerage in France to control aristocratic pretensions, they -may have as much as reasonable man can desire of the society of marquises -and counts, provided they take these exalted personages on trust, and -do not seek to examine too closely their blazons. The method of making -one’s self a count or a baron in Paris under the Third Republic is very -simple. You may purchase a Papal title at a not exorbitant cost. In Abel -Hermant’s _Le Faubourg_, a porcelain manufacturer was awarded the title -of count by the Pope in return for a dinner-service he sent him, which -was explained on the grant as _pour service exceptionelle_. In France and -America only are Papal titles taken with gravity, and pronounced with all -the sounding magnificence of hereditary names. But a simpler way still, -and less costly even than the interference of Rome, is to buy a plate, -and have graven on it first a name prefixed by the particle _de_. When -this has been accepted without demur, and the newspapers have a dozen -times announced you here, there, and everywhere as M. de ⸺, then boldly -apply the title of your predilection, and behold you are, without more -ado, a noble of France. No need of papers or permissions. You are noble -by the grace of your own goodwill; and as most of the people around you -are playing the same game, there is no earthly reason why your friend -should be more of a count than you are of a baron. And so you may -aspire to a larger _dot_ from your bride. If you are in the army, you -may even look as high as your general’s daughter; and when you travel -abroad or journey in the provinces, you will be made to understand what -a fine thing it is to be able, thanks to your own valour and judgment, -to inscribe yourself in hotel books as M. le Baron or M. le Comte. You -will be served better than when you were plain Mr. So-and-So. Waiters -will help you off and on with your coat with a deference hitherto not -enjoyed by you in your anterior plebeian state, and the society papers -will record your great doings with gusto and fervour. Who, under these -circumstances, would not be a count or a marquis? Had I known years ago -of the facilities and advantages offered in France to titled adventurers, -I might have had the wit and wisdom to style myself countess of this -or baroness of that, the sole existing representative of an Irish King -or a Norman house. Indeed, such is the predisposition of the French -_bourgeois_ to believe in the noble origin of his acquaintance, that one -stoutly maintained before me that O and Mac were the Irish equivalents -of count; and my remark that every second washerwoman or policeman in -Ireland rejoiced in those attributes of nobility was received with frosty -incredulity. A French officer’s wife of the name of Mahon assured me that -her husband was of noble origin, and related to Marshal MacMahon; but -that, unfortunately, the papers identifying the relationship were lost, -and, in consequence, they could not call themselves MacMahon. As the good -lady really believed every word she was saying, I could not in courtesy -point out to her that Mahon and MacMahon are equally common names in -Ireland, and, for that matter, in the British Isles, and that every -MacMahon deems himself a connexion of the late marshal, though not one -would have thought of claiming the relationship if Marshal MacMahon had -remained in obscurity. - -A substantial source of income is occasionally derived by the authentic -nobles for the presentation of the other kind into the halls of social -greatness, and for standing sponsors for them in exclusive clubs. -Another source of income for avid noblemen lies in their shooting and -hunting grounds. So much is paid for an invitation, still more for -the button, which permits parvenus to hunt on equal terms with their -so-called betters. The extraordinary things these nobles will do passes -the imagination. I know of a viscountess who possesses magnificent -hunting land on which men from all parts are invited to hunt. The guests -departing naturally tip gamekeepers and servants according to their -means. Every tip, by order, under penalty of expulsion from the château, -must be brought intact to the viscountess, and out of these tips are the -servants paid their wages. - -The life of fashion in Paris is pretty much the same as the life of -fashion elsewhere. Men and women ride in the Bois in the early hours, and -it must be admitted that they could not find a pleasanter spot to ride -in anywhere. The landscape is charming, and if you break away from the -Allée des Acacias—the Parisian Row—you may even make a feint at losing -yourself under columns of tall trees, by little, moss-grown paths, where -the branches meet overhead, with ever in view grassy rolls of sward -and bright trellises of foliage above the broad white roads. In the -early hours this trim paradise is cool and quiet; and even an Anarchist -on foot will have no cause to envy his prosperous enemy on horseback, -for the same delights of herb and leaf, of sky and water, are his at a -cheaper rate. Indeed, there is no land on earth where a good-humoured -taste of vicarious pleasures may be so freely and fully enjoyed as in -France. Amiable _petits gens_ sit on chairs and watch the great parade -of the Bois without a trace of envy in their looks, comment on dresses, -horses, equipages, bearing, as if it were but a pageant got up for -their benefit. I am not sure that this is not one of the advantages of -Society—one of its objects—to minister to the kindly and generous vanity -of the workers of a country. These, by their labours, maintain it, dress -it, wash for it, build for it, manufacture for it, keep in order for -it the public roads, give the best of their blood, brains, nerve, and -force to its triumphs, and are content to see how well the result of -all this gigantic travail of a race looks in the show hours of national -existence. The big dressmakers are repaid when, sitting in their _loge_ -of inspection, they watch the effect of their several creations on -Varnishing Day, at Auteuil or Longchamps. The artistic temperament is -at the root of all this contentedness, of these subtle gratifications -which the Philistine workman does not apprehend. The Frenchman brings -this sentiment of art into all he does. The word “artist” is applied -to cook, dressmaker, milliner, hair-dresser. In many ways M. Demolins -has shown us that the race is inferior to the Anglo-Saxon races, but it -has one essential superiority—the absence of vulgarity in the artisan -and shopkeeping classes. You can hold converse with pleasure and profit -with your washerwoman, who also will, in all probability, be something -of an artist, with the artist’s personal point of view; with your -char-woman, your hair-dresser; and the grocer’s boy on his daily rounds, -if you come in contact with him, you will find to be an intelligent -and well-mannered youth. It is only when you get a little above this -class that you light upon a trace of commercial vulgarity. The _commis -voyageur_ is something of a trial on the public road. He is not a pattern -of manners, and he is apt to be aggressive in his desire to obtain the -value of his money. Go still higher, among the wealthy bourgeois, and in -no land of all the world will you find men who can comport themselves -worse. In their attitude to women they seem to possess no standard of -courtesy whatever. When a Frenchman of this class is polite to a woman, -you may be in no doubt of his views in her regard, and you may be -perfectly sure of her social and pecuniary value; for he is the least -chivalrous, the least kind, the least disinterested of mortals, speaking -generally, though here, as elsewhere, you will find noble exceptions. I -hardly know an American or English woman who has travelled or stayed any -time in France who has not had occasion to note how much less courteous -to women Frenchmen are than their own men. Two young English ladies, -finding themselves in some dilemma with regard to trains or luggage, -had occasion to call on one of the chiefs of the Gare du Nord. This -gentleman, elegant, disdainful, and fatuously rude, received them in a -luxurious office, fitted up with such splendour as to suggest some of the -complications of the Parisian drama, and bore himself towards them with -such intolerable insolence, that, on going out, one of the travellers, -to be even with him, said: “Everything may be found in Paris, I see, -except a gentleman!” This, of course, is angry exaggeration, for nobody -can be more delightful than a Frenchman, when he chooses to give himself -the trouble to please and to serve; but it is as good an example as I -can give of the attitude of the French functionary to the public. Put a -uniform of any sort on a Frenchman, invest him in any kind of office, and -he is apt to become insupportable. Rudeness he practises as part of his -official dignity. It never occurs to him that he is there to assist the -public. He conceives himself to be there to insult and domineer over the -public. - -In France, social distinctions are less insusceptible of permutation -than elsewhere. Everything is possible in a land where a tanner may -hobnob with a Czar, be embraced and addressed by that august personage -as “friend.” The nations of Europe may object to this state of things, -but the nations of Europe must put up with it. Amongst these same nations -France cannot be left out of the reckoning. Her capital is always felt -to be the best morsel of foreign travel. It is she who gives “tone,” -for I do not speak of anything so obvious as the unquestioned prestige -of her fashions. A day may come when this prestige shall have passed -elsewhere, but even when that day comes Paris will continue for long -years to subsist upon her ancient renown. Even now there are signs of -revolt against her sovereignty. For in my own town, Dublin, contempt for -her fashions is openly expressed, it being alleged here that the women of -Dublin dress with far greater taste than their sisters of Paris. Those -who are inclined to make light of these pretensions should go to Dublin -in the Horse Show week, where I am assured that the dresses of the girls -and women of Dublin leave Paris nowhere. So the good people of Dublin -say, for they have a fine conceit over there, and profess to hold Europe -in light esteem. But in spite of this it is not improbable that Paris -will continue to maintain its superiority. - -Under republican rule, woman has no official position, is in all matters -of state a mere cipher. And so it is not possible for the President’s -wife to start a fashion, or for any Minister’s wife to guide the vagaries -of taste. This in itself suffices to explain to us the fact that a large -majority of women are anti-republican. They feel that their sex is -insulted by a Government which takes no recognition of their charm and -influence, presumes to govern without the assistance of their presence, -without any loophole for their unauthorised supremacy. There is no chance -for a Pompadour under a Republic, and whatever other abuses may exist -to-day, ladies of light morals cannot hope to attain heraldic glory -and hereditary wealth by the “primrose path of dalliance” with royal -Lotharios. And so social distinctions are now in France more complex and -less stringent than under the _ancien régime_. Complexity lies in the -variety of claims not known in former days, when the division between the -classes was sharp and infrangible. In the world of toque and robe there -are men who count themselves the superiors of the crusaders; in the army -there are generals of plebeian origin who think themselves the first of -Frenchmen; there are fashionable doctors and surgeons, painters, authors, -politicians, men of science, and merchant princes who regard themselves -almost as the equals of the crowned heads of Europe. - -All these varied ranks of society meet at a general point—social -pretension. Wealth is the sole degree they really acknowledge, though -“good family” is their vaunted consideration. They are aware that fashion -and birth are no longer synonymous terms, that the goal is quickest won -by the longest purse. A duchess with a hundred a year may feast on her -own prestige in the eyes of a few intimates, but the world at large will -forget her existence to run after the capitalist of yesterday’s standing. -With the suppression of the power of the aristocracy, its removal in a -body from the governing centre, the field was left free to money and -talent; and with industry and education both may now be said to be within -reach of everybody. The aristocracy groan, ineffectual and undignified, -while a large majority of the nation heeds them not. It is perfectly -aware of the impotence of these discontented idlers, aware that, with -a few chivalrous exceptions, who must be admired for their fidelity to -tradition, it is not at all the good of the country they are working -for, but their own personal triumph. Who to-day is going to stop to -examine the rights, the promises, of the candidates of the three mutually -destructive parties working for the hour conjointly in their vindictive -hatred of a Government able to get on without them? But all know very -well that should the Nationalists win and overthrow the Republic, as -they desire to do, it is only then the country would be hurried into a -ruinous civil war. The inoffensive President holds the balance between -Legitimist, Imperialist, and Orleanist, and as soon as arms against the -Republic shall be laid down by all three we may prepare to see them -showing their teeth to each other. For one of the three parties must -triumph, and how will the other two that have fought with it on equal -terms tolerate this obvious consequence of its success? - -While admitting that Frenchmen have brought much grace along with the -continual gratification of the senses into the diversions of outdoor -existence, it is questionable if they enjoy them really as the English -do. We cannot easily conceive a French Minister shaking off the cares of -office to refresh himself with all the gusto of a schoolboy on the golf -links. Taste and national character would be much more likely to lead -him to seek change and distraction in that temple of fame, the _salon_. -Here we may picture him talking with the consummate and exquisite ease -of his race. Their sports, like their clubs, the French have borrowed -from England, and, according to the point of view, have improved or -disfigured these noble institutions; but their _salon_ is their own. No -other race has even tried to compete with them on this famous ground, -for the reason that no other race has the art of general conversation. -You must have the instinct of good conversation, be yourself something -of an artist in it, be able to bring an attention, a readiness of wit -and intelligence and information, demanded in this national pastime. -The French speak well because they know how to listen so well. With -them there is no such thing as talking down the company. The deference -given is duly claimed and granted, and the first thing that strikes you -in a _salon_ is the complete absence among the men of that vexatious -British habit of lounging. Frenchmen in their families do not lounge -as Englishmen lounge in strange drawing-rooms. I once heard a Russian -woman who had sojourned in both countries say, _Les Anglais n’ont pas de -tenue_. And this is true. An Englishman who counts himself a gentleman -will put his feet on railway cushions when women are present, he will -sprawl before women in rooms, keep his hands in his trousers pockets -while talking to them, nurse his foot at an afternoon call—in a word, do -everything but sit on the chairs or seats of civilisation in a simple and -inoffensive attitude. Not one of these things have I ever seen Frenchmen -do, even in intimacy. Their correctness in a drawing-room is scrupulous. -Familiarity is the very last thing they suggest, though the house you -meet them at may be one they have been in the habit of visiting once a -week at least for many years. Englishwomen to whom I have remarked this -peculiar characteristic of their countrymen retort that the behaviour of -Frenchmen in dining-rooms is as inferior, compared with that of their -compatriots, as ever could be the behaviour of Englishmen, tested by the -same standard, in drawing-rooms. I willingly admit the accusation, and I -confess I should find both races more delightful if each borrowed the -best of the other, and so mended their ways and became perfect. I do not -care on which side the lesson begins, if only Frenchmen will eat as well -as Englishmen, and Englishmen will imitate the perfect “tone” of the -Frenchman in a drawing-room. The niceties observed by each in its sphere -are equally admirable and equally necessary if we are ever to arrive at -that indefinable and still distant state called civilisation. But to hear -the Anglophobe in France (or, still worse, read him), and the Gallophobe -in England talk of one another, it might be believed that these two great -races stood farthest off from the goal we all aspire to reach instead of -being both in their several ways nearest to it. - -I will be honest, and confess that the race of my predilection, France, -is far the worse sinner of the two. To soothe her wounded vanity, and -an imaginary hurt of honour skilfully exaggerated by the Press, she has -descended to foolish misrepresentation of a neighbour with whom she -had far better live on terms of amity. The Russian alliance turned her -head, and for once she had not wit enough to see that she was being -deliberately fooled for purposes not in the least connected with her own -interests. Since that memorable date, she has gradually raised the tone -of her hostility to England, till now her chief aspiration, if we are to -believe the nonsensical Nationalist Press, is to avenge the old defeats -of Crécy, Poictiers, and Agincourt. We will not speak of Waterloo. -That victory is associated with Germany and Russia, and her intention -is, for the moment, to pass as the very good friend of both. Left to -herself, France would never have unearthed these ancient hostilities -of the War of a Hundred Years, for she is in the main both sane and -intelligent; but the Nationalists do not for nothing profess hostility -to the Government, and they are ready for war, even if it but lead to -the reversal of the ministry, and the removal of President Loubet. For -they hate poor M. Loubet with ferocity; and I have seen in the eyes of -some of my Nationalist friends, devout Catholics and Conservatives, -that is, rabid partisans of the lost cause of the aristocracy, a gleam -of joy when one night the late roars of the newspaper boys led us to -fear that the President had been murdered. _On a assassiné Emile!_ they -shouted, leaping to their feet, and flinging down their cards. If their -lips did not simultaneously pronounce the words, “Thank God!” there was -not present an expression of countenance, a tone of voice, that did not -eloquently utter the unchristian thanksgiving at the thought but my own. -And yet these people are all excellent citizens; possess many lovable -qualities, are capable of kindness to friends, to the poor, to foreigners -even. And so I am led, from intimate knowledge of the “Boxers” of -France, to conclude that the “Boxers” of China may not be in themselves -reprehensible creatures, but only wild and misguided “patriots.” -Patriotism is accounted one of the noble virtues of mankind; and when -we obey the dictates of patriotism who is to pronounce them criminal -even when they prompt us to massacre all the foreigners at our gate, and -torture all their partisans within those same gates? - -The pastimes of the “little people” are infinitely more interesting than -those of their betters. Here is no idle waste of money on fashion and -display. Every penny spent brings in compound interest in relaxation and -enjoyment. For the “little people” are mighty careful of their sous. -When the small shopkeeper, with his wife and limited family, go to dine -at a restaurant, it is an excellent lesson in domestic economy to watch -their proceedings. One good dinner will be ordered, and the waiter -places this, with a second relay of plates, before the shopkeeper, who -shares this dinner with his wife, and the children feed surreptitiously -off the parents’ plates. Thus four persons will have dined, and well, -at the restaurant price of one. As foreigners are not supposed to be up -to these dodges, they will find their adaptation of them difficult and -discouraging. Those who prefer to picnic in the public woods on a Sunday -have a better time. They fill a lunch basket according to purse and -palate, and set out on the _impériale_ of the tram from the Louvre, which -takes them for three sous each to the wood of Vincennes, one of the most -charming of Parisian fringes. The people of Paris are more spoiled than -any other, for public pleasure-grounds abound, and no one can complain -that the rich have the monopoly of the best. Where will you find such -an exquisite park as the dear little Parc Monceau, with its ruins, and -emerald slopes cut and watered to look like carpets of plush, its alleys -and gorgeous flower-beds? In London such a cultivated bit of fairy-land -would be the exclusive property of the wealthy residents round this park; -not so in Paris, where verdure and flowers are cared for for the public, -to whom they belong. The people of Paris have won their freedom for ever, -and the privileges of the wealthy are reduced to those they can pay for. -Were they to attempt the appropriation of others, the Parisian workmen -are quite ready to start another revolution. Their argument is that, so -long as they are willing to work, they have a right to live, and living -implies not only bread and meat, but a fair share of pleasures. These -pleasures for them must be inexpensive, and their pleasure-grounds must -be maintained at the cost of the public, which in turn is maintained at -the cost of their labour. And so they are free of the Bois de Boulogne, -a gem of public woods; of Vincennes, less prepared and perfumed and -rigorously trimmed, with its wilder bits of scenery along the Marne, its -hillsides and quaint solitudes; of Fontainebleau, that airy heaven of the -artist, on the edge of one of the cemeteries of the _ancien régime_, the -grand old palace of kings which now belongs to the nation, the little -town asleep on its forest marge, where of old the Court played at life in -high dramatic fashion, and “minuetted” itself with grace into the grave. - -The surrounding scenery of Paris is unimaginably enchanting. Luckily -for themselves, and unluckily for the fastidious dreamers, the people -have spoiled all this beauty with their gingerbread fairs, their rowdy -diversions, their feasts and improprieties. Bougival is given over -to ladies of indecorous habits and their fugitive mates, Asnières is -now a place where fast men take women at war with respectability and -virtue to dwell at ease, so that these pretty resorts are closed to the -puritan holiday maker. If you have not lived in the neighbourhood of a -French fair for the traditional three weeks of its duration, you cannot -understand to what extent a nation or a city may be martyrised for the -pleasure of its people. The clamour of diverse sounds begins at ten A.M. -and ends only at one A.M., fifteen hours later. There are the roars of -the wild beasts, the tambour beating outside each booth at intervals, -the whiz and whistle of the merry-go-rounds, the frightful music of the -dancing halls, each repeating without intermission the same airs and all -simultaneously, so that you hear the waltz of Faust, of Mme. Angot, the -jingle of the _Danse du Ventre_, and polkas and marches in a maddening -mingle. Add to this the uninterrupted popping of guns, and the shouting -of the booth proprietors, and you have all the elements of an inferno -never imagined by Dante. To complain were idle. The people are taking -their pleasures, and the people must live. So the world of fashion, when -a fair comes its way as it does at Neuilly, makes the best of it with the -good-humoured philosophy of France, and goes down into its midst. At the -fair of Neuilly it is the _chic_ thing for the elegant diners to attend -in evening dress, and admire the pugilist, the lions and tigers, the -merry-go-rounds, and the exhibitions of the tents. - -The behaviour of the people at these public entertainments is admirable. -No rowdiness, or drunkenness, or ribald conduct, for the poorest devil in -France has the art of taking his pleasures decently. But as the reverse -of the medal, no people could be less innocent, less clean in its choice -of amusements, and so these gingerbread fairs are well provided with -obscene spectacles. I need cite only one case to prove how deep lie the -roots of the national perversity of a race which reveals in all things -such remarkable exterior grace and refinement. My servant, an excellent -creature, well-bred, of the very highest moral character, and a delicacy -of sentiment and instinct many a lady might envy, a woman a duchess might -make her friend and count herself the gainer, has a child, a little lad -of ten. She has brought up this boy so perfectly that if fate transformed -him to-morrow into a prince, he would have nothing to learn. She has -insisted in his training on an exquisite modesty, the delicacy of a girl, -and a corresponding innocence. I gave this little fellow the other day -half a franc to go down to the fair, then in my avenue, and told him -to go and see a brown bear and a delightful young camel with which I -had made friends; but before the child reached the wild-beast booth, an -elderly gentleman, going into another booth, invited him to accompany -him. Now, the elderly gentleman knew where he was going, and why; the -child did not, and he trustingly went in, paid his twopence, and followed -the elderly reprobate to see—what?—a series of anatomical models in wax; -the man explained the spectacle to the child, and sent him back to his -mother troubled and unhappy. François communicated all that had passed to -my servant, who came to me with tears in her eyes, and we both felt it a -hard thing that a boy in Paris could not be trusted to amuse himself in -a harmless way while waiting for his mother, and almost within range of -her glance, without disgusting snares being laid in wait for him, with no -excuse even on the score that his elders were seeking entertainment where -he was not expected to be found. - -Other pastimes of the people, besides fairs and picnics, are the -cheap excursions down the river with inexpensive refreshments on -the water-edge, the public dancing of the 14th of July, and the -illuminations, carnivals, and the feast of the washerwomen with the -coronation of their queen, the free afternoons at the state theatres. -All these are edifying sights, for they show you how decorously -and charmingly the French people can take their diversions and how -good-humoured and well-mannered a French crowd can be. If you venture -up to Montmartre, the hill of impropriety, you will find a different -quality in the entertainment offered. You will be less convinced of the -moral and mental value of the nation. A great deal of hot blue wine is -consumed, and the desperadoes of misprized genius meet to shock and -shake the foundations of the hill by their stupid ruffianism in verse. -Ladies display their underwear, and their havoc of virtue is gauged by -the length of their laundress’s bill. Tenth-rate journalists, unread and -unreadable authors, penniless, whose talent consists in their indecency, -inane and flatulent “masters,” pose here and enjoy in their several ways -the sensation of going to the dogs in a body. They drink out of skulls, -and count themselves original. A waiter dressed as a devil addresses -them, _Que veux tu, damné_? Satan at the counter, with hoofs, horns, -and tail, welcomes them to hell, and they think they have accomplished -unheard-of villainy when they get drunk. It is not unusual to hear that -these amiable gentlemen live upon the profits of prostitution, while -awaiting their merited recognition from a dense and ungrateful world. -Sometimes, but rarely, real talent has travelled down to the Boulevards -by way of Montmartre and the dull Red Mill of Folly. Maurice Donnay is a -brilliant example. He dwelt awhile on his high perch of misprized genius, -but he was speedily valued at his worth, and carried in triumph into a -cleaner and more intelligent atmosphere. There is nothing drearier in -Paris than its resorts of vice, such as the Moulin Rouge, Bullier, its -“halls of brandy and song.” They are quite as vulgar as elsewhere, and -infinitely more disgusting. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -THE ARMY AND THE NATION - - -The question of the hour in France is militarism and anti-militarism. -The emotions roused by this fierce duel between these two parties of -the nation are poignant and absorbing, and threaten us ever with civil -war. It is impossible to blink away all the perils and grievances and -wrong-doing in which the final triumph of militarism could involve -France; and still less possible to deny the sad fact that a large -proportion of the country are in favour of military triumph. This fact -is mainly due to the infamous campaign of a Press with little instinct -of honour or truth, which persuades the unthinking multitude that the -salvation of France lies in the hands of a group of unscrupulous and -incompetent generals who, since Sedan, have not done anything to justify -the extraordinary confidence reposed in them by their credulous and -easily fooled countrymen. - -[Illustration: A REVIEW AT LONGCHAMP] - -Thanks to Napoleon, the French are unable to bear defeat. The race is a -nervous, excitable one, susceptible to great moments of dejection, and -easily plunged into terror under the influence of anxiety. They have not -recovered from the effects of ’70, and their souls are still stamped with -the horrors of that terrible year. They wince at the memory of Sedan, -and have only been able to check the depressing work of remembrance by -a buoyant conviction in the near hour of vengeance. For years they have -fed upon the hope of the _revanche_. Only a general can give them this -desired satisfaction, they believe, and hence their absurd worship of -their army, and their still more absurd readiness to fling themselves -under the feet of any soldier who will fool them with tall talk, and -intimidate them with the discovery of traitors. Their apprehension of -treason in their own midst is one of the most significant symptoms of -demoralisation. According to the modern French, every man seems to have -his price, and every Frenchman is only longing for an opportunity to -sell his country. Not even the Chinese have an intenser distrust of the -foreigner. In the lamentable _Affaire Dreyfus_, the immense majority -were honestly convinced that the nations of the world (Spain excepted) -were banded together to work the ruin of France, and cast shame upon -her army. They knew the figures paid to the Czar, their ally, to the -Emperor of Germany, and to the King of Italy by the Jews. England as -a rich country was supposed to be one of the paymasters of Europe in -its unequal struggle against the honour of France. It was the _Affaire -Dreyfus_ that revealed to the amazed world the sudden passion of the -French people for its army. The army saw its opportunity, seized it, and -may now be said to be in revolt against the nation. Let us be in no doubt -of the fact that France does not desire a military dictator, and that -such a dictatorship would be the very worst calamity that could happen -to her. It is easy enough to detect the wire-pullers behind a parcel -of mischievous journalists; discontented shopkeepers, whose suffrages -are obtained by the promise of brisker commerce under a new condition -of things; the large middle class always in terror of socialism, which -might rob them of their cherished luxuries. There are two great powers -diminished under republican government—the aristocracy and the Church. -These are working together to overthrow what they regard as a common -enemy, and any means are welcome to them, whether foul or fair. Hence we -see a marquis who has denied his order, an atheist and blasphemer who has -shocked every religious and aristocratic conviction, and wounded every -decent French susceptibility by pen and speech, M. Henri Rochefort, the -leading light of the present agitation, a man who has heaped obloquy and -contempt on French generals in days gone by, now the honoured mouthpiece -of the army, fighting, with his usual weapons, the battle of the Church -and the aristocracy. Devout Catholics will say to-day of the man whose -name some years ago they could not bring themselves to mention: _C’est -un bien brave homme_ (“Such an honest fellow!”) and well-born ladies of -unimpeachable morals and manners will spend their halfpennies on the -_Intransigeant_, in which this amiable gentleman exhales his patriotic -wrath. A more singular union has never been celebrated even in France, -land of incongruous contracts and odd proximities, than that between M. -Henri Rochefort and the army of France, the Church, and the aristocracy. - -The attitude of the army to-day may be traced to the two parties in -the land already mentioned, through its commanders and officers, who -naturally belong to either or both. The officers who are not well -born—and they are many—would fain conceal the circumstance in a snobbish -democracy, and, as a consequence, adopt with exaggerated fervour the -prejudices of the class to which they desire to be admitted. For -there are no partisans of aristocratic privilege so impassioned and -so silly, as the middle class, who ape their ways and espouse their -cause through snobbishness. It is upon the weakness of this class that -the nobles of France are playing so recklessly. Every second officer -calls himself a count, or viscount, and is accepted as such with joy in -provincial circles and by wealthy parvenus. I should be sorry to deny the -respectability of honest religious convictions, but Catholicism at the -present hour in France is too much a question of fashion and politics -to inspire respect. Men who, to my knowledge, believe in nothing, make -a point of ostentatiously attending religious services and simulating -attitudes of advanced piety, because they think it “good form,” and that -it will give them tone in the eyes of their neighbours. They are well -aware that they cannot hope to place Philip of Orleans on an unstable -throne, being too cognisant of the fact that that singular pretender is -held in light esteem even by his followers and would be far from welcome -to the large majority of his intelligent compatriots, still less to the -working classes, and so they pin their faith to the military dictator. - -The popularity of the French army to-day, the outcome, be it said, of a -well-worked political campaign, in which credulous French officers have -been shamelessly used as mere tools, is hard for us to understand, if it -were for nothing else but the heavy mortgage on man’s freshest and most -ardent years which it implies. How, one asks one’s self, can independent -citizens accept such a tax when combined resistance to it ought to be -so easy? For, after all, in a democracy it should be the voice of the -people that rules, and not the law of a dead tyrant. Militarism to the -outsider appears to be not only a demoralising force, but a monstrous -expense; and it passes imagination how so thrifty a race as the French -can go on complacently squandering millions on the support of an army -that has stood still for thirty years and may not move for thirty more. -It would be compensation enough if one could only believe what, in the -face of facts, experience teaches us to be false, that military life -hardens and solidifies a man and gives him an ideal of honour higher -than any he would learn in any trade or profession that might assist -him to a fortune. The proof that it does not solidify the citizen may -be accepted when we remember the coarsening influences of the barracks. -How general is the complaint that the three years spent in the army have -unfitted a country lad for farm service, a town youth for the shop; and -when you dwell on the rapid downward careers of retired officers, of men -dismissed from service, of their inability, once out of regiment lines, -to stand alone and cope with the difficulties of individual strife, it -is impossible to agree to the theory that intelligence and force of -character are acquired in the army. I once heard that _bête comme un -militaire_ is an accepted conclusion in diplomatic circles; and I think -the conclusion a just one. An intelligent soldier over thirty is very -rare to find, however bright and pleasant young officers may sometimes -be. As for the military ideal of honour, that is hardly a thing to speak -of with patience. - -Recent events in France have proved how fatal it is to allow the army -of a country to dabble in politics. The military code of honour is good -enough for the battle-field, where all we need of men is the courage -to fight well and the capacity to provoke and profit by the enemy’s -blunders. When the battle is won, it would be a churlish people who -would ask to peer too closely into the method of winning it. For this -reason a licence is permitted to soldiers that could never be tolerated -in civilians. But bring those same morals into civil existence, and -you may judge of the results by an impartial study of the _Affaire -Dreyfus_. Where the civilian, bred to allow the individual some rights, -would hesitate, the spurred and sabred hero knows no fear. He is -accustomed to the effacement of the individual, to the suppression of all -personal rights, to an unmitigated harshness of rule, to the dictator’s -unquestioned authority. The law has no terrors for him, for he possesses -his own law, which is summary and implacable. All means which lead to the -end he has in view are alike serviceable and honest, since he is bound -to win, and, as a soldier, must make short work of all obstacles in -his path. And so, when he drifts into politics, liberty, life, honour, -justice are words he recognises not. He is apt to treat his opponents as -the enemy, to be circumvented at all costs, and into politics he carries -the nefarious theory that all is fair in war. Unhappily, France for the -tristful hour shares his belief. If militarism were not the execrable -plague it is, such a lamentable state of things could never have been -brought about amongst a fairly sane and intelligent people. Nowhere will -you find a higher ideal of justice, of honour, of delicate and noble -sentiment, than in France among the elect. This fact alone proves the -French capable of every generous feeling, which we may be sure militarism -will tend to destroy. - -One of the worst things about the French army is, undoubtedly, -conscription. Who is to measure the amount of evil done to the country -by taking young men of twenty-one away from the work which is to make -them independent citizens—to the commerce, the tillage, the liberal -professions of a land where everything must stand still while its youth -learns enough of soldiering to detest it, as a rule, without any serious -profit to the army? I have gathered many impressions of barrack-life from -Frenchmen and have never found that they were imbued with an excessive -admiration of it. The good-humoured and indifferent make a joke of their -trials; but it is plain to the simplest intelligence that their time, for -themselves and their country, would have been better employed at home -than dodging and ducking from the furies of corporals or captains. Here -are some impressions culled from a young soldier’s notes, sent to me by a -scientific student, whose time was lamentably squandered in his year of -futile service. - -“Monotony is not the only thing a soldier complains of. I remember -suffering many fits of indignation and of fury, principally in the -beginning. A most remarkable thing about the army is that you are -punished, not only for your own faults, which is quite right, but also -for those of each of your comrades; and so you are responsible for the -behaviour of the whole army—six hundred thousand men. Suppose you are -at Brest. You will not, of course, be hanged if a soldier at Marseilles -misbehaves, but if a soldier on leave a hundred leagues off comes back -tipsy and obstreperous, the leave you hoped to have will perhaps not be -given, and the time you might have employed in a pleasanter manner will -be spent in cleaning the floor with the bottom of a bottle, without wax. -These vicarious punishments occur much oftener in your own regiment, -above all, in your own company; so that the nearer the sinner is to you -the more threatening is he; and if you have the ill-luck to have for -comrade a stupid or awkward fellow, you will be insulted and punished -until that poor devil converts himself. I well remember such an idiot I -suffered constantly for. The sergeant would tread on his feet when he -was cold, and, consequently, more sensitive, and I have seen tears in -his eyes more than once. Nobody, however, pitied him; everyone laughed -at him; and such was his misery, his loneliness, his deep distress, -that I have seen him weeping in bed like a child. He entered the army a -good, poor creature, and will probably leave it a hardened blackguard. -From military life, the school of patriotism, honour, and abnegation, -he will only learn evil.... Sometimes it was so evident that our -sufferings diverted our chiefs, and had no other object, that I fell into -indescribable anger; though I am not bloodthirsty, I would gladly have -killed some of my superior officers—this is no exaggeration; and I well -remember one day weeping from impotent rage.” - -Elsewhere he remarks that the only feeling a soldier comes to cherish is -resignation. “He knows very well that none of his superiors will ever say -a kind word to him, and that his destiny is to pay for every annoyance -they undergo. If he behaves himself he will be compelled to toil all day -without evening recreation, and his only reward will be to be called -an idiot by his comrades, to be punished for them, and not be allowed -out oftener than they, and, in the case of a clever comrade, have his -work forced upon him—for in the regiment the clever fellows do nothing, -the fools do everything. Oh, the things I have seen! A black-hearted -sergeant, who always chose for attack weak and sickly men; a Parisian -workman, one of my comrades, on the brink of manslaughter or self-murder -from persecution, not ill-natured, but destined to be sent to Africa for -indiscipline or rebellion. Those who can’t hold their tongues or their -tempers are greatly to be pitied. I saw one strike a chief, and he was -right. I sometimes scorn myself for not having done so too. It makes -a great difference, of course, when you have a good captain or a good -lieutenant. The beginning is the hardest time in barracks. The cavalry -and artillery regiments are the worst of all. You would not believe half -the dreadful things I could tell you of them. The great evil of the army -comes from this. The corporal can injure you; that is all he can do. He -may punish, but he cannot reward. He can prevent you from going out, -but he cannot give you leave of absence before the regulated hour. But -if his power to do good is small, his power to do evil is immense. The -general cannot give a leave if the corporal opposes it. In the army the -punishment always suppresses the reward, but the reward never suppresses -the punishment; and as the number of those who can punish is at least -twenty times greater than that of those who can reward, nearly everything -that happens is disagreeable. In fact, rewards are unknown. To show a -curious example: leave of absence is not a reward; the privation of it -is a punishment. A soldier’s paradise is outside the barracks. Offer him -fifteen days of prison and after that fifteen days’ furlough, and he -will not hesitate. What the corporal and sergeant wish to avoid is being -bored, and so, to get out of work, they punish and govern by the terror -they inspire. The men do not wash their clothes because they should be -washed, but from fear the sergeant should find them dirty. The idea of -duty does not exist in the army; it is the kingdom of fear, into which no -ray of hope or justice penetrates.” - -I have left these notes of a young French soldier in their original -English, with hardly an alteration. This is one of the anecdotes -concerning military denseness he sends me: “In the town where my -regiment was quartered there was an exhibition, and the directors of the -exhibition, knowing how light a soldier’s purse is (a soldier’s purse is -one of the most remarkable things I ever saw. It contains everything: -thread, needles, pins, nails, white and black wax, buttons of six or -seven sorts; but if you wish to dig so far as to find money, you are as -likely as not to reach the ground), wrote to the colonel to say that a -certain number of soldiers—sixty, I believe—could visit the exhibition -free every day. In the beginning it was all right. The soldiers had as -lief go to the exhibition as do exercise. They understood nothing; they -were watched by a corporal, and could not go away before the regulated -hour. After two weeks there were not sixty volunteers to be found, and -after a month not twenty; after six weeks not even five. The colonel’s -order was that each day sixty soldiers _could_ go to the exhibition, but -the corporal understood _must_ go, and so every day sixty unfortunates -were bidden to dress themselves in their best and go and be bored for two -mortal hours between pictures and ploughshares, so that in the end the -visit to the exhibition was used as a punishment. This surely was not the -intention of the kind-hearted director.” - -Something must be said of how conscription is worked in France. Military -life begins at twenty-one and ends at forty-five, which means that every -Frenchman is subject to the military authorities during twenty-five -years, three in the _Armée Active_, ten in the _Réserve_, six in the -_Territoriale_, and six in the _Réserve de la Territoriale_. A youth, -when he reaches twenty-one, draws a lot in February; he enters the -barracks in November and remains there until September three years later, -and is then guaranteed as a proper defender of his country. After that, -for ten years, he forms part of the _Réserve_, and twice he must return -to the regiment for twenty-eight days. In the _Territoriale_ he must -serve once for fourteen days, and after that he is let alone unless war -should break out, when he must shoulder his gun and knapsack, and go to -the front with the rest. The drawing of lots takes place in the town -hall, where the mayor sits with a big box filled with numbers written -on bits of wood. Each youth draws out a number. Formerly this ceremony -had a meaning, for the owner of a lucky number was exempt from military -service, or only served a year. Now all must serve for three years, and -the numbers count as nothing. Then comes the Revision Council, a most -important thing. If a man passes he enters the barracks six months later; -if not, he waits a year and begins again. If he is refused once, he -serves only two years; if twice, one year; if three times, none at all. -But it is exceedingly rare that a candidate is refused three times, as it -is considered disgraceful not to serve as a soldier, though you should -die in barracks or always be ailing. Men are passed even in advanced -stages of heart disease or consumption, too weak almost to hold a gun. -The chiefs argue that military service will strengthen the weak, and -be very good for the strong. My scientific correspondent ironically -adds: “It is, above all, very good for those who die in the middle of -their three years, for, indeed, they were not hardened enough for such -a difficult thing as life.” But there are so many ways of escaping -from the three years’ servitude, the wonder is all do not profit by -the opportunities offered. These are the lucky ones: the eldest son of -seven brothers, the eldest son of a widow, of an invalid father, or of -one blind or over seventy; those who have a brother “under the flag,” -or students of all sorts. To quote my correspondent again: “There are, -I believe, at least a hundred kinds of students, coming from you could -never imagine where. I had a comrade who was a _clerc de contentieux_. I -have never known, nor has anybody I have asked known, what on earth was -a _clerc de contentieux_. He himself did not know, and when questioned -about it he would answer, ‘Something in the way of law.’ He knew nothing -more about his own profession. I am sure that he had none, but those -magic words saved him two years’ service.” - -One of the worst consequences of militarism has of late years been -witnessed in France for the stupefaction and edification of Europe—the -terrorising of all classes. In 1898, we saw how the army comported -itself in the Palace of Justice, which it may be said to have carried -by assault. The whole place was packed with officers in uniform and in -mufti, spurred and sabred menace going through the hall. The law was -laughed at with amazing cynicism by these booted warriors. They refused -to reply to the questions put to them, and threatened the civilians -who presumed to differ from them with the horror of “a butchery.” They -held the field with unexampled effrontery, and the terrorised jury -spoke at their bidding. You must go far back in the Middle Ages to find -another such tale of wholesale assassinations, perjuries, forgeries, -cynical traffic with justice, insolent manipulation of documents, -suppressed correspondence, distorted telegrams, bribed evidence, strident -vituperation and manifestation of despotism, the more extraordinary by -the multiplicity of despots; and so delighted was the befooled populace -by this parade of rabid defiance and booted revolt against national -tribunals (had the magistrates been honest and the jury courageous, -and both held out in the performance of their duty, the suffrages of -the people would just as likely have been on their side, since the -successfulness of success is proverbial) that _Vive l’armée_ came to -mean everything on earth, from the servant-maid’s traditional love of -a uniform, the street Arab’s passion for the blare of a trumpet, the -sentimental citizen’s yearning for Alsace and Lorraine, and the longing -of Imperialist, Royalist, and every other form of fractious opponent of -the Republic to overthrow the Government. In a word, it became the cry -of sedition, admirably worked up by the Church, the Army, and Society. -M. Urbain Gohier’s famous book, _L’Armée contre la Nation_, undoubtedly -contains much exaggerated abuse of French officers and French chiefs, -but it also contains many indisputable truths. When one hears French -officers speaking of civilians with indescribable contempt as “pekins,” -and remembers that all of these miserable pekins have served in the army -and will be called upon, without reward or pay, to defend their country -with their lives, it is difficult not to regard such a passionate attack -as his as justified. The Nationalists to-day have the hardihood to -describe themselves as the only true patriots, the only pure Frenchmen. -The _Temps_ once pertinently asked what they expected to do in war more -than any other kind of Frenchman or patriot—carry two muskets instead of -one? One sees MM. Coppée, Lemaître, and Barrès, the literary chiefs of -the patriots, thus accoutred with an incredulous smile. After twenty-five -years the patriots are still stalking the shades of Alsace and Lorraine, -and hurling defiance towards the Vosges, while every honest Alsatian with -them passes for a traitor. - -The army owes its present unwonted prestige and popularity to the -fear war breeds in the modern mind, and this fear it has evidently -utilised through its mouthpiece—the militarist Press. Every event is -pressed into its service; the return from Fashoda of a brave man, the -procession of the École Polytechnique at the grand review, admired for -its ill-treatment of an eminent professor, M. Georges Duruy, the son of -Victor Duruy, because in the intervals of lecturing to them he presumed -to write articles in the _Figaro_ expressing doubts of the culpability -of an unfortunate French officer, one of themselves. The sight of -these young gentlemen suffices to create a delirious enthusiasm, which -is fondly hoped by the authors of the frantic display will prove the -death-knell of the Republic. Never has a nation worshipped stranger, more -incongruous warrior-gods than France of to-day. She has embraced and -wept rapturously over the military virtues and honour of an Esterhazy; -she has melted in the furnace of adoration before Major Marchand; she -has prostrated herself in reverence and gratitude at the feet of General -Mercier, and now she is pantingly waiting for the generalissimo of her -dreams—another Boulanger, plumed, handsome, and haughty, on a black -charger. It used to be for the _revanche_ she so ardently desired this -deliverer, but now the hated enemy is no longer beyond the Vosges, but -on the other side of the Channel. A French boy once wrote to an English -comrade that he wanted to put his hand through the sleeve (the channel, -in French, _la manche_), and shake hands cordially with him. Alas! it is -her sword that bellicose France wishes to put through the sleeve, if we -are to believe the Nationalists, and slay perfidious Albion. - -It is, perhaps, an exaggeration to describe barracks, as M. Urbain -Gohier does, as “the school of all crapulous vices: idleness, lying, -debauchery, drunkenness, obscenity, and moral cowardice.” But there is -much truth in his contrasting statement, that “the surprising vitality -and progress in every way of the Anglo-Saxon races are due to the fact -that these latter escape the corrupting and degrading influence of the -barracks.” In war men may herd together and be the better for it, since -they suffer and bear privation together. But in peace it is impossible -that general life of this comfortless kind can have any but a disastrous -action upon character. The twenty-eight days of the reservists may be -an excellent farce, if the discomforts and trials are borne with high -spirits and a sense of fun. From this point of view it is easy enough to -laugh at such amusing plays as _Champignol Malgré Lui_, and the coarse -and witty comedies of Courteline, whose military studies are steeped -in a good-humoured but terrible realism. You must laugh at that brutal -but brilliant little piece, _Lidoire_, capitally acted at Antoine’s, -even while you are filled with an unutterable sense of sadness in -contemplation of the futile suffering of barrack-life. Why should grown -men, under pretext that their country may some day be attacked, be -submitted to the disennobling trials of the general dormitory, to the -annihilating process of inflexible and petty discipline, at the mercy -of the temper and caprices of superiors? The audience at Antoine’s -shout with laughter when the sober fellow is brutalised for his drunken -comrade, whom he is trying to shield, but the thinking spectator is -saddened by the realistic travesty of justice so peculiar to-day in -militarist France. One applauds the more the magnificent outburst -against the army in that remarkable play of MM. Donnay and Descaves, _La -Clairière_, where the tortured workman shouts, “There is no such thing -as an intelligent bayonet.” Think, then, what it must mean for the young -fellow dragged reluctantly from his chosen work, to waste three years -fretting in servitude that does his country no good, to share the common -life of men more often than not repulsive to him. In the case of the -poor it is far worse, for they have no means of avoiding the obligatory -three years’ service; and if you would have some idea of the corrupting -influence of this experience on a farmer’s son, read M. René Bazin’s -charming story, _La Terre qui Meurt_, where the young soldier back from -Africa has acquired such habits of idleness, of café loungings, of -little glasses, and martial vanity that his downward career is traced out -almost on the page that introduces him, and the poor fellow goes to the -dogs, not from inherent viciousness, but because the barracks has spoiled -him for farm-work, for steady labour. - -The lucky students destined for civil professions when they leave the -Polytechnique, the École Centrale, the École Forestière, have only a -year’s service, and that under the most comfortable circumstances. -They are officers at once, with £100 a year, a servant, and lodgings -in town. This cannot be said to be much of a sacrifice upon the -altar of patriotism compared with that the ordinary citizen makes in -shouldering his gun and heavy knapsack, in undergoing all the weary and -repugnant experiences of barrack-life. As Urbain Gohier says: “Under a -Democratic Republic there is only one way of escaping from the terrible -barracks—the wearing of the epaulette; there is only one means of not -being a soldier—becoming an officer.” You will find in France that it is -precisely the people who benefit by these means of escaping the worst -consequences of militarism, and women who know nothing at all about it -and could never endure five minutes of the martyrdom, who are its most -violent eulogists. It is difficult to explain military arrogance in -France, for it certainly is not based on the fact that officers alone go -to the wars. When the battle-cry rings over the land the whole nation -arms itself and goes off to fight, as well as the officers, and when -the nation stays at home, so do the officers. When I asked a friend of -General de Gallifet the motives of his resignation, he replied haughtily: -“How could you expect Gallifet to tolerate the interference in military -affairs of a miserable pekin like Waldeck-Rousseau?” In vain did I -point out that when an officer mixes himself up in politics and tries, -in a mischievous and underhand fashion, to injure the Government, the -Prime Minister has every right to interfere, since, in his quality of -“miserable pekin,” politics is his business and not a general’s. And -the man who was speaking to me was but a “pekin” himself, who, like the -Prime Minister, had served in the army, and yet quite approved of martial -contempt for all who do not wear a sabre or a plumed kepi. Watch these -generals ride through the streets of Paris, beribboned and befrogged, and -note the lofty, godlike way they gaze down upon the adoring multitude. -Are they back from the wars? Do all these glorious and shining medals -mean battles won? Where has Zurlinden fought with conspicuous glory? -Where Mercier? Billot? Gonse? And yet they all look as proud and fatuous -as the marshals of Bonaparte returning from their successful raids across -Europe. - -I have heard in France a great deal of fine talk, which would be -admirable and noble if it were true, about the soldier’s abnegation, his -lack of ambition, his disinterestedness, and modest pay. A Frenchman -who had just returned from a tour through America once said to me: “It -is our army which maintains our superiority; through it we keep intact -a high ideal. I was struck by this fact in America, where there is no -army and consequently no ideal. There must be a generous part of the -nation kept aside for disinterested work.” We need only glance through -the military history of the world to recognise the utter bombast and -falseness of this view. Officers are no more disinterested than other -men, and there are, in fact, no men so splendidly paid for their services -in all lands. The general who wins a battle is a hero for ever, though no -better brains, no finer qualities may go to the winning of that battle -than go to the making of a useful law, the winning of an election, and -less than goes to a scientific discovery or the writing of a great book. -He has, as well as his pay, his prestige, his popularity; probably a -title and an estate. Jove himself could scarcely ask for more. Take, -then, the ordinary officer. What does he work for if it is not for -military advancement? Is not the title of captain, of major, of colonel, -of general, dearer to him far than the millions of the millionaire? And -surely our payment is measured by the price we put upon it! The man who -prefers millions nowadays does not become a soldier, though in Napoleon’s -days, with the sacking of all Europe in view, it was perhaps the swiftest -road to fortune. But he is paid for his services in the coin he loves -best; and what more can he require? Why pose as the victim of his own -virtues, and prate of his disinterestedness? I was very much struck by -a tragic military novel written recently by two French officers: _Au -Tableau_, a tale of army deceptions and bitternesses in preferment. -Here is the truth put nakedly, and here is a revelation of military -want of judgment, of justice. The general is a dense brute and a snob, -who chooses his officers by their rank and fortune, and not by their -merit. The hero, of Irish extraction, is a man of culture, of delicate -sentiment, of intensely active conscience and brains. He is sacrificed -all along the line to the base intrigues of inferior men, comrades who -spy and tittle-tattle, idiot aristocrats who look down on their untitled -brother officers, and dazzle by their expensive hospitality. Defeated and -discouraged, he leaves the army to find himself an outcast, a _déclassé_, -with nothing before him but suicide. The moral of the tale, of course, -is, that even in the army it is better to stay there, however hard -things may go with an officer; for outside there is nothing for him but -suspicion, averted glances, ill-will, and slander. But the picture it -draws of the army from within is one of unspeakable sadness. This vaunted -French school of abnegation is full of intrigues, perfidies, injustices, -petty persecutions, petty miseries. It makes men glad to be outside it, -breathing the air of liberty and personal responsibility. - -An Englishman said to me one day, “There was only one honest man in the -French army, and they turned him out.” This is naturally an extravagant -assertion, but it expresses in wild fashion a secret feeling in the -minority. “I was bred in the worship of the army, and brought up a -fervent Catholic,” said an eminent French writer lately; “well, it is -with difficulty now I keep myself from looking away when I see an officer -or a priest.” There can be no denial that soldiers with a delicate -conscience are not approved of in the French army. They are regarded as -dangerous subjects, apt to create “affairs.” When a colonel exposed a -scandalous abuse in a certain regiment, the President of the day sent him -word that “a due regard for the honour of the army should prevent every -officer from making an accusation, however justified, or creating any -scandal that could diminish the prestige of the army.” The army, we see, -is the one institution insusceptible to the rigours of justice, wherein -ill-doers enjoy immunity (if they are not of Jewish persuasion) for the -sake of that extraordinary thing called the “honour of the army.” - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER V - -SECULAR AND RELIGIOUS EDUCATION - - -Education in France has neither the moral nor social value it has in -England. In the first place, public-school life has nothing like the -importance it has with us, where a university education almost suffices -to make a gentleman of a young man, for, whatever his origin may be, the -Oxonian is pretty sure to plume himself on the prestige of his training. -In France there is no equivalent for this rank. Where a man has been -educated is of no consequence to him in after life. While he is at -school, his parents, if they happen to be nobles, or snobs who desire to -pass for nobles, or as belonging to a set _bien pensant_, like to be able -to say that their son is at the school of Vaugirard, Madrid, La Poste, or -at the Marists. This fact suffices to pose a family with the hall-mark of -indisputable correctness. Neither the Jesuits nor the Marists offer such -solid advantages in the way of pretension and reputation as the English -universities do, but they secure youth from the taint of Republicanism, -and Society knows that it can rely on their support when the long and -expected _coup d’êtat_ comes off. In certain circles, to be educated Is -not the main thing, but not to be mistaken for one of the _canaille_. - -M. Demolins wrote a book, _A quoi tient la supériorité des Anglo-Saxons_, -which made a considerable stir. The author maintains that the violent -contrast between the two races starts in the schoolroom, and reveals to -us already the deep-seated causes of their differences. The French boy -is trained in the suppression of all independence, the discouragement of -all initiative. Those brought up in the secular _lycées_ have nothing -to remember but unqualified misery. The system is less intolerable for -the day-pupils. These come at eight and leave at seven. Each class lasts -two hours, and if the boy’s way lies through any of the big gardens, -he can enjoy, with other outdoor comrades, many an hour of play. The -indoor martyrs are less privileged, for each moment of recreation is -as severely guarded as the hours of class. They have stated intervals -for play; in the earlier years they are contented with running, but, -by-and-by, they crave for more violent and interesting exercise, and -when these are denied them, they give up play. Until lately, all violent -games were forbidden in the _lycées_ because they were regarded as -dangerous, and the college principals are responsible for all accidents -that happen in their schools. Not long ago a _proviseur_ was heavily -fined because one of the students, in flinging a stone, had accidentally -broken a window and hurt another boy’s eye. It is easy enough, under such -extraordinary circumstances, to understand the _proviseur’s_ persistent -discouragement of rough games. Skating is not allowed, for this, too, is -dangerous; and, for the same reason, gymnastics are permitted only once -a week, each student going in turn to the gymnasium and staying there -for about three minutes. And so in French colleges these blustering -years of boyhood know no other variety of pleasure than the treadmill -of the courtyard. Backwards and forwards they walk in recreation hours, -talking together; and need it be supposed that the words of wisdom are -ever on their lips? As I have said, the day-students do not need much -pity. They can make the _lycée_ merely a daily accessory of life—a place -they go to generally with the intention of wasting their time. Should -they have the good-fortune to light upon a first-rate teacher, which is -rare, they will get some profit from the hours spent at the _lycée_. But -the indoor student is wretched. He is a dejected being, with none of -the distractions of his age—unboyish, unjoyous, watched and watching, -prematurely demoralised by his fellow unfortunates, and, like them, the -slave of the very worst possible system of education. - -[Illustration: CONSECRATED BREAD - -_Dagnan-Bouveret_] - -M. Demolins complains that the French rely too much on stiff examinations -as a test of knowledge, and a French youth writes me on this subject: “We -have a great many schools in France; as many as there are professions, -since nobody who has not spent two or three years in some sort of -school, and undergone innumerable examinations, can hope to do anything. -For instance, I have undergone nine examinations, and it is not even -over! Naturally, I only refer to necessary examinations. They begin -at the age of fifteen or sixteen. Before that period you must have -been at a _lycée_ or college. A _lycée_ is a government establishment, -and a college belongs to its township. The training is identical, but -the college professors are less well paid. Their inferiority to the -_lycée_ professors lies in the fact that they have not undergone so many -examinations as these, or, perhaps, only have come out of them less -successfully. In the _lycées_ and colleges there are two methods—the -literary or old method, and the scientific or new one. The old method is -general: literature, geography, history, German or English (never both), -Latin, Greek, mathematics, every year; in the first years only zoölogy, -botany, and geology, and in the last years philosophy. But always the -most important thing is Latin. The youth who has gone through the course -of philosophy has learnt Latin for seven years, Greek for five years and -a half, but, knowing that his Latin will be of no service to him after -he has passed his _baccalauréat_, as soon as he thinks he knows enough -for that examination—and he thinks so at an early hour—he flings his -Latin books at the head of his professor or recklessly goes to sleep upon -them, if he be working merely for place as a bureaucrat; and I, for one, -have not the heart to blame him. Unfortunately, it is the same thing for -German, and English, and everything else. Amongst a hundred young men in -the philosophy class, not more than two will understand or speak German, -and never more than one will speak English. Amongst a hundred French -youths speaking German or English you will find that ninety-nine have -spent some years in Germany or England; the hundredth is a phenomenon. -Besides, it is fashionable to-day in France not to know a word of a -foreign tongue. The scientific method is less general than the literary -method. It comprises chiefly sciences and modern languages—German, -English, Spanish, and Italian. It is certainly more serious than -the other. There is a _baccalauréat_, too, but unlike the literary -_baccalauréat_, which is an aim, the scientific _baccalauréat_ is only -the means of arriving at an aim. The literary _baccalauréat_ leads to -nothing, or to the law school, which is almost the same thing, for, -speaking generally, the students have no other object than the avoidance -of the three years’ military service.” The scientific _baccalauréat_ -leads to the Polytechnique school, to St. Cyr, or to the school of -medicine, but those who wish to become officers or doctors do not leave -the _lycée_ after the _baccalauréat_, and some stay on three or four -years longer. The _externes_, that is, those who go to the _lycées_ only -for the classes, are well off, for these find their pleasures and moral -training where they should be found, at home and with comrades of their -own choosing. But the _demi-pensionnaires_ are nearly as unfortunate as -the _internes_, as these are condemned to most of the prison tortures -of one of the worst gifts the genius of Napoleon gave to the land he so -basely used. “Everyone knows well enough our dreadful college,” writes M. -Demolins, “with its much too long classes and studies, its recreations -far too short and without exercise, its prison walks, a monotonous going -and coming between high, heart-breaking walls, and then every Sunday and -Thursday the military promenade in rank, the exercise of aged men and not -of youth.” - -For this reason you will never hear a French boy speak with any kindly -sentiment of his school-days. Napoleon, who invented the horrid -system, was a creature absolutely destitute of kindness or humanity. -He wanted more destructive machines, willing for the chance of what is -euphemistically called “glory.” Virile independence in boyhood was just -the very last thing a man like Napoleon could be expected to value. An -English schoolboy will cheerfully go to the wars by force of his own -good-will, but he will not be whipped thither by Government whether he -wills it or not. And you would never find him submitting, as his French -brother does, with patience and resignation to a scholastic system which -atrophies his body and unduly heats his brain. The instincts of his race -must be considered, and these make for energy, action, and independence. - -From the _lycée_ to French fiction is a big jump, and at first blush -neither seems to have any connection with the other, yet I do not -hesitate to blame the unhealthy, enervating, and unmanly training of the -former for many of the lamentable scandals of the latter. English boys -are not saintly, but they are certainly admitted, by those who have had -opportunities of judging both, to be cleaner-minded, with a more vigorous -and healthy outlook, than French lads. The same difference exists between -French and English girls. To begin with, the French are naturally less -frank and truthful; and where there is practised dissimulation it is not -easy to answer for the moral and mental cleanliness of the young. These -young fellows, whose sole distraction from excessive and futile mental -labour has been the daily promenade in the courtyard, who have been the -recipients of insidious confidences and unhealthy talk, leave school -blighted and perverted. We need not ask ourselves what, in nine cases out -of ten, follows, the tenth being the admirable youth who takes himself -and his future responsibilities seriously, who loves knowledge with the -disinterestedness and capacity for sacrifice to it that a Frenchman of -the best kind is capable of. But these others, unsoundly bred, without -an outlet for the barbarous spirits of the youthful male,—what will be -their experiences? Denied exercise, they cannot even fall back upon -innocent flirtation with girls of their own age, for this is not possible -in France. And so these newly emancipated citizens straightway wander -off in search of romance into a world that it would have been wise and -right to keep them out of, and whatever freshness the _grisette_ may -leave them can speedily be lost in the still more destructive hands of an -unprincipled married woman. It is the shabby and monotonous love-affairs -of this uninteresting rake, his steady degradation, that procure renown -for the popular romances; to paint him and his dreary deceptions and -drearier outrages on decent feeling a whole school of novelists exists -and thrives, and the great desire of the newly married bride, never -before permitted to read the fiction of her own land, is to learn what -life is through his unmanly and ignoble adventures. Had the boy been -trained differently he would have had another ideal, and there would have -been some place for noble aspirations and generous sentiment in a heart -not yet hardened by squalid cynicism. - -[Illustration: THE REFECTORY - -_A. Bouvin_] - -The great defect of the _lycée_ system is its impersonality. The -Republican professors should borrow a hint from their more successful -ecclesiastical rivals, the Marists and Jesuits, and hold their pupils by -the influence of personal relations, win them by the direct exercise of -moral guidance. There are two courses to adopt in training youth—that -followed by the priesthood, which is insidious, and which regards them -not as so many young men to be taught how to live and conduct themselves -as honourable men, but as so many souls to be saved in a world to -come. The second is the British method, the object of which is to make -men of boys, to teach them to think and act for themselves, to be -self-sufficing, self-supporting, to know how a gentleman should act in -all circumstances, and, should nature have denied him intelligence, to -prove himself, in the depths of his stupidity, at least a “gentlemanly” -ass. I give my preference, I will own, to the British system, like M. -Demolins, but what I should prefer to it even would be a third, not yet -practised, by which youth might profit by the best in the English course -of training and the best in the French; that is to say, a combination -of the superior French intellectual education and the superior English -moral training. If there were nothing between a well-brought-up fool and -an intellectual cad, then, in Heaven’s name, give us nothing but the -sympathetic fool; but how much better if we could have the well-bred -“intellectual” too! Some years ago a Greek minister, about to send his -son to a public school either in France or England, did me the honour to -take me for a wise and intelligent person,—which I have no pretension -to be,—and asked my advice on the question of a choice of countries. I -told him he would have to decide between knowledge and education. If he -wished his son to be brought up in a healthy, virile fashion, taught -to conduct himself on the lines of the British ideal, which for all -practical purposes is about as fine a one as is to be found, though it, -too, has limitations it were well to recognise and acknowledge—then let -it be England, and Oxford or Cambridge. If, on the other hand, he wished -to see his son a proficient scholar, well grounded in the classics, -intellectually trained in the course of a couple of miserable years, his -brain overworked in the depressing atmosphere of a prison, then let the -French _lycée_ be his choice. The minister decided for knowledge; and I -believe his son returned to Athens a very brilliant young fellow, and all -that a statesman could desire his son to be. He would have learnt less in -England, but certainly he would have had a pleasanter time; and to me it -always seems that our real education only begins when we have left off -compulsory learning; that what we teach ourselves and not what others -teach us is of consequence. A duffer will always be a duffer, however -much you may stuff his head; the main thing is that he should be an -honest duffer. The brilliant boy will never fail to light upon food for -his brains wherever he may find himself. - -The misfortune is that everything in France leads to politics, and hence -we have had the disgraceful sight of students in revolt against their -professor, hissing and pelting him because elsewhere he had chosen to -express political views to which these wise and learned young gentlemen -objected, or because his politics were not those of their parents. The -class of an eminent professor at Bordeaux was deserted, and stones were -flung at him in the street by his pupils, for a graceful and manly -reference to the cause of the death of the dean of his university, -whose funeral oration he was called upon to pronounce. Under such -circumstances, it is difficult to acquire a beneficial influence as a -professor, for personal prestige, the value of character—which is the -highest thing we can value in a teacher—are of no account in a land -where, generally speaking, a man is loved or hated, not for the life he -leads, the acts he commits, the duties he leaves unfulfilled, but solely -for the political side he takes. In modern France character is nothing; -politics everything. What students first demand is that their professors -shall be on the side approved of by this immature class. After that they -will condescend to listen to them. But the notion of being guided and -influenced by the older mind, the riper judgment, does not enter their -heads. The only professors who know how to grip and mark for life these -malleable natures are the Jesuits. When Jesuit boys break away from -their keepers, the Jesuits have no bitterer enemies. What intelligent -Protestant has ever given us arguments so powerful and damning against -Jesuit training as those two novels by their old pupils, _Le Scorpion_ -of Marcel Prévost, and _L’Empreinte_ by Estaunié? _L’Empreinte_ (The -Stamp) is much the greater study of Jesuitism of the two. Here you see a -young, pliable nature for ever caught in its meshes, not brutalised or -overtly captured, but insidiously demoralised, directed unconsciously -into the path of dissimulation and unsleeping watchfulness, out of -which the manliest efforts he makes afterwards, when he has shaken off -its vice-like grasp of his individuality, never carry him. Here you -understand, as no melodramatic stories of Sue or Dumas could make you -understand, the shuddering intensity of moral hold; the implacable, mild -pursuit; the potency and success of the Jesuits all the world over. It -is a mistake to associate this self-rooted dislike of the Jesuits with -bigoted Protestantism or blatant atheism. Read the exquisite stories of -Ferdinand Fabre, studies by a sincere Catholic of Catholic life, which -bear upon the underhand persecution of excellent, well-meaning country -priests by what are called the Congregationalists, the Black Army, the -Jesuits chiefly. Read that delightful study of Cévennes life under the -Restoration, _Jacquou le Croquant_, by Eugene Le Roy, and see how a good -French Catholic, who loves and reveres the saintly village curate, can -loathe his enemies, the Jesuits. Here, too, as in Ferdinand Fabre’s _Mon -Oncle Celestin_, a beautiful soul, a kind of early Christian,—who lives -only to do good around him, whose life is one long lesson of love, of -sacrifice, and abnegation,—is hounded out of the priesthood, falsely -accused, horribly slandered, and excommunicated; and all by the secret -manœuvres of the Jesuits, because he accepted the Republic, deeming it -more the priest’s duty to concern himself with the private interests -and sorrows and trials of his flock than to dabble in politics; more -occupied in spreading the evangelical precept, “Love one another,” -than in maintaining the power of the Church. I count among my friends -Jesuits whom I like and appreciate, for whose private character I have -the highest possible esteem, whom I have found in all respects amiable, -educated gentlemen, full of gaiety and charm, and of a sympathetic -address rarely to be met with in any other class of men. But of the -order and its principles, based upon knowledge, I feel nothing but -dislike. The Jesuits in China, in South America, have, I understand, -and willingly believe, done good work. We know that they are brave, and -can sacrifice their lives in the cause of their religion. I know from -personal experience that they can be the most charming and sympathetic of -men. But can anyone point out the good they have done in Europe? What are -their charities? What are their good deeds? What noble use do they make -of their extraordinary worldly influence? For, wherever they establish -themselves, it is the world of fashion, and not the poor, they gather -round them. When they open schools, it is for the rich, for the powerful, -for the aristocrats of the land. If you pass their doors, it is carriages -you will see there; well-dressed ladies and men of fashion you will find -on their steps, and not the outcast, the abandoned wife and children, -miserable, poor, and withered humanity. The order is essentially a -political and not a Christian order, established to work upon the -wealthy, and to obtain their suffrages. - -In proof of this statement I need only quote a common phrase among -middle-class Catholics, “If you are not rich or clever, never go near the -Jesuits.” They appreciate brains as much as money, for they can make good -use of both, but you will never hear their praises sung by the poor, the -“little” class, useful neither socially nor politically, through whom -they cannot hope to advance their order and secure it prestige. The order -was founded by an aristocrat and a soldier. Aristocratic it has ever -since remained in its sympathies; and the moral of the Dreyfus affair has -given us a good notion of the military principles of honour, justice, -and truth which modern France owes to its training. For assuredly it is -the Jesuits who have exercised a wider influence upon the educational -forces of France than any other society; it is they who are the deadliest -enemy of the Republic; and as they hold all the forts of tradition, -aristocratic, fashionable, and military, France may be said to be in -their hands. It is to be hoped that when posterity comes to judge the -recent crisis through which France has passed it will not spare a society -which deserves ill at the hands of humanity. - -One of the things for which the Jesuits are to be praised or blamed, -according as you may view the proceeding, is the extraordinary way they -follow their pupil out into the world and through the various phases of -his career. If he forsakes them, as the harassed hero of _L’Empreinte_ -does, an invisible hand arrests his course at every step. He is the -victim of the implacable pursuit of those who trained him, while he can -never throw off the habit of dissimulation acquired in his impressionable -youth. Let him go where he will, let him be what he will, the moral of -M. Estaunié’s masterly study is that he is stamped with the imperishable -stamp of Jesuitism. He cannot be frank and straightforward, even with a -violent effort, and he knows that, whatever he does, he is being watched -and followed. _L’Empreinte_ is a book that should be given to every newly -married pair, in the hope of making them think twice when their son -is born, before deciding to have him brought up by the Jesuits. Since -France is, on the whole, a Catholic country, it would be unfair to the -large majority of the race to attempt to suppress the seminaries, and -prevent French boys from being trained by priests. If the professors are -laymen, with a tolerably free hand, there is no reason why the principals -should not be ecclesiastics. A good priest can do no harm anywhere, if -only he will abstain from politics and sedition. Indeed, if he thought -a little more of rigid truthfulness, and recognised the value of sports -in a boy’s training, I should be disposed to regard him as an excellent -college principal, for we may be sure that his influence will be directed -against vice of every kind. Unfortunately, the ecclesiastical temperament -tends to undue interference and espionage, for which the habits of the -confessional are mainly responsible. In these novels by Jesuit pupils -in revolt, the abuses of the confessional in the training of boys are -clearly indicated, and though these abuses are considerably diminished in -the case of secular priests, I still have no faith in the discretion of -the good Fathers of Stanislas. - -When I was present at the distribution of prizes at the Sorbonne, a very -imposing spectacle, the display of Stanislas was that of a charming, -well-bred group of French lads, but behind each I saw the spectre of -dissimulation, the insidious suggestion of the “priestly Father,” and -the glory of the Church to the detriment of the State, the significant, -inalterable law of Catholicity, that the triumph of good is the -justification of evil, and that the law of Christ is less important than -the maintenance of sacerdotal prestige and power. I looked attentively -at those boys, and asked myself what the value of such training could -be for them. For the priests who have educated them, they represent so -many prized instruments against the Republic, and possibly so many future -souls in paradise. But they themselves? When the present fashionable -craze for mere “exterior” Catholicity—which is nothing more than an -exasperated revolt against foreign influences, on a level, in the record -of modern civilisation, with the outbreak of the Boxers of China—shall -have exhausted itself, many of the lads will be mediocre freethinkers; -the greater part will be what are euphemistically called “non-practical -Catholics,” that is, men who are not expected to go to Mass of a Sunday -in the shooting season, because it interferes with their sport; who -regard confession as a distraction for women; who allow neither God nor -the devil to stand between them and the most shameless vices, but who are -married and buried by the ritual of Holy Mother, the Church, and whose -friends, after their death, piously contemplate them aloft, wreathed and -winged, playing harps and chanting hymns, who in life never listened with -pleasure to any but ribald songs and unedifying verse. - -I have read attentively a little _mémoire_ of the Stanislas College, -relating all that is to be told about its routine and order. A sadder -pamphlet in connection with boyhood could not be found anywhere. Not a -moment’s liberty, not an hour of honest gaiety; under the eye of the -overseer from their up-rising to their down-lying. It is bad enough to -think of girls so trained in convents; but as the world expects less -initiative, less independence, from women, it matters less for them, -though it matters much more than parents believe. But who can expect such -an unhealthy system as that of Stanislas to turn out straightforward, -manly youths? I will translate some of the laws of the institution, and -the reader may judge for himself. If it makes him wish to have been -brought up at Stanislas, under the care of the good Marists (priests -devoted to the service of Mary), I can only say that I do not envy his -taste. To begin with, the system of emulation I regard as disastrous; -it invariably opens the door to cheating and lying, to jealousy and -ill-will. Pride, sense of duty, affection for their masters, are much -higher incentives to study than marks, which imply too much espionage -on the part of the masters. Stanislas teaches by the desire of reward -and the fear of punishment. Even in the case of very young children I -hold that this system is deplorable; in that of youths, who are fencing, -riding, studying philosophy and the higher mathematics, I can only -qualify it as idiotic. Why should a boy receive a prize for behaving -himself decently? The moment you put a premium on good conduct you -invite the hypocritical to perfect themselves in the art of duplicity in -order to compete for it. What master can honestly pronounce on a boy’s -character, and swear that the good boy is quite as good as he looks? The -moment you tell him that to appear good is to merit a prize, his goodness -ceases to be disinterested, and, therefore, virtuous; and in order not -to lose his own prize, won by the assiduous suppression of impulse, of -temperamental revelation, of all natural instinct, is he not apt to fall -into the approved vice of assisting in the discovery of the faults of -his rivals? The only prizes we can accept without moral danger are those -awarded for actual work done. These have their pitfalls for character -too, but there is not nearly such peril of demoralisation. The conduct -and work of pupils are appreciated every week by the number of marks, and -rewards and punishments are allotted accordingly. A hundred marks buys an -outing. Is not this atrocious? That bad conduct should keep a boy indoors -when he might be out with his parents is a recognised form of punishment -for ill-behaviour; but that he should have to purchase by marks the -right to go out seems to me altogether wrong. Even a boy should have his -rights, his heritage of free birth; and to be forced to pay for these -upon the judgment of others is an iniquity. Forty-one long pages are -devoted to the explanation of this futile, shabby, and spying system of -emulation, a kind of artificial moral respiration, in which all apertures -for simplicity, frankness, and spontaneity are hermetically sealed. - -[Illustration: THE CHAMBER OF DEPUTIES] - -Here, now, are the rules of the establishment. Silence is compulsory, -except at recreation hours, and then speech is strictly controlled by -the president, for, says the pamphlet, “One of the first conditions -of the college order is silence; those who are unable to keep silence -are running the risk of utter ignorance and worthlessness.” One of the -attributes of piety, also enjoined, is found to be “friendship for -those who are worthy of it.” I should like the Marists to explain to me -what they mean by such an extraordinary assertion. In the first place, -who is to pronounce on the kind of person worthy of friendship, least -of all a schoolboy? Is the pious boy himself worthy of inspiring the -sentiment? Many a pious person is incapable of feeling friendship for -anybody. This does not take from his piety. It merely proves that he is -charming, or cordial, or good-natured, which many an impious soul may -be. And why seek to turn a pleasing young animal into a hateful little -prig, asking himself, when he should be playing games and flattening -an enemy’s nose, if the boy he projects bestowing his friendship on is -worthy or not of it? Let the other boy be a black, a brute, or a beggar, -his comrade should be content if he likes him. Friendship can never have -a more solid, human, and wholesome basis. When we read this sentence we -feel that the little Stanislas prig, with his eyes turned down, and his -toes turned out, wants a good kicking. If only one could hope to see his -nose bleed! but alas! these are the laws of the recreation ground: “All -violent and dangerous games are forbidden, likewise all games that touch -upon gambling, and cries, and songs, and whistling, and, in general, all -that resembles disorder of any kind. It is forbidden to fling stones, -to communicate with pupils of another division, to lie on the ground, -to drag one another about, to fight. And the pupils can never leave the -recreation-ground without leave.” - -If, after that, the reader does not agree with me that it is a fine thing -to be a British lad, with his cricket, his football, his occasional -black eyes, his surreptitious feeding, his long-drawn accounts with -the lemonade and ginger-wine merchant, his chatter, and escapades, -I can only advise that misguided individual to send his son with -all haste to Stanislas, and let him be turned out in its approved -fashion, a first-rate, consummate prig and humbug, a well-mannered, -French-speaking young hypocrite, perfected in the art of duplicity and -self-repression, who, on the order of the Marist Fathers, only bestows -his friendship on those worthy of it—individuals, it is to be hoped, of -his own self-conscious, sanctimonious way of thinking. He has been bred -to calculate the value of every action and every word, for each leads -to punishment or reward. He has never, for five mortal minutes, been -permitted to show himself for the young barbarian he is. He is a pious -old diplomat, a rascal in _posse_, a sage in _esse_, when he ought to -be a simple, high-spirited, or dreaming child. Between his spiritual -readings, his meditations, his confessions, church services, retreats, -and rigid discipline, whose control of every minute only ceases when the -poor martyr enters the lovely land of dreams,—where the Marists, if they -could, would follow him, to see that imagination played no tricks on -their training, and that in that world of vagaries and topsyturvyism he -was still the pious, silent, and obedient lad they had formed,—he is not -a form of boyhood it is pleasant to contemplate. He is allowed fifteen -minutes to dress of a morning, under watch, to see “that he dresses -promptly and decently beside his bed,” and out of that there is not much -time for ablutions. Possibly, like the kings of France, his washing -consists of ten fingers dipped into a basin no larger than a milk-bowl. -In class he must make no movement of foot or desk, his mind must not -wander, he may not open any other book but the class-book in use, he -must not draw, or give himself up to any frivolous occupation—presumably -verse-making. If he has need to open his desk, he must only lift the lid -half-way, and never lock it, as the prefect visits it once a week. He -washes his feet once a week and his body once a month, and in summer -bathes twice a week. In the parlour he can be visited only by his -parents, or persons duly authorised by his parents, and when he goes home -of a Sunday he must be escorted from the college and back by a “person of -confidence,” furnished with a signed and dated letter. This person can -under no circumstances be accepted if a young man. - -Those who have the responsibility of the Stanislas pupil on his outing -must observe the precautions exacted by the directors. On going out he -receives an entrance ticket, which his parents or guardian must fill up -with the details of his day, and this account is verified and stamped on -his return to the college. The pupil who returns without an escort is -punished for a month. Should he obtain leave on false pretences, he is -expelled. He can advance by a day or prolong for a day his winter and -Easter vacations, by payment of three thousand marks. His letters to -his parents or guardian are not read, but they must bear the signature -of these on the envelope to assure their privacy; all the rest of his -correspondence is under strict control, and the introduction of a book, -not a class one, a pamphlet, or a newspaper, constitutes an infraction -of the rules so grave as to merit expulsion. This system of education -begins at childhood, when he enters the eleventh class and graduates -into the preparatory classes for the Naval School and St. Cyr, when his -moustache is beginning to bud and he is still supposed to bestow his -friendship on those who are worthy of it. Poor youth! He has learnt -everything—from the Catechism to mathematics, from philosophy (of a kind) -to fencing, riding, and gymnastics (also of a kind, and warranted never -to last longer than half an hour, twice a week)—except simple manliness, -independence, and the real philosophy, which will help to carry him -decently through the surprises and snares of existence, and help him -to meet unaided an emergency. Toss him roughly from his Stanislas bark -upon the turbulent sea of experience, and what may you expect from this -fatuous, trained young hypocrite? The wave rolls over him, carries him -to the bottom, and he comes up all covered with mud. Of course he abuses -freedom, a stimulant he has never known, and he speedily converts it into -the intoxicant of licence. - -It will be seen that the training of boys, whether in French seminaries -or in French _lycées_, is not the most perfect of its kind. There is -the careful home-training, too, which is, of course, the best. But here -also the shadow of the Church towers over childhood. The boy leaves his -nurse’s hands to toddle into those of his ecclesiastical tutor, Monsieur -l’Abbé. He attends _cours_ and studies at home, with the priest, and -when he attends the classes of a _lycée_ he is duly escorted back and -forth, with all imaginable precautions to prevent from getting in his -mind what should not be there; and finally he is sent to St. Cyr or -Saumur, with the usual results. Gyp has given us an amusing sketch of the -innocent little lad of this period in _Le Petit Bob_, about as black a -little rascal as ever breathed, and of the model Jesuit boy, “Monsieur -Fred,” an accomplished rake, when he is not supposed to look above the -rim of his prayer-book. - -And now let us glance at the training of the girls. This is, if possible, -more deplorable than that of the boys. But it is an admirable testimony -to the natural superiority of the Frenchwoman’s character that even the -long-persistent effort to spoil her in early years does not prevent -her from turning her liberty, when it comes, to excellent account. The -little French girl in her mother’s home is happier, I believe, than any -other little girl of the world. No child has such tender, such watchful, -such devoted, parents as she. She is enveloped in love and care from -her cradle, and her privilege is to hear delightful speech about her. A -foreign _gouvernante_ will be engaged to teach her whatever language it -is intended she shall speak fluently—German or English. If she is not to -go to a convent (and this will be, in her interest, the only intelligent -decision) she attends _cours_ like her brother, and the _gouvernante_ -is superseded by the certificated governess. A good governess, that -is, a cultured and liberal-minded lady, is a priceless blessing, but, -unhappily, she is rare. I do not know why the best class of women avoid -the mission of training the young, for, in the case of a woman without -children of her own to train, it ought to be regarded as an exceptionally -noble undertaking. It is not, however; and more’s the pity. Society is -to blame, with its inane traditions, and, along with it, the senseless -passion for inflicting slight and pain upon those in an inferior position -which besets so many women in their own homes. And so, not wishing to be -treated as servants, without any proper status or dignity, the superior -women, who would make the best governesses, seek more independent and -congenial occupation; and the training of girls at home falls into the -hands of hopeless mediocrities, who have little knowledge and less -manners, whose point of view is squalid and shabby and personal. I have -listened to the complaints of many an unhappy governess, and I will own -I have always been shocked and sickened by the silly way these women -allow their lives to be poisoned by considerations they should have the -dignity to ignore. How are young women to acquire a noble influence -over their pupils when they are busy lamenting the fact that biscuits -at lunch were not offered to them, or other such material and vulgar -slights which they usually dwell upon as unendurable? If they have heart -enough to love, and brains enough to teach and guide, their pupils, and -sufficient independence of character not to let themselves be trampled -upon, overworked, or snubbed, of what would they have to complain? Let -them raise the tone of their position, and they will get all the respect -they need and have a right to. I know Frenchwomen who are grandmothers, -who still love and admire the feeble and disabled governesses of their -girlhood who have helped to train their children and their grandchildren. -But in France the superior woman, who might have made an excellent -governess, is apt to enter one of the teaching orders, where, instead of -doing the good she was intended to do singly, she helps in the crowd to -work evil. - -The home education of girls will be referred to in another chapter; here -I wish to treat of the other kind,—the conventual training. Speaking from -extensive knowledge of it, and of wide personal experience, I do not -hesitate to qualify it as the very worst possible. It is bad everywhere, -but nowhere is it so bad as in France. Its essential object is the -destruction of independence and candour. I do not say that a frank girl -will never be met with in a convent, but you will never find her among -the privileged ones; she will be one of the black sheep, one of the -unpliable, one of those who cannot be utilised to full advantage for the -greater glory of God, A. M. D. G.! There never was a more subtle legend -invented by man for the pursuit of his own aims under the mantle of -self-abnegation. - -The convent girl is the creature of her environment. You will know her -by the hall-mark of her manners. These will be perfect when she comes -out of The Assumption, or any other Parisian convent of fashionable -renown. Wealthy converted Jews, of rabid anti-Semitic tendencies, send -their daughters to these famous establishments for the knotting of useful -social ties. I have known of the children of a great foreign merchant -being accepted in one of these centres of aristocratic exclusiveness, -on the condition that they concealed the fact that they belonged to the -commercial classes, and the result was that the unfortunate children, -with the natural ease of their imaginative years, drifted into glorious -bragging and lying. There was no objection on the part of their trainers -to any exercise of imagination that served to ennoble them; the objection -would have been provoked by betrayal of the truth. It will be said that -this is an exceptional example perhaps. Not so. The last thing recognised -by nuns is the virtue of poverty, the value of the lowly born. This -fact is so widely recognised by women who visit convents that they -themselves will not conceal from you the importance nuns attach to dress, -and their indifference to shabbily attired visitors. I still vividly -remember a rebuke addressed to a girl in an Irish convent who had got -into a scrape with a companion of inferior social rank. “I am surprised -at your choice of companion,” said the nun loftily. “Remember, should -you and she encounter outside these walls, you will be in your carriage -and she will be on foot, and she may count herself honoured if you are -permitted to salute her.” There is no reason why there should not be -vulgar-minded women within convent walls as well as within the walls of -pomp and fashion, for, alas! vulgarity and snobbishness abound; but it -is significant that nuns, of whatever nationality you find them, have a -strong predilection for the wealthy and well-born. So, it will be said, -have the large majority of people, regarding these as the elect of the -earth. Well, if so, let girls, when they come to be women, find this out -for themselves. But as children and girls, let not their freedom, their -spontaneity, be hampered by such unlovely distinctions. Teach them to -love all that is good and pleasant in humanity, and let the daughter of a -marchioness at school make friends with the daughter of a grocer, without -condescension on one side, or undue humility or concealment on the other. -Why should not a school seek rather to be a republic, based upon the -lovable and republican principles of Christ’s Christianity? The children -of both classes will be the gainers, and each will leave school with a -hearty esteem for the other. Relations can terminate here, for there -is no reason why school girls should continue to be friends if their -parents see any cause for objection to the intimacy; but there is every -reason that they should learn to appreciate the good there is to be found -in those of a different social rank from theirs—inferior or superior. -This is the very last thing they may hope to learn in a fashionable -convent, since there are no greater worshippers at the shrine of birth -and fortune than nuns. I am aware that the difficulties in the way of -maintaining such a free mingling of the classes would assuredly come from -the parents. The nobles would be horrified if assurance were withheld -of perfect social exclusiveness for their offspring, and still more -angry would be the sham nobles, the purse-proud snobs, whose selection -of a convent for their daughters depends solely upon its fashionable -reputation. It may also be contended that the society of the better -classes unfits a girl of the commercial class for her after surroundings. -But this fact also is based upon false prejudice. Lift the girl’s moral -tone, and she will find something else in the acquirement of good manners -than contempt of her equals. - -My next and still greater charge against conventual education is the -elimination by strict supervision of all sentiment of honour. In France -two girls are forbidden to talk in the recreation-ground. When they -are seen to do so, instead of being separated in an open fashion, a -third is secretly ordered to go and join them in a friendly way, and -then return and report the subject of their talk to the nun in charge. -Needless to say, only the girls regarded as trustworthy and virtuous are -told off for this diplomatic duty. I myself, being a hopelessly black -sheep, and, in consequence, excellent material for the exercise of this -peculiar form of virtue, was long enough its victim before I grasped the -fact, and could not understand how reverend mothers and such exalted -personages came to be familiar with all my whispered revolutionary -chatter. It would be wonderful if girls so trained should in after -life scruple to read letters, to steam them if necessary, to listen at -doors, and to betray confidences of every kind. And girls who know no -other form of distraction and play than the dull walking up and down the -recreation-ground, the nightly trial of round games, where you sit in -a large circle on benches, with a string and a button attached to it, -which one girl passes to the other through her closed fist, all singing -French _rondes_, such as _J’ai perdu le cor de ma clarionette_, or -_Malbrouck s’en va-t-en guerre_, or the glories of Cadet Roussel? And -this, remember, for girls of sixteen and seventeen—craving intelligent -and exciting pastimes! - -How fervently I used to bless the headache or cold that permitted me to -slip up to bed after supper, and escape from the evening recreation into -the more peopled and interesting solitude of my own thoughts. Things -may be better since my day. Tennis, bathing, golf, cricket, and racing -may now be admitted as feminine pastimes in those holy establishments -where I spent so many miserable and profitless years. I hear that even -baths are introduced, and that it is no longer deemed by French nuns an -offence against modesty to wash oneself. But I recall a very different -state of affairs—a state so curious that my French friends do not like -to credit it when I assure them of it. I was fourteen when I was sent -to school in France to acquire the tongue of courts and diplomacy. On -the first morning that I awoke in the long, white-curtained dormitory, I -proceeded to wash and dress myself as I had been taught to wash and dress -in English convents. I had deposited my dressing-gown on my bed, and was -splashing my neck with water, when, to my astonishment, a nun approached -me noiselessly, lifted my dressing-gown from the bed, and holding her -shocked glance averted murmured, _La pudeur, mon enfant, la pudeur_, -as she covered my dripping neck in the folds of my dressing-gown. When -I clamoured for an explanation, I was told it was not considered decent -in France for a young girl to wash her neck. We were worse off than the -young gentlemen of Stanislas, whose feet are washed once a week; ours -were washed only once a fortnight, and then a cloth was kept over them, -lest the sight of our naked feet in the water should lead to the loss of -our souls. For the years I was there, nobody, to my knowledge, ever had a -bath of any kind. However, this is all changed, I am happy to say. French -nuns have had to move with the times and accept the modern institution of -baths. - -I hope they have also grown to accept the institution of men. When I -was at school we were strictly forbidden to lift our eyes to a man’s -face. When the old doctor of eighty passed through the courtyard, if any -of us happened to be about there was an instant cry of alarm, _Baissez -les yeux, mesdemoiselles. Il y a du monde._ _Du monde_ always meant -the wolf in trousers and coat, and we were invited ever to tremble, -blush, and lower our eyes in the dreadful creature’s presence. It was a -garrison town, and whenever we walked abroad and found officers upon our -path nuns would skurry down our black-robed ranks, crying in terrified -undertones, _Baissez les yeux, mesdemoiselles. Messieurs les officiers -vous regardent._ Will any one explain to me the mental and moral value of -such training? Is it not shocking that innocent girls should be bred in -the notion that there is any reason why they should not look men frankly -and simply in the face? - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -NATIONAL INSTITUTIONS - - -Among the national institutions of France, the place of honour must -undoubtedly be given to the Académie Française; not because of its -utility, still less for the amount of respect and admiration it deserves. -My own opinion is, that a more fantastic and ridiculous institution was -never invented; and to-day it has no connexion between our democratic -times and the monstrous period in which it was founded. Why forty -respectable gentlemen who happen to have written books more or less good -(and by no means always such as to justify their election), composed -tolerable operas, written amusing or instructive plays, as the case may -be, should not have been content with the applause and pence of their -fellows, but must needs array themselves in an absurd uniform, with -triumphant green palm-leaves embroidered over a modern coat, and a toy -sword at their side, and play at immortality, is what I have never been -able to understand. As if the votes of his contemporaries can possibly -decide the question of a man’s immortality! - -Read over the lists of academicians since Richelieu’s time, and see how -many among all those names you will ever have heard of. Intrigue and -prejudice frequently settle the question of a day’s immortality. But in -the case of a century’s fame it requires solid merit of a higher order -than that which is often necessary to secure the election of a candidate -to an armchair among the favoured Forty. Flaubert and Maupassant -assuredly hold very different places in French literature from those -occupied by the mild André Theuriet and the dull Paul Bourget; and it -is as difficult to explain the absence of Balzac from this literary -club half a century ago as it is to explain the presence there to-day -of M. Henri Lavedan. The mystified foreigner notes that Balzac created -the colossal _Comédie Humaine_, and that M. Lavedan wrote _Le Vieux -Marcheur_, and is apt to tell himself gleefully that the judgment of the -elect in France is no wiser, no more judicious, than that of the common -herd elsewhere. But of course the institution, with its pretentious -traditions, its mock air of the _ancien régime_, is only a club, whose -members choose their society upon other than intellectual grounds. There -is a great deal of wire-pulling, too, in the matter, chiefly done by -women. In fact, when the noble dames of the Faubourg decide to run a -candidate, he is pretty certain to be elected. Loti was run by those -ladies, and the first thing he did was to scare the club by breaking with -all its traditions and making a mockery of academic urbanity. Lavedan, -as a reactionary candidate, was naturally the protected of clericals, -aristocrats, and the flower of snobbery, and committed a still greater -breach of academic etiquette than Loti, by a veiled and sneering attack -upon the dead he was deputed to belaud. - -[Illustration: THE FRENCH ACADEMY] - -I was present at this extraordinary _séance_, and, although the Marquis -Costa de Beauregard is an academician whom posterity may in all safety be -reckoned on to ignore, it was impossible to withhold cordial recognition -of the justice and good taste of his sharp retort to the inexcusable -offender. Meilhac, whose empty chair M. Lavedan was elected to fill, may -or may not have been as black as his appointed eulogist painted him, but -the Academy was not the place to attack this character, and the occasion -chosen by M. Lavedan was as indelicate as if he had selected a man’s open -grave, with mourning relatives and friends around, for disrespectful -usage of his name. Stupefied, as was everyone else by this singular -proceeding, I questioned a friend whose privilege it is to wear the -palm-embroidered coat and mother-of-pearl sword, and was told that this -was M. Lavedan’s way of avenging the disapproval of the Academy of his -_Vieux Marcheur_, played only after his election. These nervous elderly -gentlemen, unacquainted with the literature of their new colleague, were -desperately alarmed when they were made aware of the nature of this -popular and shocking play. The sensations of the hen affrighted on the -edge of a pool where her duckling is disporting were nothing to theirs; -and so the author, at bay, took his revenge by endeavouring, with more -talent than taste, to prove to them that, if they did not relish the -_Vieux Marcheur_ (something in the style of “sad old rake”) out of their -doors, they could be extremely indulgent to the same type of gentleman -within those sacred precincts. At a more recent election, that of M. -Paul Hervieu, M. Brunetière, reversing the order of contumely, was -nothing loath to poke blame at the newly received Immortal because of -his social cynicism and the unkind pictures M. Hervieu has drawn of the -world of men and women M. Brunetière delights to honour. But we need not -penetrate beneath the surface to explain such an inhospitable fashion -of receiving a candidate into this classical club. M. Brunetière, the -discoverer of Bossuet, is a fervent reactionary. The Church, the Army, -Society,—behold his gods!—with the result that, in the deadly conflict -waged for two years round an unfortunate Jew, M. Brunetière went with -the unjust majority, while M. Hervieu, the author of that dramatic and -brilliant thesis on Feminism, _La Loi de l’Homme_, went with the just -and liberal minority. It needed nothing more to give him over as a meal -to the omnivorous editor of the _Revue des deux Mondes_, whose virtuous -indignation against M. Hervieu’s generous cry for justice to women knew -no bounds. - -In the present divided state of France, with anti-Semitism raging and -disaffection rife in all quarters, even a pacific academical reception -approaches the verbal war waged in the arena of politics conducted -with leisure and urbanity. The ceremonial is imposing and of a supreme -dulness. If you have a centre seat, the wise thing to do is to go early -and amuse yourself by watching the arrivals; or manage to arrive at the -last moment, and you will have the best seat of all, in the very middle -of the hall, literally at the feet of the Immortals. If you know all -Paris, you will enjoy yourself, for you will see and be seen of all -Paris, and the dresses are usually worth looking at. After that you have -the mild excitement of watching the Immortals enter, to your surprise not -in academical raiment, but in ordinary coats, wearing the air of ordinary -men. Only the godfathers of the newly elected, the perpetual secretary, -the chancellor, always the latest member, and the gentleman deputed to -receive the new Immortal wear the sword and palm-embroidered coat. There -are no arm-chairs, but wooden benches ill adapted to the ease of age. -The classical hall is about as squalid and uncomfortable a vestibule of -posterity as one could wish to see, and is so ill-ventilated that, when -it is full, as it always is, to excess, the spectators are frequently -threatened with apoplexy or syncope. Whenever I get away sound and alive -from beneath the celebrated cupola, I always feel that I have escaped -unharmed from actual peril. - -Then the newly elected stands at a reading-desk and reads out the -eulogy of his predecessor, which a committee has already been convened -to consider, and when he terminates his “discourse,” his godfathers -warmly shake his hand, and he sits down. The academician who receives -him in the name of the august assembly replies, and reads his discourse -sitting, placed between the chancellor and secretary, at the centre -table, on a high daïs. When the speakers read their discourses as M. -Brunetière reads his, it is a pleasure, whether you agree with them or -not; but this is rare, for M. Brunetière was meant by nature to be a -preacher or an actor. His elocution is magnificent, his voice arresting; -whereas the average man is hard to follow and, in winter, is apt to -have a cold in his head. After the ceremony, greetings during the exit, -which is slow and precarious, and in the big courtyard proclaim you a -fashionable person, and reveal to you the utter vanity of the whole -affair. Then you understand why it is that women are supposed to be the -pillars of the institution. There is something essentially wrong about -fashionable women. They must, perforce, worship false gods. When they -admire a writer, or a musician, or a dramatist, they are not happy until -they see him in a false position. They must make a fool of him before -they can consent to worship him. He administers to their vanity, and -they administer to his. And so they go in a body to crown him; and not -to be present at the crowning is a confession of social inferiority. -Being more intelligent than the same class of women elsewhere, their -folly takes this form of rendering interesting men ridiculous. If I -thought them capable of humour and irony (which they are not), I might -regard this as the supreme vengeance of their sex, excluded by national -prejudice from all public honours. But, alas! no. They are in deadly -earnest, and take their great men with rapture and gravity. They, at any -rate, and the Immortals themselves, really believe in the Academy. They -swallow each other, and piously give thanks for the meal. The fashionable -woman hastens to invite the new Immortal to dinner for the exquisite -satisfaction of giving him the place of honour and conferring distinction -upon herself. - -“However,” as Sainte-Beuve says, “we may jeer at the French Academy, but -it has not ceased to be popular in Europe.” Foreigners and Parisians -are equally eager for tickets, and French genius more eager than either -for the prizes and renown it confers. It is one of the monarchical -institutions restored by the Convention after its suppression in the -Terror. Only, instead of the monarchical Institute it had been, it -became a national Institute, existing by grace of the State and the -people, and not by that of a minister like Richelieu, or a monarch like -Louis XIV. It was thus composed of a hundred and forty-four members in -Paris, and an equal number in the provinces, with power to associate -twenty-four learned men with its corps. It was divided into three parts: -Physical and Mathematical Sciences, Moral and Political Sciences, and -Literature and the Fine Arts. This new national Institute was opened on -the 4th of April, 1796, when Daunou pronounced the inaugural address. -In those days there was no such thing as a perpetual secretary. The -excellent republican spirit of the State was naturally modified under -the Consulate, and completely demoralised under the Empire. Napoleon -reinstituted the perpetual secretary of the _ancien régime_, suppressed -the class of Political and Moral Sciences,—the least to be expected of -a political dictator without any notion of morality,—and divided the -two other classes into three, and thus restored the ancient Academy -of Sciences, French Academy, Academy of Inscriptions and Letters, -the Academies of Painting and Sculpture. Hence grew the ambition to -connect, in unbroken continuity, the defunct institution of a vanished -monarchy and the new institution of the Directory. In 1803, it began the -reactionary period, and posed as Royalist in sentiments and opinions. -Sainte-Beuve defines the Academy as that of the reigning perpetual -secretary. - -What the Academy really remains is the home of tradition. Here the main -thing is not intellect, but distinction; not genius, but the consummate -perfection of expression. Urbanity is its hall-mark, and what it most -dreads in originality is the abuse of novelty. You may have little to -say; only see that your way of saying it cannot be bettered. It has -been blamed for excluding from its ranks so much real genius; and this -blame would, of course, be earned by it if its object were so much the -recognition of genius as the welcome to its midst of a congenial spirit. -Gautier, with his long hair and red waistcoat, was not a congenial -spirit, though if finish of style, charm, urbanity, and exquisite grace -are accounted academical graces, there never was a writer to whom the -term “born academician” was more applicable. But the Academy always -sees that there is a bulldog on the threshold to show his teeth to the -“masters” of to-morrow; a pedagogue to teach the aspirants to academical -honours how they should write and think, and what small beer their -literary pretensions are regarded by the Forty Immortals he speaks for -so arrogantly. The bulldog of the hour is M. Brunetière. This unamiable -pedant, the enemy of individualism and youth, the enemy of all things -not hall-marked with his pontifical approval, has announced that Zola -can enter the Academy only across his dead body. He has many hatreds -to balance the immensity of his single love and admiration, the Eagle -of Meaux, but none that can compare with his implacable hostility to -Zola. And yet this academical pontiff, who disapproved of Daudet, wiped -out the Naturalists, shot bilious blame at M. Jules Lemaître (that was -before this amiable individual sought ridicule in the famous Ligue de -la Patrie Française, a sentiment he, MM. Coppée, and Barrès were the -first Frenchmen of their time to discover) and at Anatole France, whose -shoe-strings he is not fit to tie, allows M. Henri Lavedan to sit beside -him, and does not repudiate _Le Vieux Marcheur_. - -While all France has been divided of late, it would be demanding a -superhuman effort of urbanity and harmony from the Immortals to expect a -concord of sweet sounds to be heard beneath the famed cupola. Politics -have introduced their consequent animosity and bitterness here as -elsewhere, and the academicians, like the rest of their compatriots, -are ranged in two defiant and hostile camps. I am bound to say that the -_élite_ is with the splendid and disinterested minority. It is sad to -witness the extraordinary capers, the passion for popularity in which an -intelligent man like M. Lemaître indulges, and to see him brandishing -a wild pen and shouting in every tone of anger; so little dignity and -common sense are left a Frenchman when hate and rancour hold him and -when race-fury rolls over the land like a tidal wave, _Vive l’armée!_ -This famous critic has betaken himself to a sort of politics invented -for the hour—a feverish antagonism to foreigners and all foreign -influences, and a passion for every form of sabred hero. He goes from -the Clotilde to Notre Dame, from Notre Dame to the Madeleine, in the -glorious attitude and humour of the Irishman at Donnybrook Fair, seeking -for somebody in the crowd who will tread upon the tail of his coat. This -offence may be committed by cheering the Republic or its President; -then there is instant competition in pugilism. And so M. Lemaître, -accompanied and admirably assisted by his no less heroic and patriotic -fellow academician, M. Coppée, forgets academical urbanity in wild and -incoherent abuse of living persons and respectable citizens who happen -not to think as he does. - -This state of affairs has given rise to countless rumours and jokes over -the compilation of the eternal dictionary upon which the illustrious -company is engaged. How is it possible for men who disagree upon the -essentials of morality, justice, honour, and truth to agree upon the -definition of a word? In olden days the occasional antagonisms of this -renowned salon were rare or were revealed with a sympathetic vivacity -and wit. Sainte-Beuve could say: “The Academy is the place where -literature is the best discussed and where all the amenities are most -rigorously observed.” Now all that is changed. Happily, as an interlude -in internecine warfare, there is the yearly examination of books and -prizes to award. These are many. It is a mistake to believe that a book -crowned by the Academy is necessarily good. Noting one year that several -absolutely bad, as well as many mediocre, books had been crowned, and -sums of money awarded to the malefactors who had perpetrated them, I -asked an academician how it was. His explanation was, that so much must -be spent on prizes every year, whether there are books to crown or not, -as it would excessively complicate the affairs of such a rich body if -these sums were allowed to accumulate. Of course there are certain -large prizes, such as the Jean Reynaud (£400), which are carefully and -justly disposed of, but the multiple insignificant ones of £10, £20, and -£40, are distributed as well as they can be in days when there is not a -plethora of real talent in France. It is not only literary works that -merit academical prizes. There is the Montyon prize, awarded to “the poor -French man or woman who has done the most virtuous action during the -year.” The sum spent on prizes under this head is £800, and it is divided -between several poor persons whose lives are looked into, and of whom -usually a touching and admirable picture is drawn. It would not be in the -nature of things if the distribution of this prize did not provoke much -humorous comment in France. Some satirists maintain that the candidates -for the Montyon prize invariably go to the dogs after they have been -rewarded. I was once present at the reading out of the numerous actions -so recompensed by M. Brunetière, and I was never more deeply impressed by -the splendid record of virtue, of unparalleled abnegation and generosity, -among the French poor. The second Montyon prize is destined to reward the -most useful moral book written during the year. There are also prizes -destined to alleviate literary misfortunes, that is, unfortunate authors -or their widows and families in trouble. - -The old house of Molière is, like the Academy, a permanent attraction -of Paris. It stands in the Rue de Richelieu, on a Place of its own, -a light, animated, illuminated Place, dominated by the columns of the -Théâtre Français. This was established here after the Revolution, and, -thanks to the famous Decree of Moscow, its name is almost as eternally -linked with that of Napoleon as with those of the immortal Molière and of -Louis XIV., a more liberal but not less exacting master of France than -the Corsican adventurer. - -There is not a civilised land that has not something to learn of other -lands. While the French may well envy the more stable and self-respecting -government of England, England might just as well borrow something of -France; and one of the things it ought to envy is the establishment, -two centuries ago, of a national theatre. The result for France has -been the most perfect dramatic school of the world. The suppression -of excessive individuality is a benefit to the entire company, as it -forbids any ambition to “star.” We have seen what the star system has -done for the two great artists who broke away from its traditions to -amass fortunes and fling their reputations to all the quarters of the -globe. South America has had the privilege of hearing Sarah Bernhardt, -but the artist who left the Théâtre Français had genius of a finer -quality and theatrical cultivation of a higher order than those displayed -to-day by this extraordinary woman in the various more or less mediocre -plays she acts in, often without a single other actor or actress worth -listening to. The starring system is essentially the development of -all that is worst in the artist—vulgarity, crude bids for personal -popularity, blighting vanity, and egotism; in a word, all the cheapest -characteristics of the charlatan. It is precisely these ugly defects that -such an institution as the Comédie Française tends to suppress. There -the reputation of the company and not of the individual is at stake. -Minor parts are played by eminent artists, and the excessive vanity and -pretension of the one become the plague of the many. I will not advance -the assertion that everybody in the famous company of the Comédie -Française is equally admirable. Temperament will, of course, prompt your -criticism. For instance, Mounet-Sully is the beloved of many a nation as -well as of thousands of his own countrymen, and I can scarcely listen to -Mounet-Sully with patience. A greater bore I cannot conceive. He belongs -to the Byronic school, the days of cloaked and sabred romance. His sombre -voice lifts itself on a volume of sound, and is flung in mournful and -passionate reproach against the implacable walls of destiny. But yet -in your most exasperated mood, with nerves on edge from his excess of -clouded despair and desperate anguish, you must admit that the man is a -perfect artist, and that such a temperament starring about the globe, -without the control of the company to which he belongs, would drift into -ineffable charlatanism. Poor M. Claretie has much ado to keep him in -order. What would happen if he had a stage of his own to rant and roar -upon? A lesser Sarah Bernhardt, without her inexpressible charm and her -undoubted genius, which in soft interludes help us to bear with the -shrieking, hysteric, high moments. It would be a mistake to regard the -Français as a kind of happy family, living in perfect amity and peace. -The roar of domestic war sometimes penetrates without, and all Paris was -excited lately by M. Le Bargy’s noisy menace of resignation. Le Bargy, -on his own boards, in his own atmosphere, surrounded by his own company, -has made his mark as a well-cravatted, fashionable young lover; but what -will Le Bargy do elsewhere, in a theatre where, with his prestige, and -coming from such a house, he will be expected to fill the stage? I doubt -if there is the stuff of the star in him, and upon the Boulevards there -are many actors as good as and better even than he. This is the triumph -of the Français,—that by means of inexorable tradition and training, -without individuality or genius, actors acting harmoniously, guided by a -common standard, may attain an eminence in their profession achieved in -no other land. And though the chances of fortune and popularity are much -greater outside its walls, popular actors are always proud of the honour -of election into its illustrious company. - -The theatre was founded by Louis XIV., by whom it was made a co-operative -association, and who established pensions for retiring members. It has -two classes of actors: _sociétaires_, who have each an interest in the -theatre, have a voice in its government, a share of the profits, assist -at the choice of plays, and retire with a pension. On retirement, they -possess not only their pension, but a little capital of their own, the -half of their share of the profits of the theatre having been annually -invested for them. The second class is composed of _pensionnaires_, -engaged yearly at a fixed salary, and at the end of a certain period of -probation nominated _sociétaires_. Napoleon chose the most astonishing -hour of his astonishing career for consideration of the destiny of the -Théâtre Français. At Moscow he diverted his mind from colossal disaster -by framing the celebrated Decree of Moscow. The theatre is a State -institution, subsidised by an annual vote of 240,000 francs, in return -for which it is bound to play the old classical repertory twice or thrice -a week. By this means the memory of the masters of the French drama, -Racine, Corneille, and Molière, is kept ever green in France, and is not -less fresh to-day than that of the modern dramatists. - -And so one understands how the entire world was affected by the dreadful -catastrophe not long ago in the burning of this great old house. Neither -M. Claretie, with his eyes full of tears, nor any of the distracted -company was bemoaning a personal loss, was thinking of private interests -in sight of the devastating flames; but all were throbbing, as one -heart, before a national calamity. The civilised world felt it had lost -a precious and a unique thing. The new building will contain most of -the rescued works of art, but the figures of Rachel, of Delaunay, of so -many shades of departed dramatic glory, have gone. The new theatre will -probably be handsomer than the old one, and it could easily be that; it -will also be more modern, more comfortable; it may even be fitted up with -luxury, and, Heaven permit it! that horrid national institution, the -_ouvreuse_, may be abolished. Blessed changes! but we of our generation -will ever be grateful that it was on the old stage we saw Got and -Reichemberg, Worms, Barretta, and Bartet. - -L’École des Beaux Arts is another national institution. In all things -the French passion for art is visible. Art is the one thing the entire -race takes seriously. The capital is laid out to please the eye and -captivate the senses like a work of art. This School of Fine Arts itself -is connected with one of the most radiant bits of Paris. The bridge, -called after it, seizes one of the loveliest views of the city. It -spans the river between the glorious Louvre and the imposing dome of -the Institute. Stand midway, and here, in the heart of modern life, -will you find yourself in the midst of enchantment. Let the vision be -a morning vision, and the lights about you will be pearly, the blue of -the air rose-tinged, the gold of the sun-rays, as it shimmers over the -water, broken and tossed against its blithe, persistent grey. Or see it -at the magical hour of sunset. All the gilt of the Louvre glistens like -living light. Towers and fretted spires are pencilled in the lovely glow, -seemingly enlarged by the large serenity of the atmosphere. Below, the -roll of the river curls into the deep grey hollows of the mysterious -isle whose gates of romance are fittingly guarded by the high towers of -Notre Dame, the church that foreigners will persist in regarding as the -most beautiful of Paris, and whose architectural value has been absurdly -overrated, I suppose because of Victor Hugo; while Saint Étienne-du-Mont, -with its delightful _jubé_, Saint Germain l’Auxerrois, home of poetry, -and the exquisite Sainte Chapelle are neglected for this second-rate -edifice. On one side Richelieu’s dome, fronted by its circling space -which breaks the winding, gracious line of quay and bookstalls; on the -other, Saint Germain l’Auxerrois, bending its Gothic shadow to the bright -glory of the Louvre, and the upward view running past bridges and -gardens, past the grey temple of legislation, to sweep upon a wide curve -into the colonnaded heights of the Trocadero. The picture is enhanced by -the bright verdure of the Tuileries gardens; by the gay, swift passage of -boats; by all the sparkling diversities of Parisian life which fill the -streets with so much colour and charm. When you have crossed the Pont des -Beaux Arts, on which I have kept you standing awhile, you will enter the -school by the busy, old-fashioned, almost provincial Rue Bonaparte. What -a pleasant place it is to be sure, this modern school of art! Here it -is that the famous Prix de Rome is given, which sends hopeful youths to -the very fount and cradle of art for its instruction and gratification, -but not infrequently for the careful destruction of all individuality -of sprouting genius in thrall to academic rule. It is the rigidity -of this academic rule in France which produces such explosions of -anarchy in literature and art. Precision and clarity are such essential -characteristics of the genius of the race that, when turbulent youth in -a tempest of revolt against the discipline of the implacable academies -decides to fling its cap over the mill, and carve out its own fresh road -to the devil, we are shocked by eccentricities that elsewhere would leave -us unmoved. - -If youth must occasionally go mad, at least we demand that French youth -shall go mad with sanity of taste and judgment. His Anglo-Saxon brother -in a like predicament may be as imprecise, as vague and obscure, as -racial character and the genius of his language permit, but we exact -of this raging Gaul that his insanity shall be beautifully measured -by the canons of art. And so his excesses in anarchy appear to our -judgment far more grievous crimes against taste and tact than those of -less intellectually and artistically disciplined races. When he falls -away from the lines of beauty his defection is more deplorable than -another’s. We are accustomed to count upon him as a model of elegance in -all the finer paths of pleasure; and when he dips into crabbed prose or -rude verse, or paints us, as a symphony of modern morals, a naked woman -playing the piano, with a fashionable hat on a vulgarly dressed head, we -resent the hideous joke as evidence of unjustifiable lawlessness. The -Prix de Rome may have something to do with these outbreaks. The best art -of the world has been spontaneous and not academic; and though we may -admit that training is a priceless advantage in all paths, the individual -influence of one master of his craft is far above that of all the -academies ever formed. The French in all things depend too exclusively -on institutions. They tired of the tyranny of Throne and Church, and -overthrew the one and shook the altars of the other. But the abiding -tyranny of institutions they unmurmuringly accept and submit to as their -substitution. Louis XIV. and Napoleon ruled the people with a rod of -iron; each combined in his personal prestige and power all the resources -of the various institutions which, united, now represent the authority of -a single man. The traditions of subservience that they left were not to -be shaken off, in spite of revolutions and occasional canters down the -wild road of anarchy. There dwell permanently in the race a terror and -distrust of individualism and initiative. Since it has shaken off the -shackles of kings and dictators, it must walk in willing servitude to the -countless smaller, and, it must be admitted, less obnoxious, tyrannies -it maintains for the clipping of its own wings, and which form a kind of -stable throne for its prestige. For what would France be in the eyes of -the world without its five Academies, without its École des Beaux Arts, -its Théâtre Français, the house of Molière, without its high literary -tradition, the distinction and elegance of all that emanates from its -genius? The liberty of the gypsy is undoubtedly the greatest blessing -of life, freedom to paint, to write, to act, to speak, to breathe, by -spontaneous and untrammelled effort, freedom to ride upon the crests of -inspiration unmindful of the approval of the fogies of tradition, to tilt -against the windmills of discord in one’s own manner without a thought -for “conservatoire” or national opera-house, to go a-sailing on the lake -of dreams, without calculating the benefit it may be to your pocket, -and dive for pearls of fancy without reckoning their market value. But -civilisation sets too just a value upon the benefits of tradition and -discipline to tolerate this nomad contempt of their advantages; and in -no country are these advantages more highly prized than in France, the -land of revolution and unrest. Even the follies of the Latin Quarter, -as long as they lasted, were rigidly based upon the traditions of that -wild spot. _La Vie de Bohème_, for all its apparent recklessness of rowdy -students and Mimi Pinsons and Lisettes, had its traditions in vice and -virtue, deviation from which was regarded an infraction as intolerable -as ever could be deviation from those of the five Academies or the -Comédie Française. The student in the process of going to the dogs was -bound to go thither in the way of the Quarter. He inherited from a long -line of genius his hat and his garments, the cut of his hair and beard, -his sins and attitudes. The road of pleasure and pain, of wickedness -and repentance, of distraction and despair, was cut out for him upon -tradition as unswervable as that of the most respectable institution, and -to act the proper part assigned him in the triumph of disreputableness he -should take Villon for his model, or wring out the sombre folds of the -poet’s mantle in the gaiety and genial ruffianism of the modern ideal of -the Latin Quarter. But here, happily, we alight upon an institution in -process of doom. The Quarter is in the pangs of transformation, and soon -the cheap and unsympathetic heroes of Mürger will be but a memory, and -not a decent one at that. Along the “Boul. Mich.” youths are beginning to -pay their way, for all the world like the common “beastly burgess” across -the river. - -[Illustration: THE FOYER OF THE OPERA-HOUSE] - -The Conservatoire is another national institution. Like the Academy and -the Comédie Française, it is a home of traditions. The airy foreigner who -wishes to assist at one of its concerts cannot hope to open its doors -with a golden key. Its seats are subscribed for and constitute personal -property. Should the foreigner be fortunate enough to possess a friend -with one of these seats who is willing to sacrifice a concert for his -benefit, he will hear a marvellous orchestra. For a short time the scene -of this unique harmony of sound was shifted from the neighbourhood of -the Upper Boulevards to the boards of the Opera-house, and the result -was sheer disaster. The orchestra of the Conservatoire is just suited -to its own select little hall, but it is too delicate, too perfect, for -transposition to a big theatre like the Opera-house of Paris. There you -need instrumentation of a coarser quality, music less subtly rendered. -Where the polka may be fitly danced, the _pavane_ would be out of place. -M. Taffanel, the able conductor of the Conservatoire orchestra, cannot -compare with the great German conductors; he has not the genius of Mottl, -nor the magical temperament of Weingartner, nor the individuality of the -French conductor, the late Lamoureux. But in his quiet, measured way he -is an incomparable artist, to judge him by the results of his lead. When -Weingartner and Mottl conduct, the attention is continually drawn to -them. Indeed, in the case of Weingartner, who is unreasonably affected, -and, like every other artist with a “temperament,” is apt to exaggerate -its privileges, the audience is ever more conscious of him than of his -instruments. He is a superb master, but one wishes him less histrionic. -Now, M. Taffanel has not a suspicion of affectation or histrionism. He -is simplicity itself, the very model of impersonality. He so effaces -himself that you are conscious of his presence only by the perfection of -his orchestra. He is so easy and subdued that he hardly seems necessary -in this admirable triumph of art. Of course, as his house is the home -of tradition, Wagner is excluded. Wagner dominates outside, but in here -it is the masters consecrated by unmixed approval who rule the ear. -Mounet-Sully will read to you, in his inimitable, sombre Byronic way, -the ravings of Manfred, while Schumann will roll your soul over the -crests of musical passion. Beethoven will speak to your heart and brain -like a god, and Mozart will captivate you with his joyous melody and -sweetness, but not a note of Wagner, the modern Colossus. It is well that -this exclusive home of music should be kept up upon its aristocratic -traditions—the best orchestra of the world and the least accessible; but -the evil effect of exclusiveness is at once visible in a glance around at -the audience. Daudet has written that the French do not in their hearts -really like classical music. I think it is true. They delight too much -in conversation to delight in music as the duller, the denser, and more -sentimental Germans do. But to have a seat at the Conservatoire denotes -wealth, the prestige of fashion; and so they go to each concert more to -see and be seen than to hear. In doing so they are conscious of being -part of the _chic_ world. In the _loges_ around you, men and women talk -of every mortal thing except the music heard; and the chief anxiety -of both sexes, if I may judge by the testimony of my ears on repeated -occasions, is to know what baron, count, marquis, marchioness, or duchess -is present, with smart remarks upon their dress. The Conservatoire is a -traditional school of music and of the drama; prizes are awarded upon -the test of examination, and reputations started here which may end in -celebrity. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -HOME-LIFE IN FRANCE - - -There is no race on the face of the earth whose home-life is so enviable -as that of the French. Both men and women bring the best of their -qualities to the making and maintaining of this admirable domestic -institution. It is, perhaps, too perfect, too wadded, for any people -which may hold the theory that domestic happiness is an inferior ideal. -It explains to us why the French are bad colonists, why initiative -and enterprise are less developed here than in the regions of rougher -interiors. The atmosphere of a French home is the most delightful I know. -I cannot see why men and women should be expected willingly to tear -themselves away from it in search of dubious prosperity and happiness -among barbarians. After all, it seems to me that human happiness is as -high an ideal as any of us can justly lay claim to; and if we want our -own happiness we are pretty certain to want that of others, for the few -who find their happiness in the misery of those around them are lower -than the brutes. In England and in Ireland I have seen men and women -of this sort, persons of diseased selfishness, who, in their homes, -surrounded by others, live only for themselves, and whose sole mission -in life apparently is to render those same victims of their proximity as -wretched as possible. - -Frenchwomen are not perfect, we know, since they are human. They have -their meannesses, their spites, their pettinesses, and jealousies, -like others; they are largely tainted with the vice of avarice, and -it cannot be said that they are, in general, capable of climbing the -heights of disinterestedness. They love money, and they save it. But, -whatever their faults, I dare to say that no race of women can show -a smaller percentage of shrews and reckless mischief-makers. Their -discretion is extraordinary, and no less extraordinary is the equable, -dignified nature of their domestic rule. They have their tantrums like -other women, but they are surprisingly free from the vice of scolding. -The word “termagant” was never invented for the pleasing and tactful -Frenchwoman. She will blight your life by other means should she have -that fancy. Economy is her great and unlovable virtue. If she clips the -wings of romance so ruthlessly, it is always in the interests of economy. -I do not give her ideal as the highest or the noblest; it is even -lower, perhaps, than that of many other classes of women, since it is -exclusively occupied with the state of her own and her progeny’s purse. -But the process by which she attains this ideal is charming in itself. -She cheerfully makes every personal sacrifice needful, and counts herself -blest when she places the hand of a son or daughter in that of a suitable -match, with fortune proportionate and prospects of equal promise. She -lives for her husband and children; and if, as the fashionable novelists -assure us, she often deviates from the path of virtue,—makes, as the -boulevardiers say, a rent in the marriage contract,—not even those -romancers dare affirm that she neglects, for such caprices, the interests -of either. - -She is in all things literally the better half of her people. Observe her -in all classes, and you will have no further need of explanation of the -striking prosperity, strength, and self-sufficiency of France itself. -Cheerful, competent, thrifty creature, how could the land that owns her -go to the dogs, whatever the decadents and politicians may do? She is -the force of the country, its stable influence and salvation. The home -rests upon her, and she makes of it a delicious nest for her children, -who may exaggerate the outward form of their love for her, but who can -never exaggerate the inward devotion they owe her. She has taught them, -it is true, to think too much about money, to be too ready to dispute -the wills of recalcitrant relatives who wish to leave their fortunes -to others than themselves; she has left them too little liberty, and -trained them in ignorance of such a virtue as disinterestedness; she -is too apt to encourage her son in the theory of the wild oats-sowing, -without even the saving grace of limiting that period to pre-nuptial -days, being trained herself in the fixed conviction of her land, -that man is a tameless beast who cannot exist without fugitive loves -throughout his chequered career. Indeed, I have heard a very pious old -French lady assert that a married man may have a hundred mistresses -and be a perfectly honest man whom nobody should criticise. When I -made respectful mention of the wife’s injuries, she shrugged, called -me an unsophisticated fool, and said that every sensible girl, on her -wedding-morn, understood what she was facing, and, if she were well-bred, -she was wise enough to keep her eyes shut. No wife, she maintained, could -expect to learn anything to her advantage by prying into her husband’s -habits and distractions outside the portals of home, and so her wisdom -lay in studied ignorance. The thing to prevent in a husband or son was -extravagance. So long as the purse-strings remained unloosened, and the -health was uninjured, a judicious woman should ask for nothing more from -the men around her. For this reason, the novelists show us the French -mother as charmed to discover that her son has started romantic relations -with the wife of a wealthy friend. She is convinced that he must have a -mistress, and her only hope is that he shall choose one who will not ruin -him in purse or in health. Of his heart and happiness in these matters -she seems to care not a pin, possibly because of the talent for cynicism -possessed by the French, which declines to recognise heart outside the -family. If every poison has its antidote, so has every quality its -drawback. This beautiful maternal devotion we so admire is practised -to the detriment of all outsiders. The French mother would make a -holocaust of all humanity on the altar of her offspring’s advancement and -interest. She will gladly toil for him or for her, save francs and pence -for either, deprive herself of what she most loves, accomplish for her -child every virtue in the world but that of justice or generosity toward -outsiders. For the French _ménagère_, the outsider is the enemy. Indeed, -for all the French family the outsider is a reptile to be crushed. Let a -wealthy Frenchwoman take a strong fancy to an outsider, and the hostility -awakened in the breast of every member against this inoffensive outsider -will be found to be a sentiment to which only Balzac could do justice. -Sons and daughters, cousins, nephews, and nieces, will combine to slight -or insult the reprobate. - -In the case of a widower, or an unmarried uncle, marriage is the terror; -in the case of the wealthy woman I suspect the last will and testament -arouses the scare. Anyway, whatever the unexpressed sentiment may be, -the French family of all classes joins in this unreasonable hatred, -suspicion, and jealousy of the outsider. I remember when I first came to -Paris many years ago, having a letter of introduction to Madame Blaze de -Bury, a very singular and clever old lady, who said to me: “You will find -the French as hard as a granite wall when you come to knock against them. -To the superficial glance they are so easy, so accessible, so pleasant. -Well, I have lived long enough among them to discover that they are just -like the Chinese. They hate foreigners, even when they are delightful to -them. And this hatred of the foreigner is shown in family life, where -the foreigner is everyone who is not a direct relation.” Subsequent -experience did not prove Madame Blaze de Bury altogether right as regards -the foreigner, for I, a foreigner, have found in France kindness, -sympathy, generosity, and affection, and all from the French of the very -French. In criticising Frenchwomen, I am criticising the part of humanity -I like best, appreciate and admire most on earth. Give Frenchwomen the -freedom, the liberal education of England, a dash of Protestantism—that -is, mental and moral independence—and you will have womanhood in its -perfection. They have little of the snob, they are naturally simple and -unpretentious, and they are competent, intelligent, and discreet. - -The two features that most strike the foreigner in French home-life are -the careful economy practised everywhere, in city and country, among -the poor and the rich, and the pretty courtesies and tendernesses which -help to keep the wheels of domestic machinery so admirably oiled. The -notion that relationship is merely the privilege of making one’s self -as disagreeable as possible, and indulging in cruelties of speech and -action, does not exist in France, or exists in a very diminished degree. - -A study of the economies practised in aristocratic and prosperous -bourgeois circles in France leads us to strange facts. Taine quotes an -incident in his _Carnets de Voyage_ that happened in the neighbourhood -of Poitiers. A Parisian was hunting by invitation on a friend’s lands, -and, without knowing it, crossed the border-land of those of a certain -viscountess. He was not shooting, but carried his gun under his arm; -he had lost his way. Up came a keeper and stopped him. The Parisian -explained the circumstances, and insisted that he was not shooting. His -host and he decided to visit the viscountess personally, and put the case -before her in order to avoid unjust proceedings. They were received in -a superb chamber hung with tapestries. The viscountess listened to them, -and put her hand out: “Twenty francs each to pay,” was all she said. I -think I can tell a better tale still, that of the interested hospitality -of a well-known Flemish countess, whose shooting lands are among the best -in France. The guests of this lady who liked a liberal supply of sugar in -their morning coffee were obliged to provide themselves with it before -coming, for every lump consumed in the castle was counted by the thrifty -châtelaine; and the servants were bound, on penalty of dismissal, to give -up to her all the tips they received. These were dropped into a cash-box, -and at the proper time were returned to them under the form of wages. The -good lady also makes a fine thing of her invitations to shoot upon her -land, and may be said to merit a high place in the ranks of economists. - -And yet there is much to be said in favour of French thrift, not only for -the good it brings to the country, which is immense, but still more for -the inappreciable advantages it affords the family, above all, the girls. -Go to Ireland and observe with lamentation and indignation the havoc made -of home-life, of family dignity, of the lives of unfortunate girls, by -the miserable wastefulness of parents. On all sides you will hear sad -tales of girls, obliged to work hard for shocking rates of payment, who -were brought up in foolish luxury, whose parents “entertained” in that -thriftless, splash, Irish fashion, drank champagne, drove horses, when -the French of the same class would be leading the existence of humdrum -small burgesses, depriving themselves of all that was not absolutely -necessary for their position, and teaching their children the art of -counting, of saving, and of laudable privation. The Irish way is the -jollier, I admit, but it is a cowardly, selfish way, for it is the -children who always have to pay the piper, and, more often than not, the -unhappy trades-folk who supply these gay and festive spendthrifts. - -We laugh at the counted lumps of sugar in France, forgetting that -sugar here is sixpence a pound, and becomes an item to be considered. -I remember once feeling some sympathy with the French carefulness of -sugar. An Irish girl, whom I did not know, somewhere in the twenties, and -consequently supposed to conduct herself like a reasonable being, thrust -accidentally upon me for hospitality for a single night,—which, owing to -unforeseen circumstances, was prolonged to ten or twelve days,—did me the -honour to consume a pound of sugar a day at my expense. In every cup of -tea she melted nearly a dozen large French lumps of sugar, and she drank -many cups in the day; also she ate sugar continually as other women -munch sweets, and as she disliked cold red wine, she insisted on heating -it with quantities of sugar until it was turned into a syrup. When my -grocer sent in his monthly account, with sugar at sixpence a pound in -enormous excess, I felt it would be a singular advantage for Ireland if a -little judicious thrift were practised in Irish homes. The young lady’s -father went bankrupt shortly afterwards, and I cannot say I was at all -surprised. He was an ordinary burgess, who worked hard to maintain a -large and extravagant family, and my guest once told me that her sister -frequently ran up a bill at the florist’s for boutonnières to the sum of -thirty shillings a month, which her father had to pay. French thrift, -if it does so often touch hands with meanness, at least implies the -exercise of a quality we all should admire, even when we cannot practise -it, thanks to taste, training, or temperament—hardness to ourselves, the -capacity for voluntary self-suffering. - -The first thing that strikes you as you enter a French beeswaxed flat -in winter is the chill of it. Few but the very rich know the delights -of generous fires, of well-carpeted houses, of warm, comfortable, and -luxurious interiors. Silver appointments and splendid napery, which -you will find nowadays in the commonest Irish homes, are here unknown, -and people of the class who in England dress for dinner here wear the -clothes they have lunched in, and are none the worse off for it. They -have, along with their thrift, much less pretension, and are simpler -and more intelligent in their home-life than we of the British Isles. -In one way they live better, because their food is better cooked and is -more varied, and for dinner you are sure to have brighter conversation. -In certain rich and snobbish circles, above all in the shooting season, -you risk being bored to death, for here nothing is talked of but titles, -game, and fortunes. The wonder to me is how women, who themselves do -not shoot, can sit placidly through a long afternoon and evening and -listen to men who talk incessantly of their own bags or their neighbours’ -bags—of how the prince shot this snipe, the count shot that partridge, -and how many pheasants the marquis bagged. I suppose it is to keep the -men in good-humour that these amiable Frenchwomen—against whom I can -bring no other charge than vacuity and snobbishness, two parasites of -wealth—feign the intensest interest. They are paid in the coin they -desire, and if they are bored nobody is a penny the wiser, and they -probably do not mind it. - -I have said the lack of material comfort and plenty in middle-class -French homes is striking. I, of course, refer to people who are not -rich, where the husband is a state functionary on a modest salary in -Paris, to small professors, to the wives of military officials, the -widows of colonels and broken-down aristocrats. I have had a glimpse of -all these classes of homes, and in winter found them unseasonably chill -and frugal. Thirty years ago, I am assured, it was far worse, for then -carpets were unknown, and fires less used than to-day. Such economies -are practised here as in England would accompany only harsh poverty, -but they must not be taken as the symbol of such. Your grocer and his -wife, who eat behind the shop in a sanded and comfortless space walled -off, and on Sunday afternoon go out, neatly arrayed in well-fitting but -dowdy and serviceable garments, have tidy fortunes stowed away, while -their flashy, splash-loving brethren of the British Isles, with their -dog-carts, bicycles, and up-to-date attire turned out by fashionable -tailors, dressmakers, and milliners, are pulling the devil by the tail -and stupidly patronising their betters, who are contented with less -display. - -I retired lately to Ireland to write this little book, and was struck, -after long residence in France, by the violent contrast between French -and Irish character in these respects. I was used to the simple, -courteous, willing, active trades-people of Paris, who give themselves -no airs, dress dowdily, live modestly. I found the same class in -Ireland, even in a small village, dressed daily as Solomon in all his -glory never was, with tailor-made gowns worth ten and twelve guineas, -and with haughty manners that would bewilder a princess of the blood; -the one cutting the other, Heaven only knows on what assumption of -superiority, and all hastening from their counters in smart turnouts, -duly to subscribe their loyal names to the list of the Queen’s visitors. -I felt like Rip Van Winkle—as if I had waked in my native land and -found everyone gone mad with pride and pretension. When I ventured -into a shop to make an insignificant purchase, a gorgeous dandy with a -lisp condescended to attend to me, or a lady looking like a duchess, -and most desirous that you should take her for such, dropped from the -height of her grandeur to my humble person, and was good enough in her -superior way to look after me. Everybody was seemingly so above trade -or business or bread-winning of any kind that I was glad enough to pack -up my papers and things and come back to a race more simple and less -pretentious, where the people work with good-will, and sell you a yard -of tape or a hat without insufferable condescension, and where tradesmen -and their wives do not think it necessary to confer on crowned heads the -honour of their call. In pursuit of my investigations on this subject -I was taken to the house of a very small trades-person, who lived over -her shop. The owner wore a twelve-guinea silk-lined gown trimmed with -Irish point. I could well imagine what sort of residence hers would be -in France. For Ireland it was a sort of Aladdin surprise. Majesty indeed -might have sat in that sitting-room. It was furnished with faultless -taste: beautiful old Sèvres, proof engravings exquisitely framed, buhl -cabinets; everything—curtains, chairs, sixteenth-century benches and -couches, quaint ornaments, the spoils of frequent auctions of gentlemen’s -houses—was chosen with the best of judgment by an ignorant peasant woman, -whose bringing up, surroundings, and life had been of the most sordid -kind. I was shown the bedroom, and found it a no less pleasing and -surprising vision, a nest of modern luxury and beauty, such a bedroom as -in Paris you would see only along the handsome and expensive avenues. - -Another time I obtained a glimpse of the home of a bankrupt widow of a -“little burgess” who had had to vacate a house with grounds to take up -her residence in a more modest dwelling. Such a woman in France would be -content to live and die a very plain and simple person, and, having had -to compound with her creditors, would have considered herself bound to -lay out her new existence upon lines of the most rigid economy, above -all, as there was a large family of sons and daughters not yet of an -age, nor having the requisite education, to provide for themselves. The -house I visited was one of a row, a poor, mean quarter, where no sane -person would look for any appearance of affluence. Over the fan-light -the house rejoiced in an imposing Celtic name in three words in raised -white letters, not the cheapest form of house nomenclature. A gardener -was engaged trimming the infinitesimal garden front; the youngest girl, -of twelve, was mounting her bicycle to career off with a companion; in -the hall were three other bicycles belonging to different members of -the family. The furniture of the drawing-room was new and expensive, -and a young lady was playing up-to-date waltzes on the piano, without a -trace of concern or anxiety; no sign anywhere of economy, of sacrifice, -of worry. Yet I knew I was entering a house where there was practically -nothing to live upon, and where the proceeds of a sale that should -have gone to the woman’s creditors had been squandered on unnecessary -things. One may criticise the meannesses to which thrift drives the -frugal French, but I never felt more near to falling in love with what -is to me an uncongenial vice than I did on leaving my native land after -this visit, to have commercial dealings once more with people not above -their business, instead of trading with the spurious descendants of -kings, whose sole anxiety is to make you feel their social superiority -and extraordinary condescension, to find these excellent French -“little people” all that Lever told us the Irish were but have ceased -to be—cordial, delightful, intelligent, and simple. For that is the -great, the abiding charm of the French middle class—the absence of vulgar -pretension. Every man to his trade, and an artist at that—such is the -wise French motto. I begin to suspect the late Felix Faure, the tanner -of France, must have had some Irish blood in his veins, for he was well -worthy to play the sovereign to that mock prince of the blood, the Irish -tradesman. - -The home of the French middle classes, I have already said, is not, -in the Anglo-Saxon conception of the word, an abode of comfort. -Small economies are too rigidly practised therein. The _salon_, or -sitting-room, is apt to be shut up all the week in the interest of the -furniture, and only opened on the single afternoon the lady of the house -is supposed to be at home to her friends. Then in winter, just before the -hour of reception, the meagre wood-fire is set ablaze, and sometimes tea -is prepared, along with biscuits far from fresh. You may be thankful—if -tea is to be offered you, a rare occurrence—should the tea be no staler -than the biscuits, I have known a Frenchwoman, the sister of a professor -at Stanislas College, who admitted to me naïvely that she changed the -leaves of her tea every four or five days. She informed me that this -economical hint was given her by a Scotchwoman, who assured her that in -Scotland nobody was extravagant enough to make fresh tea every day. I -hope this Scotchwoman was an invention of the Frenchwoman. It would be -terrible to believe that all the families of Scotland drink their daily -dose of slow poison. In winter also are the two meals of noon and evening -consumed in a frigid atmosphere, for such a thing as a dining-room fire -is unheard of in the class I refer to. The napery will be of the coarsest -quality, and oftener coloured than white. - -The house is generally run with a single maid-of-all-work, who receives -a monthly wage of from thirty to forty francs, and her life is not an -easy one. The lady already referred to had her _bonne_ from the country, -where existence is still harsher than in Paris, and paid her thirty -francs a month. The unfortunate _bonne_ for this sum had to wash, clean, -scour, cook, market, make beds, and sew. The lady was pious, and a -philanthropist, but pious and philanthropic persons are sometimes harsh -taskmasters, and not infrequently dishonest. The _bonne_ was obliged, -out of her scant wages, to pay a hundred francs a year for her bedroom, -which was merely a box under the roof, without ventilation or fireplace, -so that in winter she froze, and in summer she was baked. She also had -to buy her own wine and coffee, if she needed either, and never, from -week’s end to week’s end, tasted of dessert or sweets, or knew what it -was to dine off fowl, when by rare chance fowl was served at table. I was -this lady’s “paying guest” for four or five months; and if my lot was a -hard one, I could console myself with the reflection that the servant’s -was infinitely harder. True, the servant did not, as I did, pay an -exorbitant price for those discomforts, but we could both say that we had -to deal with a singularly pleasant, affable, well-spoken, and agreeable -woman, surprisingly intelligent, who kept her house in admirable order. -She was secretary for several Catholic philanthropic works, and taught -catechism, for a consideration, to poor children in some disreputable -quarter of Paris. I thought of her, as I have thought of many another -Christian philanthropist, Catholic and Protestant, how much more in -keeping with the doctrine of Christ it would be to stay unpretentiously -at home and practise the modest virtue of honesty, doing unto others as -one would be done unto. On her way to her catechism class she would drop -in to the woodman’s to order wood for me, as a favour for which it was my -duty to thank her, pay the woodman three francs, and virtuously charge me -five in the bill. I was ill, and in the same spirit of benevolence she -ordered everything needful for me—_for a consideration_. For all that, -she was the nicest, the cheerfulest, and most pleasing robber and humbug -I have ever known. I defy any Anglo-Saxon to give the fleeced as much -value in the way of agreeable speech and cordiality and beaming smiles -as this religious Norman lady gave me. She broke the heart of a trusting -friend, and, having gracefully beggared her, drove her to America ruined -and embittered, yet went on her own confident way along the path of -virtue, assured of nothing more than her indisputable right to a seat in -Paradise. - -[Illustration: A SEASIDE SERVICE - -_Edelfelt_] - -But she was not the first to initiate me into the economical mysteries of -the French home. Before this I had been the “paying guest” of a native -of Burgundy with an Alsatian title as long as an Alexandrian verse. She -professed to have known Lamartine in her youth, and when I spoke of -the poet by his name, she corrected me with a grand and reproving air: -“Mademoiselle, we of Macon say _Monsieur de Lamartine_.” Here the same -mysteries of locked _salon_ all the week round, open only for a few hours -on the famous reception day of Madame la Baronne; the same absence of -plenty at the board—lunch for three persons invariably three boiled eggs, -three tiny cutlets and three boiled potatoes, three little rolls and -three small apples. Never a fourth of anything, should one of the three -happen to be a little hungrier than the other two. Only, as I had to -do with a broken-down aristocrat, there reigned, instead of the beaming -cordiality of the bourgeoise, an awful, desperate, glacial reserve. The -baroness’ attitude to life may be described fitly as resembling her -attitude to the late lamented poet, whom she apostrophised stiffly as -_Monsieur de Lamartine_. She was frightfully dignified, even in starving -her unfortunate paying guest on twelve pounds a month. It is true, paying -guests are not infrequently regarded by ladies as creatures predestined -to starvation and prompt payment in their hands, and in business matters -I can safely say, from singularly sharp experience, that there are no -more heartless and rapacious landladies on the face of the earth than -needy and educated women. The greed of the common woman runs to pence, -while that of the lady runs to shillings; and whereas the former, when -she is dishonest, has a lingering consciousness of it, and flies into -a wholesome rage on detection, the latter is armoured in the brass of -breeding, and looks cool and surprised that you should object to being -fleeced by her. Upon any approach to complaint, instead of excuses, she -shows you cynically that she took you in in order to fleece you. A French -“woman of letters,” in the lowest acceptance of that unpleasing term, -the old, semi-extinguished type of bluestocking, once told me that she -always calculated on making a clear profit of two hundred francs a month -on the board of her “paying guest,” otherwise she did not regard herself -as having made a good thing out of it. As she charged a hundred francs a -month for a bedroom, twelve pounds a month was the sum she counted upon -as legitimate profit. Her terms were sixteen pounds a month—light, fire, -afternoon tea, and wine extras—so that the unfortunate fleeced one had -exactly the value of four pounds for the sixteen disbursed. Needless -to say, this literary hostess only found stray fools from perfidious -Albion, recommended by amiable folk over-seas, who guilelessly believed -the young ladies despatched to her would enjoy the benefit of exalted -social relations, since titles were never out of her mouth, and upon her -own description of herself she entertained daily the highest of the land. -She traded upon the British weakness for titles, but took care to conceal -from these gulled ones the fact that French doors, whether of nobles or -of commoners, are not easily opened to foreigners, and never to “paying -guests,” whom the careful French fear as possible adventurers. - -I have heard English people criticise the parsimony of the first French -breakfast, because you generally find a couple of lumps of sugar on the -side of your saucer instead of a sugar-bowl, and a pat of butter and a -single small roll instead of the domestic loaf and a butter-basin. I own -I give my preference altogether to the dear, neat little French tray. -When I go on visits to friends in France, I find nothing so charming as -to be wakened every morning by a beaming Frenchwoman of the people, whose -manners are always so perfect, who is a human being, and not, like the -well-trained English servant, a machine; who opens the shutters and lets -in light with her fresh, soft “Good-morning,” and approaches the bed with -a small, dainty tray, exquisitely laid; such coffee or chocolate as you -will get nowhere else, and everything so trim and minute—the two lumps -of sugar, the tiny pat of butter, the hot roll—what ogre could demand -more on returning from the land of dreams? Naturally, the English fashion -calls for a more liberal supply, because there you are cleansed, combed, -and buckled in the shackles of civilisation downstairs, perhaps after a -morning run—and the scent of bacon and eggs is refreshing to the keen -nostril. But more than this neat little French tray contains would be too -much in a bedroom, and nobody but that Irish girl I referred to, with -morbid taste, could clamour for a sugar-bowl to sweeten a single cup of -coffee. - -Then mid-day, when the sun is high in the heavens, gathers the family -round the second breakfast-table. Amongst the well-to-do this is a meal -to shame the frugal British luncheon. It consists of an _entrée_, a roast -dish, vegetables, a cold dish, a sweet, dessert, and cheese. No need -to mention the cooking. That is sure everywhere to be excellent, though -even among French cooks there are grades. Here you will of a surety not -be struck by the pervasion of economy, but that of plenty. You will -understand why the comfortably-off French, when they lunch at British -tables, lament that they are starved. Indeed, when you have the good luck -to partake of French hospitality, you will find it the best in the world. -At no tables will you eat so well and so plentifully as at the tables -of your French friends, and in no land on earth will you enjoy such -delightful conversation as theirs, where they know how to speak and have -something to say. In England people are always on their guard, are often -afraid to talk their best, lest they shall prove bores or eccentrics. In -France the bore is the person who has nothing to say, and the eccentric -is thanked for frankly revealing himself as such. Only be intelligent, be -individual and interesting, and then you may rattle on to your liking, -and provided you tumble with glory, you may choose between the devil -and the deep sea with equal unconcern. The people around you, the most -susceptible and sympathetic to individual value, will be far too busy -listening to what you have to say—provided it is worth the saying—to give -a thought to picking you to pieces. - -In spite of the romancers and all the twaddle they talk in the interest -of the psychological novel, there are no women capable of warmer and -more generous friendships than Frenchwomen, none capable of a deeper, -discreeter, more abiding loyalty. They are astonishingly indulgent, too, -which is part of their great sense, and even their intolerance, where it -exists, they have the grace to clothe in the suavity of tact. If they -talk, as they too often do, a great deal of nonsense about the English, -and cherish vast illusions about their own nation, this is only in the -nature of things, seeing that there is no race in the world brought up -in more astonishing ignorance of every other race, and more trained to -cherish denser prejudices. At school they learn only French geography, -French history, French grammar. The rest of Europe comprises mere -congested districts round France; and while it takes several volumes to -learn the history of France, the history of other peoples may be told -in a few paragraphs. Boys may fare differently, but in my time this is -how French girls were taught. England, as the traditional enemy, must -necessarily expect rough treatment at the hands of the French; and in -a country where the Press is a blatant monument of misrepresentation, -the women cannot be wiser than their country, led by such a disastrous -influence. French prejudices against England are as substantial and -impenetrable as the walls of Pekin; you may ride round them, marvel -at them, but never hope to demolish them. But the French mind that -manages to keep outside these walls becomes surprisingly enlarged, and -then you need ask for no finer or more generous judgment. It needs -this finish of magnanimity to so sympathetic a character, rare though -it be in France,—for magnanimity is the last quality we may allow the -race in general,—to show us how delightful the French can become. For -this you must look among the cultured workers of France, the thinkers, -the teachers, and men of science. These alone—and they are not loved -for it—can recognise and tell the truth about even the mediæval enemy, -perfidious Albion. - -Frenchwomen of all classes live much more in their bedrooms than -Englishwomen do. Of a morning they study, read, work there, give orders -to their servants, write letters. These bedrooms are generally very -pleasant places, with dressing-rooms off, and clothes closets, so that -intimate friends of either sex may pass in and out without indiscretion -or awkwardness. The bed itself is a handsome piece of furniture, with -curtains to match the big bed-cover, which hides every atom of white, -and sometimes, with the pillows in the middle and silk or satin-covered -bolster at either end under this covering, it resembles those imposing -mediæval couches we see in the Cluny Museum. On the other hand, the -sexes in family life are more apart than in England. They meet at -table, but their amusements, interests, and work are accepted as widely -different. The relations of husband and wife are based upon a more -intelligent understanding than elsewhere; and those of parent and child -are the nearest approach to perfection with which I am acquainted, if -only a higher moral training were added to the tenderness and incessant -care, for the French wife and mother is undoubtedly the best of her -kind; and if her mate is less worthy, at least he is a kinder, more -considerate, and courteous mate than his Anglo-Saxon brother. His sins, -when he is volatile and bad, run to the _cabinet particulier_ or the -_foyer_ of fast theatres, while the other flies to perdition on the fumes -of alcohol, and sins against home in public bars, upon race-courses, in -the hostels of fugitive dalliance. The Frenchman will tell you that he -is the better man of the two, for he brings a little sentiment into his -infidelities, while the Anglo-Saxon, when he turns his back upon home and -the domestic virtues, is brutal and gross. - -I think there is something to be said for the erring Frenchman in his -frailty. Lisette, while her reign lasts, is somebody for him whom he must -study and consider, to whom he is bound to be kind, until he makes up his -mind to leave her, or until she leaves him. But this is not a point I -need dwell on. In the matter of virtue, the Britishers make themselves -out to be such honest, invulnerable fellows, unlike the chattering, -bragging sinners on the other side of the Channel, that it is only the -state of the public streets of Great Britain at nightfall that fronts us -with the universal charge against them of Pharisaism. And so I come back -to my contention, that since infidelity to the marriage vow does exist, -the light-headed sons of France choose the more open way of sinning. -Their view of the case, as expressed in their fiction, is frankly -odious, and, on his own showing, there is something essentially unclean -in the Frenchman’s mind, though I have always found his conversation -fastidiously correct and inoffensive, and it is sad to think of such a -fine and splendid race of women playing the unsavoury _rôle_ they are -made to play by the dramatists and novelists of their land. The women, -of course, must be greatly to blame for the misesteem expressed in -their regard by their fashionable and popular writers. Too fearful of -displeasing, and too sensitive to Gallic ridicule, they do not understand -that it rests with them to claim and obtain the respect due to them. They -applaud and admire the writers who most persistently degrade them under -the flattering guise of a passionate interest and concern. They, who so -wisely dominate at home, have seemingly little or no objection to play -the animal on paper. Of course there is a cultured and distinguished -class who detest the modern fiction and plays of their country, who -protest against them at home and in the Press, who will tell you they -read only foreign novels, to avoid being dragged through the mire of -their own. - -This brings me to the consideration of woman’s _rôle_ in France. The -foreigner who only judges that _rôle_ from the novels he reads, mostly -pornographic, and from the drama, increasingly gross and immoral, will -be all at sea as regards the part woman plays in French life. He will -conceive her first playing the hypocrite up to the time of marriage, and -then living without restraint ever afterwards. He will wonder what time -is left her for domestic duties, and judge her social duties merely as -convenient stages along the downward path. If he enjoys that sort of -thing, she will amuse and interest him, but he will underestimate her -position in reality. For no one plays a more important _rôle_ in the -ranks of humanity than the Frenchwoman. She it is who rules the home, -and in what an admirable way she rules it can never be sufficiently -extolled. She it is who trains, fashions, guides man in every step of his -career, from his boyhood into his first love-affair, and makes of him -the courteous and indulgent creature he proves in matrimony. As mother, -aunt, sister, wife, and daughter, the Frenchman relies on his womankind -throughout his whole career. She is, in the best and fullest sense of -the word, his helpmeet; assists him in his business, enjoys his entire -confidence, because he knows so well that she is the better part of the -institution, bears more than half of his troubles. As a mother, she knows -how to efface herself, and in acting to her sons as their best friend -and confidant, keeps her sovereignty stable. It is because she is such -a sensible and dignified ruler, indulgent where indulgence is needful, -that the men around her rarely feel the impulse to break from her sway. -She moulds the politicians, takes the poets and novelists by the hand, -holds the social sceptre with ease and charm, pulls the academical -wire-strings, aids youth to success and triumph, names the fashion in -literature,—and here she does less wisely and less well,—makes and mars -reputations, is responsible for more of the commercial prosperity of -the land than her mate, and brought, of her own thrift and labour, a -bigger share to the millions that went to Germany than he. An England -without her women could be conceived as still standing, so effaced is -their _rôle_; but France may almost be said to exist by hers. If the -women would only consent to go to the colonies, the French would, I am -convinced, turn out capital colonists. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -PEASANT AND ARTISAN - - -From earliest youth I had been accustomed to the trim and pleasing aspect -of the French peasant, but lived long in Paris without ever having had -occasion to examine this class more closely than a walk in the country -permits. I chanced to summer one year in the Saintonge, and friends made -me acquainted there with an excellent miller and his wife who dwelt -upon their lands. I published in the _Speaker_ something about these -delightful people afterwards, and I cannot do better than quote from that -forgotten source: - -“In the Saintonge, as elsewhere, the local mood is ruled by politics, and -private friendship gives way to public rivalry. I learnt all about these -feuds from my friend the miller of La Pellouaille. Intellect was not his -strong point, but there was a cheerful cynicism about him to lend flavour -to his commonplaces. While others affected the heroic or patriotic, he -was content to accommodate himself to circumstances. In reply to my -query—to which party he belonged—he said, with a humorous smile, ‘_Dame_, -I go with the strongest, naturally,’ which did not prevent him from -giving his own sly hit at the Government. I give his views for what they -are worth—neither brilliant nor original, but expressed with a certain -geniality of tone and temper that kept him from bucolic dulness. If the -Republic kept France out of mischief for the next twenty years, and -carried her into fair prosperity, he believed, by that time, neither -Bonapartist nor Legitimist would be remembered. For the moment the land -was in a state of ferment, and he thought it a pity such excessive use -should be made of those big words, Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity. -These three republican assurances be qualified as mere _blagues_; and -told me of a jocose tobacconist who wrote them on the sign-board of -his shop, with an empty tobacco-pouch suspended from each, the pouches -in France being called _blagues_. But the miller’s wife was certainly -his pleasanter half. It was a delight to look upon a creature so human -and wholesome and resourceful. She was a large, handsome woman, with a -smile as fresh as new milk, and hazel eyes as clear as daylight, beaming -with good-will, with vitality, and interest in her fellows. The kine -browsing in the fields were not more mild. Such a woman has you right -at nature’s heart—big and broad and bountiful. She is peasant in the -best sense, proud of her spotless cap and apron, free and independent in -her carriage, with shoulders that know no cringing stoop and voice that -cannot whine.” - -This good creature took me rambling through the woods, she picking the -nuts, and I devouring them; and I found her talk ever sensible and -entertaining. Thanks to the natural good manners and intelligence of the -French people, there is far less difference than in England between the -uneducated and educated classes. My friends of the mill honoured me once -with an invitation to dinner. The sky was menacing, and, as I entered the -long park avenue whence the mill was visible, I saw the miller and his -son anxiously scanning the heavens and the green-roofed aisle of walnut -and sycamore by which I came. They hailed me with vigorous welcome, and, -as I rested in their beautifully clean kitchen, with broad and generous -fireplace, where the wood crackled pleasantly, and shone upon polished -brass dogs and gleaming bronze pots, with the high French bed in the -deep recess, the miller’s wife mixed me some _cassis_ and water. A more -excellent dinner I have never eaten than that cooked, without fuss, or -haste, or delay, by the miller’s wife. In a twinkling, as it seemed to -me, she had savoury tomato-soup on the table; and while she laid the -cloth, the miller sat in front of the capacious mouth of flames, and saw -that the browning chicken was kept moist with grease. I told them the -story of Alfred and the cakes, and the miller’s wife cried, “She struck -a king—a peasant just like myself!” “_Dame_,” laughed the miller, “it -doesn’t make much difference, when it is a woman, whether she be queen or -peasant!” And I thought the remark one that an English peasant would have -been incapable of making. He would have been incapable of such a point of -view. - -The French peasant has not the charm of the Irish peasant—the women, -above all, lack the lovely complexion and beautiful eyes of the Irish—and -he has less of the grand air. He is much more the son of the soil and -less of the gentleman. The writer, wishing to be true to life, could -never make such enchanting “copy” out of him as Jane Barlow made of the -Irish peasant in her delightful _Idylls_. There is too little poetry -about him, and he is too evenly balanced and cool-headed to offer us -many of the adorable surprises of humour. I have heard it said, by -French persons who live in the country, that Zola comes nearer to truth -and reality in his presentment of the peasant than George Sand in her -exquisite pastorals, or M. René Bazin in such a tender and lovely story -as _La Terre qui Meurt_. But Balzac himself did not weave us tales of -romance and delicate feeling when he touched upon the theme; and so it -is very likely that the fellow is more of a brute than he seems to be in -casual intercourse, without, however, sinking to the loathsome depths -of the realism of _La Terre_. I, when I recall him to mind, own that I -ever see him a dignified, well-mannered figure in blue blouse, generally -clean, sometimes incredibly patched by his thrifty wife, frugal, sober, -hard-worked, not too garrulous, and yet not resentful of easy speech, -nor suspicious of the stranger who accosts him with courtesy. I find him -in all things, as he presents himself to the eye and offers himself for -observation, the superior of his British brother Hodge, neither so gross -nor so unintelligent, with a look in his eye much resembling humour. -He has his demands upon life, too, which are not those of the clownish -brute, the inarticulate rustic. Not for nothing was the Revolution made, -since by it has he learnt that he has his own share in the joys of -civilisation, and that if he work hard enough his sons may aspire to such -a measure of education as a harsher lot denied him. When business brings -him into a little town or a great city, his eye alights on beautiful -objects, placed there as much for him as for the owners of seigneurial -dwellings. Flowers, trim parks, legends in stone, splendid cathedrals, -every gracious blending of line and colour, combine to train his eye in -beauty and refine his nature. He need thread these quaint and lovely -streets with no slouching step, for he, and such as he, are too conscious -of their stable efforts in the general work of order and national -prosperity. He need touch his forelock to no great lord for permission -to breathe the free air of heaven, for does not he, too, possess his -bit of land, his little dwelling, from which none can oust him? And, on -feast-days and Sundays, are there not always public museums at hand for -his instruction and entertainment? No country in the world takes such -care to provide museums for the people throughout all the provinces as -France. Every year the State purchases pictures at the annual exhibitions -of Paris to add to these provincial collections; and in every little -town you pass through you are personally urged by some native to visit -the Musée. This fact may have something to do with the astonishing -intellectual superiority of the French peasant over Hodge beyond the -Channel. For the fact remains that you can talk to the blue-bloused son -of the soil and hope to learn something from him, when the absence of -loquacity and ideas and manners in Hodge will leave you discouraged and -in despair. The French peasant loves so many things that educate and -refine—flowers and pictures and military bands, spectacles of all kinds, -and independence. - -[Illustration: AN OUTDOOR MEAL - -_Zimenez_] - -His standard is by no means an exalted one. His frugality is practised -in the interest of his old age. His honesty is chiefly, I suspect, a -shrewd protection against the probable dishonesty of others, for the -simple law of comradeship demands that you shall treat fairly the man -who treats you fairly. And his religion does not go down as deep as -his soul, or whatever may serve him as such. It is with him merely a -material influence, since it furnishes a serviceable plank for getting -safely across the perilous abyss into a better world, and enables him -to be decently baptised, married, and buried as a member of a Christian -community. All other phases of religion—its emotions, exactions, -penalties, and devices—he leaves to the foolish women-folk. Indeed, this -seems to be the conviction of the average male Catholic the world over, -if I may except Ireland, the one Catholic country in which I have found -men to take their religion seriously, and the little Celtic corner of -France, where the blue-eyed Bretons so closely resemble them. When I have -visited at a French country-house in the shooting season, I have never -known a male guest to attend mass, the explanation given being that _la -chasse_ had begun before the hour of mass. But if a woman stayed away -from mass she would create a scandal. In Spain I have seen acquaintances -of mine, while their women-folk knelt and prayed with fervour, stand -throughout the Sunday service with a bored and perfunctory air, only -looking towards the altar and the priest at the moment of the elevation -of the Host in a casually respectful way, as an officer might salute the -passage of a military chief, and seemingly relieved to be able to examine -again the faces and dresses of the women about them. Children barely in -their teens, young lads going to school, carefully imitate this attitude -of merely tolerant recognition of religious form, and their elders never -dream of encouraging them to use a prayer-book, or kneel, or show any -sign that the weekly mass is to them more than the bored attendance at an -official ceremony. - -What is a moral influence with them? High above religion is their sturdy -passion for independence. It is this passion that enables them to scrape, -and serve, and suffer privation with dignity and patience. However meagre -their resources may be, they are content with their lot, provided the -roof they sleep beneath is their own, the land they till their own, the -goat, the pig, the poultry, theirs to do with what they will. This is no -mean standard, and it works miracles in France. Would they were by nature -and instinct kinder to their beasts! but this, too, is not a Catholic -characteristic. I am assured that the Bretons and Provençals are the -worst offenders. However, they do not sink so low in cruelty to animals -as the purely Latin races, like the callous Spaniards and the Italians; -and even in France the condition of animals is considerably ameliorated, -though horses and donkeys are still often maltreated, and geese are -killed in the cruelest fashion, their prolonged agonies, in peasant -esteem, lending flavour to the cooked flesh. - -What should, however, be a source of perennial admiration is the -extraordinary absence in this class of anything approaching snobbishness. -The eternal simplicity and unpretentiousness of the race are my constant -wonder and delight. You will see a man in blue blouse, his wife in -spotless cap and coloured kerchief, the man in appearance and fashion -of speech and manners a gentleman, the woman educated, with her _brevet -supérieur_, not destitute of music or art, working and living like -peasants because they are working their own land, and receiving on -lines of perfect equality their humbler neighbours, without any thought -of giving themselves the vulgar airs so common in my own land and in -England. When they take their well-earned holiday at the seaside or among -mountain waters, you will rarely find them seeking to pass for other than -they are, or talking loudly of their advantages of fortune or station. -Their natural dignity is such that they are content to abide by it and be -judged accordingly. This class of the French race may be described as the -least vulgar, the least boastful of the world. With these cleanly and -self-respecting toilers there is no insane aping of the idler, no cheap -imitation of the _bourgeoise_ in dress, no awful spectacle of girls with -hideous feathers and hats the grossest assertion of ill-placed ambition. -Finery of any kind is recognised as the advertisement of something worse -than bad taste,—of the bonnet gone clean over the mill and morals gone -after it. The peasant woman’s vanity is to dress as her mother dressed -before her, her pride is to belong to her land and her people. And it -is because of this wholesome vanity and this noble pride that France is -France, and the land is such a pleasant one to travel over. - -This hard-working race is not without its amusements. It must, as I have -said, have its share of the joys of life. They are never too tired after -a day’s work to dance to the music and measure of song, which they love; -and whenever you chance upon them congregated for diversion, whether -at a fair, on a moonlit sward, over a hilarious meal, you will always -find their behaviour seemly and their gaiety attractive and measured. -If the feathers and hats of holiday trim of Great Britain are lacking -here, so also are the repulsive giggles and the hateful love-making -of those latitudes. The French, we know, are not patterns of virtue, -but they certainly are patterns of deportment abroad. In that clever -little book, _The Island_, Mr. Whiteing depicts the love-making of this -class in England as certainly the worst enemy of the French could never -write with any semblance of truth of the same portion of the race in -France. “Like their North-American sisters, fond of feathers and bright -hues. No gaudier thing in nature than the coster-girl in her holiday -dress of mauve, with the cruel plume that seems to have been dyed in -blood. Relation of female to male, singular survival of primitive state. -Love-making always, in form at least, an abduction of the virgin. A -meeting at the street corner in the dusk for the beginning of the -ceremony; then a chase round the houses, the heavy boots after the light -ones, with joyous shrieks to mark the line of flight; after that the -seizure, the fight, with sounding slaps for dalliance that might knock -the wind out of a farrier of the Blues. In the final clutch skirts part -in screeching rents, feathers strew the ground. Then the panting pair -return hand in hand to the street corner, to begin again.” Of the meeting -of these dreadful lovers later in the public-house Mr. Whiteing adds—and -here, too, he paints a picture exclusively British, that never could -be seen in France: “Nightfall brings them together at the universal -rendezvous from every near or distant scene; men and those that were once -maidens, mumbling age and swearing infancy, stand six deep before the -slimy bar, till the ever-flowing liquor damps down their fiercest fires, -and the great city is once more at rest. The imagination of him that -saw hell could hardly picture the final scene.” And yet you will read -such things printed of the French not immediately under your inspection -that make you ask yourself if the rowdy love-making and public-house -bars constitute the worst possible degradation of humanity. The most -obvious, the most offensive assuredly, but not the least innocent. M. -Octave Mirbeau has recently done me the honour to send me his latest -book, _Le Journal d’une Femme de Chambre_. Not even Zola could conceive -a more terrible indictment against his own race. All classes are therein -depicted as equally corrupt, shameless, brutalised by irrepressed and -irrepressible vice,—nobles, _bourgeoisie_, servants of both sexes, -city and country folk, artisans and peasants. The book has an air of -sincerity, of being the truthful record of a lady’s-maid’s career in -Paris and in the country, so that one cannot discuss it as mere vicious -raving, and every character introduced is worse than the one that went -before. I question if humanity has ever been dragged into such infamous -depths with such a singular display of enjoyment in its degradation. -I read such charges, and I am stupefied with their divergence from my -own personal experience. The French servants I have known have all -been excellent creatures, devoted to their mistresses, grateful for any -kindness or interest shown them, surprisingly intelligent, honest, sober, -of lives of conspicuous virtue. They have the national failing, which is -a tendency to insolence on slight provocation—for you cannot reason with -French people. They fire up angrily at the least hint of an opinion that -displeases them, and their very independence of character makes them sin -on the other side of servility. But those monsters of their fiction—where -are they to be met with? How do they manage to hide themselves so -cleverly from daily scrutiny, if they are, as we are assured, so -persistently around us? Have any of the sweet-mannered Eugénies, the -Irmas, the Marguerites, the Louises, I meet at the different houses of my -friends, who greet me with such cheerful welcome, who take my umbrella or -cloak with such suggested sympathy, and put fresh flowers in my room with -such graceful pleasure, anything in common with M. Mirbeau’s unspeakable -wretch, Mlle. Celestine? - -The same admiration I am compelled to entertain for the French peasant, -I feel for the French artisan, whether in town or country. Yet he, too, -has been depicted as a creature of loathsome perversity; but I can only -speak of him as I have found him. Some years ago, going from Cognac to -Angoulême, I decided to abandon the dull, incommunicative travellers -of the second class and try my chances among the loquacious third-class -voyagers. Here I fell into the very midst of good-humoured, general -conversation, and learnt more about the stirring local events of Cognac -and Angoulême than I should have known after a week’s residence in either -town. A young girl with a round, baby face addressed me in excellent -English, so evidently beaming with the joy of being able to do so that -I lavished my congratulations instantly, and learnt that she had been -for two years a nurse in Warwickshire, where she had picked up fluent -English and met with so much kindness and innocent pleasures of all -sorts that she adored the name of England ever afterwards. Certainly -not a sister of M. Mirbeau’s ineffable Mlle. Celestine, this dear, -sentimental little maid of Angoulême. It was a case of attraction at -first sight, for she begged of me to use her room instead of going to a -hotel, and be her guest at her father’s, a little watchmaker, during the -three days I projected staying at Angoulême. I accepted, enchanted at -a proposal that offered me such an out-of-the-way and original glimpse -of a French town. “Sweetness and light” are words that best describe -this delicious little creature. She was like a round, innocent kitten, -all gaiety and brightness, and sparkled and danced along the streets -beside me, crazy with the delight of talking English again. Girls, she -moaned dejectedly, were most unhappy creatures in France; they had no -pleasures, no freedom. She could not take her beautiful big dog Tom, -given her as a puppy in Warwickshire, out for a walk because it is not -proper in France for a young girl to be seen out-of-doors with a dog. -Poor little martyr, she did not look much of a victim, and missing and -yearning for the larger ways of England had not thinned or paled her -rosy, vivacious, round visage. Here she was, as happy as a queen because -she was going to sleep on her grandmother’s sofa that a stranger from -whom she would take no money might sleep comfortably in her bed. She -insisted on carrying my bag, too, as if that were another beaming source -of satisfaction; and as we trudged blithely up from the valley of the -station to the quaint street in which a quaint, dim-eyed old man lived -and made and mended watches in an altitude rivalling the stars, I saw -that Jeanne was a popular personage. Not this the timid French girl -who slips in and out of life unnoticed, and says, _Oui, monsieur; Non, -monsieur_, to the trousered wolves. The station-master cast her a cordial -nod; the doctor, climbing into his gig, heard her speak English, and -turned with a big, gruff laugh as he waved his hand to her. “There’s -Mlle. Jeanne, happy at last. She is able to calumniate us all in good -English to an insolent foreigner. _Pauvres de nous!_” and wherever we -went together those three days, I saw that the townspeople in shops, -down by the river the boatmen and boys, the women who showed us over -the museum and over the town-hall, the Alsatian manager of Laroche -Joubert’s huge paper factory, whither Jeanne and I drove next day, the -servants at the Duc de la Rochefoucauld’s castle, all knew, admired, and -respected Jeanne, the artisan’s daughter and Warwickshire nurse. She was -not pretty nor distinguished, she dressed like a dowdy nurse, and wore -cotton mittens, but I would I knew anybody in her position who could -attain such popularity in a town like Angoulême out of France. And all -with the utterest simplicity, and an excellent breeding. A heart-broken -shoemaker, a melancholy widower, who wanted her for wife, came to me -and begged me to use my influence in his behalf. He confided to me the -tale of his love, and felt sure that if Jeanne were urged to marry him -in the language of Shakespeare she would consent. She brought in to be -introduced to me a soldier to whom she was teaching English, a nice, mild -young fellow, who told me with gravity that in order to keep himself -abreast of English literature he had subscribed to _Pick Me Up_ for -himself and Jeanne, getting this luminous organ from Bordeaux. The doctor -and his wife invited Jeanne to take her foreign lion over one evening, -and we were made much of, and given syrup and water to drink. We stayed -out shockingly late of nights, for there was a splendid moon and I could -not be torn from the river. But when we entered on our upward toil along -the dark and silent streets, Jeanne would say: “Talk English very loud. -It is a woman’s best safeguard in France.” She called the English tongue -“a _coup de pistolet_ in French ears.” So whenever she saw a silhouette -in uniform, she fired off an aggressive shot of British vocables, and -when midnight, or later, found us under the watchmaker’s roof the old man -lifted his hands in horrified astonishment at our staying abroad so late. -It was another evidence of English eccentricity. - -When I bade Jeanne good-bye at the station, I with difficulty prevailed -upon her to name a sum at least for my excellent board, if not for -the pretty bedroom I had used for three delightful days. Judge of -my amazement when at length she said, to put me at ease, and quite -reluctantly, that she would accept three francs for my three days’ board. -This I regarded as so ludicrous that I laughingly told her I would rather -discharge my debt from Paris, for I preferred to be remembered by a -present than take out of my purse three miserable francs in return for -all I had enjoyed. I declare there were tears in the child’s eyes, and -she sorrowfully assured me her holiday was over. She had never had such -a time at Angoulême since her birth: rows on the river by sunset and -moonlight, she steering, I rowing, and all the boatmen looking on and -cheering lustily; walks here, drives there, and Tom, the glorious Tom, in -honour of my nationality, permitted to walk with her, free beneath the -free heavens. - -I saw many artisans at Jeanne’s, and never in one of either sex a hint of -grossness, of boorishness, of stupidity. Jeanne, I admit, was the pearl -of her set, speaking with polished diction, of manners gentle and urbane, -only a nurse, and yet a perfect lady in everything. Her bedroom denoted -her own charming refinement, with its blue and white curtains, its -spotless prettiness, the flower vases, and little bookcase not ignobly -filled. She spoke continuously of herself, of her wishes and dreams. -Well, never once did I get a suspicion of a flirtation in her life. She -spoke of men with dignity and simplicity, without simper or giggle, and -made no effort to lead me to believe that she was pursued by lovers. When -she referred to the shoemaker’s addresses, it was simply to express her -judicious fear of the immense responsibility of the post of stepmother. -Her dreams were not sordid or vulgar. She wanted more liberty as a young -girl, freedom to walk about with Tom, and not be hampered with so many -unwise and unwritten laws. For the rest, she seemed content with the -modest place she had in the world; and I have known many a wealthier -woman who might with reason have envied this bright little French -nurse,—an honour to her country, her sphere, and her sex. I have seldom -parted with a roadside friend with keener regret. - -My next friend of the working class, and she, I am proud to say, is a -friend of several years’ standing, is my Parisian washerwoman. But here, -I am bound to confess, I am fronted with an exceptional character,—witty, -brilliant, of a liberal and bountiful nature, and original almost to -the point of genius. My washerwoman comes every Tuesday, and brings -gaiety and delightful wit along with her. She is all sorts of odd things -together: a fierce Nationalist, a hard politician, a violent atheist, -a hater of Jesuits and freemasons, inclined to Protestantism, if, -unfortunately, the English were not Protestants already; intelligent -enough not to have been dazzled by the Russian alliance, even when all -France went mad on the Czar’s visit. “He wants our money, mademoiselle,” -she said to me in those mad times, “and we are fools enough to believe in -his friendship.” Whenever you mention the Russian alliance to her, she -promptly asks who has seen that alliance written out on paper, stamped, -and signed. And at the time of the Dreyfus Affair she could tell me -to a centime the sum the Jews and the English had paid the Czar, the -Pope, and the Emperor of Germany. I was used to an excellent, witty, and -extravagant lecture on the intricacies of the Affair every Tuesday which -delighted me, as she always had some ineffable monstrosity on the part -of the Jews, the English, the Germans, or the crowned heads of Europe -to impart; and took my joking with such delicious good humour that I -did not know how to fill up the gap after the verdict of Rennes, for -she is a very seemly, dignified little woman, my Parisian washerwoman. -She stands upon her manners, and says nothing more than “Good morning, -mademoiselle,” if you give her eloquence no opening. And what an -eloquence it is! What a flow of admirably chosen words, so expressively -enunciated, with fitting gesticulations and the most wonderful grimaces -of the wittiest and ugliest face I have ever seen! Then came the -Transvaal War, and here she shone. Indeed, I have repeatedly begged her -to abandon the obscure calling of a washerwoman, and betake herself to -public speaking. I have never known a woman more astonishingly fitted for -the part. - -With her, too, as with the peasant, the distinctive characteristic is -an indomitable spirit of independence. I have never seen her anything -else but gay and charming, but two Englishwomen to whom I recommended -her complained of her insolence, because, being the soul of honesty -and an excellent washerwoman, she will stand no “observations” either -about her washing or her prices; nor will she tolerate anything like -airs. She maintains that she is quite as good as the Czarina, quite as -useful, and probably more intelligent, as, if they changed places, she -is convinced she would make a better hand at sitting on the throne than -the Czarina would make with her washtub. The Englishwoman, I suppose, -made some remarks that wounded this susceptible pride, and the fiery -little washerwoman neatly tied up her bundle of soiled linen, and with -a magnificent and haughty gesture laid it at her feet. “Madame can wash -her own linen or look elsewhere for a laundress; I decline madame’s -custom,” and walked out. The race have an eye, an unerring instinct, for -the drama, and know how to render even the rejection of soiled linen -picturesque and effective. They will cheerfully wash your linen for you -and black your boots; but, as well as payment in coin, they demand that -you shall recognise their right to consideration and courtesy as human -beings. With the _ancien régime_, servility was swept away, and when your -boots are blacked you are expected to give thanks for the service instead -of lifting the toe of contempt in your servant’s direction. A Scottish -woman who married a Frenchman used to convey her opinions and wishes to -her servants by means of a horsewhip, and, though some years dead, is -still a legend in Paris for her domestic difficulties and interior wars. -She belonged to the earlier period, now happily ended, when a kick was -administered for a pair of clean boots, and servants were supposed to -swallow strong language with a grin. Slave-driving, too, is restricted -here, for I have never caught a glimpse of the poor London “slavey,” -overworked almost to disease and insanity. This may be due to the system -of flats, which saves labour, and does away with the necessity for -carrying cans of water up several flights of stairs, but I am inclined to -think that French character goes for much in the suppression. - -Domestic service is despised by the average peasant, the girls looking -forward to marriage, the men to peasant proprietorship, which works -so admirably in France. And in many provinces very young children of -both sexes go out as servants. At the different houses and châteaux I -visited in the Saintonge it was always little girls and boys between -seven and ten who served at table, answered bells, and helped in the -house-cleaning. I cannot say I found the houses particularly clean, -which may be a consequence, but it was interesting and amusing to see a -tiny lad enveloped in a blue working bib sweeping the stairs, and little -creatures at table removing the plates with not an excessive clatter. -One of the good results of this infant service was the indulgent and -maternal attitude of master and mistress. Such wee, willing creatures -could not be scolded seriously when they broke plates or glasses, and you -could not take in their regard the high, impersonal air of England, where -servants are mere instruments, not accepted as flesh-and-blood humanity. -Here you must, if human yourself, smile and thank and pat a curly head or -diminutive shoulder as the quaint creature offers you a course, with, oh! -such a stern determination to hold it steady and not accomplish disaster -in the neighbourhood of your garments. - -The standard of comfort, especially in the matter of sanitary appliances, -has in France made an enormous progress during the last ten years. Ten -years ago in the country even the better classes were little, if at -all, in advance of Spain. I have seen such things in châteaux as would -not bear description, and could not be credited except upon personal -experience. So I ask myself what must be the state of peasant homes and -of artisans’ dwellings. With, however, the advance in schooling, comes an -appreciation of domestic improvements, and the kitchen is rapidly ceasing -to be the best bedroom. Under the Third Republic, so much maligned, -public schools for peasant girls have increased, which are considerably -an advance on the old convent system of education. Nuns are the worst -teachers in the world and the least conscientious. We have the exposure -by the Archbishop of Nancy of the method of the nuns of the Bon Pasteur, -who train orphans, and instead of teaching them, merely exploit them, -and keep up a flourishing institution on the hard labour of children and -girls, and, when the time for leaving the convent arrives, cast them -out without an outfit or a farthing of all the immense sums they have -earned for the convent when they ought to have been learning lessons. -Of course, these republican schools are thwarted and vexed by every -kind of petty persecution on the part of the clerical party. The French -Catholics detest the lay teachers, whom they regard as the rivals of -the Christian Brothers and the nuns, and make them suffer accordingly. -Their writers of predilection make a point of holding them up for public -scorn and ridicule, and so M. Henri Lavedan shows us, in that detestable -play, _Le Vieux Marcheur_, a country teacher, Mademoiselle Léontine -Falempin, all that she ought not to be; and M. de Vogüé, to be true to -the modern traditions of the French aristocrat, when he makes the base -heroine of his dull novel, _Les Morts qui Parlent_, go wrong, jeeringly -says, “So acted the pupil of the good M. Pécaut.” M. Pécaut, a respected -and popular citizen who died lately, established an excellent lay -institution for girls at Fontenay-aux-Roses, and M. de Vogüé’s cowardly -attack upon a dead man of whom the world knew nothing but good, by -implying that a woman is impure because she has been brought up in his -college, aroused the just indignation of every fair-minded Frenchman. If -the theme were not too unsavoury M. de Vogüé would deserve that I should -retort by revealing the tales of scandal and vice I have learned of a -fashionable convent near Paris,—and these stories do not reach me from -outsiders, but from four women who were educated therein. - -It is a source of astonishment to me how inventive the French “little -people” are in the matter of domestic stores. In Ireland, certainly, you -will see nothing like it, but perhaps it may be different in England. -Here all sorts of things are made at home: wines, spirits, liqueurs, -and essences; jams, jellies, oil, vinegar, linen, bread, and honey. -Everything in nature is turned to useful account, and the housewives are -never idle. They have fruit and vegetables in abundance, and live, on -the whole, well, if frugally. Their lands produce flax, hemp, cloves, -colza, wheat, maize, every kind of flower, according to season and soil; -and such is the elasticity of their temperament and their unsleeping -industry, that they have been able to float above that tidal wave, the -phyloxera, as great as any of the Egyptian plagues, as they floated -above the national disaster of “’70.” - -The hero of M. René Bazin’s most charming novel _La Terre qui Meurt_, is -a _métayer_; and _métayage_ is land worked on the half-profit system, -a midway position between labourer and freeholder. The sermon preached -by this mournful little story is that the French land is dying for want -of cultivation, as the peasants are swarming into the big towns, where -they are not wanted, and leaving to waste the land that needs them. Each -name in France is selected with a regard for the dignity of mankind. -The cook and the barber call themselves “artists,” and thereby efface -any menial touch from their calling. The retired servant calls himself -a _rentier_, and the retired labourer decks himself in the gentlemanly -title of _cultivateur_. You may be a _cultivateur_ with “lands and proud -dwellings,” like the earl in the song, or you may modestly cultivate a -single acre. - -With such a fine name in prospect, I wonder any peasant lad is lured -from the country to the big, unsatisfactory towns, as M. Bazin laments -in his tale of the _métayer_ and his sons. In the _métairie_ system the -partnership between landlord and _métayer_ is worked in this wise. The -landlord supplies stock, land, and implements; the _métayer_ brings the -labour, and the profits are equally divided. The _métayer_ boards his -labourers, and their wages vary, according to season, from seventy-five -centimes to two and a half francs per day. The agent, on this system, is -done away with, and the landlord and his partner stand as man to man. -The artisan, too, in the country enjoys a pleasant independence. He -builds his own house, he makes and maintains his own home with thrift and -ambition. The standard of honesty is high. There is little beggary or -drunkenness, and early marriages are frequent. - -Of course the peasant is grasping,—it were idle to hide this, even in -praising his frugality. He is close-fisted and hard-headed, and would -rather part with his blood than with a franc; but he and his brother, -the artisan, have made, and help to keep, France where she is. However -deplorable the pictures of their land which French novelists and -story-tellers may offer us, we may believe, without fear of error, that -it is not _La Terre_ which represents the French peasantry, so human -and so lovable, despite its lack of disinterestedness and generosity; -and it is not M. Octave Mirbeau’s appalling heroine who represents the -great hard-working, honest, and intelligent artisan class. Both of them -have qualities above and beyond any to be looked for in the same classes -elsewhere; and if there were nothing else to admire, surely we must find -admirable their rectitude and their love of independence. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -THE PRESS AND THE PEOPLE’S COLLEGES - - -The French bring an artistic instinct into the manufacturing of all -things, and so it follows that they could not be content to compose -newspapers on the lines of British journalism, which accepts the -propagation of mere news as the aim and object for which journalism was -instituted. It is not necessarily what is true, but what will amuse and -please his subscribers that the editor thinks of. If these want fiction, -then give them fiction, by all means, but mix it up in a literary ragout. -And so, when you have turned from the political article of your paper, -which is frequently written in questionable taste, you will find little -paragraphs, half-columns about the nothings of the hour, written with -a delicate wit, an infinite grace and humour. Most of the contributors -to the _Figaro_ are remarkable writers. Of M. Anatole France there is -nothing to be said here, once we salute him as the living master of -French literature. Every Wednesday he offers the fortunate readers -of the _Figaro_ a scene of contemporary history which constitutes a -morning delight. This front column is reserved for the elect. Since -the split in the French nation over an unhappy Jewish officer, many -of the old contributors have been replaced by writers more in accord -with the present line of the _Figaro_ in politics. M. Cornély, the -practical editor to-day, used to be a frantic Monarchist, the pillar of -the _Gaulois_. Now the Government has no more firm upholder than this -Conservative Catholic. His brilliant leaderettes each morning in the -_Figaro_ are a daily joy, so full of sense, of logic, of humour, and of -wit are they. - -Then the brief and delicious dialogues of M. Capus, who would miss -them? To see the name of Capus to a half-column of dialogue on a topic -of the hour is to be glad you have lived another day. It was by sheer -imperturbable good-humour that the _Figaro_ so splendidly fought the -governmental campaign during the severe crisis it passed through after -the verdict of Rennes, and out of which it came so triumphantly. Since -the Revolution no French Government has had such an hour of triumph -as that which the brave and excellent old man, M. Emile Loubet, and -his brave and able Minister, M. Waldeck-Rousseau, enjoyed on the -22nd of September, 1899, at the unforgetable banquet of twenty-two -thousand mayors of France, come from all parts of the country to gather -enthusiastically round the head of the State in a loyal protest against -all the base and scandalous machinations of his enemies. It is not -often one can congratulate a French editor on the political conduct -of his paper, and M. Cornély deserves hearty congratulations for his -skilful management of the governmental campaign in the columns of the -_Figaro_. It is true he was magnificently supported by M. France, a host -in himself, whose witching satires on Nationalism will remain among the -most delicate and dainty of contributions to political literature of -this or any country. It was a battle worthily won, the weapons, used -with a surprising dexterity, being wit, charm, grace, and humour. The -_Figaro_ has also an old contributor, Le Passant, who out of nothing will -fabricate you a half-hour of delicious hilarity, and for articles of a -more serious and intellectual quality, the distinguished woman of letters -who writes under the pseudonym of Arvède Barine. - -Add to these intellectual features the bright interspersion of graceful -little Parisian notes on anything, from a cabmen’s or washerwomen’s -strike to the fraternity of European soldiers in China, from the -weather to the circulation of false silver, the literary and theatrical -chronicle at the end of such papers as the _Temps_ and the _Débats_, -always intrusted to writers of wide renown. For the criticism of books -in Paris is done by competent critics, who sign their articles, or -is not done at all. Unsigned reviews in Paris are regarded merely as -publishers’ advertisements; and as well-known and responsible critics -are few, it wisely follows that few books are ever seriously noticed. -This is as it should be. If the London Press would adopt this manner, -and suppress the daily trivial reviews of trivial books, less time would -be wasted on mediocrities, and more time devoted to the few makers of -literature. It is, thanks to this indifference to the large majority of -incompetent and unoriginal scribblers in France, that here there are far -less spurious reputations than across the Channel, where popularity and -frantic eulogies in the columns of the newspapers seem to be based on the -possession of no conceivable literary quality. - -“We publish more than our own share of worthless trash,” once said a -French writer to me, “but it is always better written than your trash, -for our bad writers must have some knowledge of grammar, which it appears -yours lack, and they must write with what looks like a certain measure -of style, whereas your bad writers shine by absence of the smallest -pretension to style of any kind”; which means, of course, that illiterate -French men and women know their language better than illiterate English -men and women know theirs. They have been better trained and disciplined -in the maintenance of grammatical laws. And while English journalism -would, I am confident, never descend into the gross personalities and -insults of the low French Press,—that kind of journalism presided over -by MM. Drumont of _La Libre Parole_, Millevoye of _La Patrie_, Judet of -_Le Petit Journal_, and Rochefort of _L’Intransigeant_, the unspeakable -_Intransigeant_,—more intellect, education, and style are expended in -the columns of an ordinary French paper than would be needed to carry -on a dozen successful London papers. No London journalist would think -it worth his while to spend an entire morning over the “confection” of -a bright leaderette, read to-day and forgotten to-morrow, or be content -to cast real brilliance on the ambient air in the reckless fashion of -the polished French journalist. The thousand exquisite things Daudet -in this fashion flung into the bottomless abyss of journalism without -a thought—Provençal spendthrift that he was!—that he was wasting his -intellectual capital! - -The _Temps_, a Protestant organ, is the most serious, the best informed, -and the most respectable of Parisian newspapers. It has not the dash, -the astonishing verve, the invincible courage of the _Figaro_, but it is -always well written, moderate, and interesting. The dramatic and literary -columns are special features. The day of the _Débats_ is over. It once -held the first place as an intellectual and political paper, but it has -lost all vitality, and it has become that unacceptable thing in such -an atmosphere as Paris, _démodé_. Few of its subscribers have remained -faithful to it, and only one or two of its distinguished contributors. - -The _Débats_, like the _Temps_, is eminently respectable, and never uses -that recognised weapon of French journalism, calumny, which makes the -loss of its prestige on political grounds to be deplored. For, in its -method of fighting its political campaigns, the French Press to-day has -descended to strange depths of dishevelled freedom. Under the Second -Empire the Press had hardly more liberty than that which it enjoyed -under the iron heel of Napoleon, and the supervision exercised by the -censor in songs, plays, pamphlets, and literature was assuredly of -greater benefit to the nation, even when making allowances for errors -of judgment, than the coarse and outrageous licence permitted under the -Third Republic. It was nothing but an act of stupid prudery to have -taken proceedings against a grave masterpiece like _Madame Bovary_, but -the Public Prosecutor, M. Bulot, should certainly have taken measures -to summon before a court of justice M. Octave Mirbeau for writing -such an irredeemable study as _Le Journal d’une Femme de Chambre_. -The working-man, the artisan, those whom the conditions of existence -have excluded from the privileges of education, who can pay only a sou -for their daily supply of political information, cannot be too deeply -pitied for having to rely upon such sources of news as _La Patrie_ and -_L’Intransigeant_. They go into the wine-shop then, primed with the -awful lesson in civilisation they daily receive, their minds poisoned -against all those in public office by the ferocious hate, the slander, -the ignoble lies they have read and discussed in their newspaper. How are -these to distinguish between truth and falsehood? No critical faculties -in them have been cultivated by training or education. They accept as -educated the men who write these pernicious articles, and if the writers -solemnly assure their readers that every public man in France is a thief -and traitor, the latter suppose these men must know, and, being by nature -suspicious of those who rule and tax them, they are only too ready to -believe all they read. And so they credit M. Loubet with a capacity for -every dark crime. - -The unpretentious dignity and courage, above all, the _bourgeois_ -simplicity of M. Loubet’s presidentship of the Republic should bid us -hope for France in our worst hour of despondency. There is a fine sense -of duty in the race, for which this simple civilian stands without brag, -assumption, or a trace of French _panache_. Honour came to seek him -uncourted, and he has not wavered or been bullied into resignation by the -most appalling insults, outrages, calumnies, and actual assaults that -have ever been showered on one mortal man. As a figure of civic integrity -and of unassuming merit, I know none worthier of admiration in France -to-day. For the terrible price paid in Paris for public office is not -only abuse of person and principles, but the digging into every private -corner of family history with a deliberate intent to injure and wound by -attacks upon the dead. It is this extraordinary Nationalist Press that -has so brutalised the imagination of the great reading public, that its -readers do not even exact logic or a shadow of consistency from those who -cater their politics for them. A little while ago two French officers -killed their superior officer sent to arrest them on their way into -the heart of Africa. Those two officers were then despatched by their -own men, and the _Patrie Française_ made a great splash in the way of -a patriotic funeral for the assassinated colonel. Had the colonel been -murdered by two civilians all would have been well. But the assassins -were officers, and officers, when they are not Jews, must always be -respected, admired, and adored. So when the patriots had done weeping -over Colonel Klobb, since he had been interred with national and military -honours, MM. Coppée and Lemaître, in the name of the nation, acting -as chief mourners, they decided to forget him and wax exceedingly and -patriotically wroth over the fate of his glorious assassins. Why were -Voulet and Chanoine killed? Who had dared to kill so sacred a thing as a -French officer? It must be the Government, the wicked, infamous, Jew-paid -Government. M. Loubet, of course, gave the order, and M. Waldeck-Rousseau -transmitted it, and then, lest anyone should live to tell the tale, -Waldeck-Rousseau wired instructions to kill off anyone else belonging to -the mission. My Catholic friends are ever lamenting the lack of freedom -under the Third Republic. I wonder if any Catholic Government has ever -tolerated its enemies in the very heart of its rule writing daily in a -hostile Press that it traffics in assassination. And nobody seems to find -the charge in this case laughable. Nationalism is certainly in direct -hostility to all sense of humour. - -But France is too sound and honest and sober a race to live contented -with no other public influence than that of her untrustworthy Press. The -Catholics have always understood that religious ideas are most happily -and lastingly spread by direct personal influences, hence the prestige -of their clergy. Catholic clubs and societies abound, but the want of -liberal education in the working-man was deeply felt in the revelations -of the _Affaire_. To write of France to-day is to hark back perpetually -to the Dreyfus Affair. Everything seems to date from it, everything to -touch it, everything to be explained by it. The misfortunes of no single -man in all history have ever left such abiding and momentous consequences -as those of the Alsatian Jewish officer, whose return to his native land -all Europe stood still to watch with thrilled pulses. And so it was felt, -as infamy after infamy practised against him was discovered, that the -people should be educated to think for themselves, to know and understand -what is being done in their name. It was felt, too, that they should have -their share of the intellectual ideas, the moral and mental beauty that -brightens life and gives it zest, hitherto appropriated by the rich and -leisured classes. What M. Deherme calls the co-operation in idea, the -basis of the people’s colleges of Paris, is really the popularisation -of culture. Anything is good that will help to keep the workmen out of -the wineshops, where they are poisoned with inferior and inflammable -alcohol, and guard them from the political garbage of their inferior and -inflammable newspapers. If you cannot give the workman space, privacy, -wealth, and luxurious home-life, at least make him free in his heritage -of the thoughts that move the ages, put him in contact with the current -of ideas in the ambient air. And so M. Deherme’s notion “caught on,” -and from it sprang the “Universités Populaires” opened in several of the -populous working-quarters of the capital, where every evening, during -certain periods, every different kind of distinguished citizen gives some -of his leisure and some of his brains to the poor. - -A subscription of fivepence a week, afterwards reduced to sevenpence -halfpenny a month, from the numerous members was thought sufficient to -pay for rent and light, while the rich should lend their pictures, give -their books, and under the form of lectures impart their knowledge—this -was the practical form of co-operation of ideas. Then it was decided -that a doctor should have his free consultation-room, and working-men’s -families be able to come on Sundays and enjoy reading and plays or -amusements of divers kinds. In winter, as well as books and papers, light -was at their service, which was a small economy that balanced the small -charge for these privileges. At its worst, it was always better and -cheaper than the wineshop. M. Deherme hired a small lecture-room in the -Rue Paul Bert, and for two years, even in the summer months of holiday, -arranged for commercial lectures, debates, entertainments provided by the -disinterested professional class—always the readiest to assist the poor. -The wealthy sometimes give of their superfluous income—and how little! -Contrast with it the much that doctors, lawyers, professors, men of -science, give of their less as regards actual income! When men like Zola -and Léon Daudet sneer at surgeons and fashionable doctors, I ask myself -if, for a moment, they realise all that these surgeons and doctors do for -the needy for nothing. You give a subscription for some charitable object -duly recorded in the newspapers. You have the benefit of your charitable -reputation, and your self-advertisement; you have earned both without any -actual sacrifice. - -How many doctors and surgeons have their hours set aside regularly for -free consultations, and add to these gifts of money for medicine and -wine! If I were to try to enumerate all the kindnesses and liberal -charities done by big doctors and surgeons, and by small doctors, and -never a word of it recorded, I should have to embark in several volumes. -I know no class of men so disinterested and generous, except perhaps, -barristers and professors. In France we need seek no more splendid -examples in this class of men than the present French Prime Minister, -M. Waldeck-Rousseau, who gave up a lucrative profession, being the -most brilliant and best paid advocate of France, to become an ill-paid -Minister, sacrificing in the hour of a great national crisis something -like fifteen thousand a year; and Maître Labori, who, in order to defend -an unpopular cause, not only risked his life but fell from the height of -professional wealth to something nearly approaching professional poverty. -The Université Populaire, a liberal institution, with, in consequence, -Church, Army, aristocracy and snobbish upper-middle class against it, -was supported by such professors and writers, the glory of hard-working, -thoughtful and intelligent France: M. Gabriel Séailles, philosopher; M. -Ferdinand Buisson, educationalist; M. Emile Duclaux, director of the -Pasteur Institute; the Pasteur Wagner, M. Paul Desjardins; M. Daniel -Halévy, the brilliant young son of the illustrious writer, Ludovic -Halévy, one of the simplest and most charming of Frenchmen it is my -privilege to know; M. Anatole France, whom I do not hesitate to call the -greatest of living French writers; M. Paul Hervieu, a kind of French -George Meredith, with all the qualities and defects, the generosity and -passion for justice of his great English brother, and others less known -across the Channel. - -Now the mother-house of the Université Populaire is in the Faubourg St. -Antoine, the big nerve of labouring Paris. Here, in the heart of the -Socialist movement, serious and honourable men strive nobly to combat the -current of anarchy by fraternity in ideas and intellect with those who -work by their hands and the sweat of their brow to keep France where she -is, and where she will ever remain as long as her children so strive, -the centre of civilisation. The new building has a spacious lecture-hall, -a museum, billiard-room, theatre, and library. The fame of its brilliant -lectures has drawn such a large gathering from the centres of fashion and -idleness that many a time the workman, the real “lord of the soil,” has -been turned away from his own door, having arrived late, when all the -places were taken by the well-dressed usurpers from the boulevards and -wealthy avenues. - -Branch colleges have happily been established on the same lines at -Montmartre, Grenelle, Belleville, the Boulevard Barbés, the Barrière -d’Italie, the Rue Mouffetard, and, without the city wall, where the idea -first started under the personal superintendence of its noble founder, -M. Deherme, at Montreuil sous Bois. Alas, it cannot be said that the -impetus that formed these admirable institutions has continued with the -same force. Some of the people’s colleges are temporarily closed, because -the workmen have not shown ardour of late in attending them. It may only -mean the defection that accompanies all strong reactions. Nobody but -Don Quixote could for ever live and die at the fever-point of chivalry. -Humanity traverses passionate crises, which reveal in a transient flash -all that is best and worst in it, and then calms down to the ordinary -level of contentment, which has neither best nor worst, but which denotes -merely the humdrum desire to live as easily as possible. The historical -social crisis France has gone through has done this good, that a freer -current was established between the intellectual and the manual workers -of France, the guiding soul and hand of the race; and though for the -moment the great emotions which served as intermediary between them are -forgotten, something of their union will remain. Neither the Church nor -militarism, neither the worst influences of caste nor of the clerical -party, can undo the good done by this late union. Let us hope the -Université Populaire will pull up in the coming crisis of the Liberal -Government, against which every base engine and infamy will be used, and -that such an excellent institution as one which provides the teaching of -the best intellects of France for the working-classes, libraries (from -which are excluded any novels that respectable women and girls could not -read), concerts, public reading-rooms well lighted and heated in winter, -free consultations of brilliant lawyers and doctors on stated days, for -the modest subscription of sevenpence halfpenny a month for an entire -family, will not perish for want of general encouragement. - -The French Liberals are making giant efforts to spread enlightenment, -comfort, and fraternity among their poorer brethren, and under the name -of solidarity, are founding cheap restaurants, bath-houses, workmen’s -dwellings, and a nursing institute. Their efforts have inspired a -Conservative rivalry, most excellent for the good of the country, as all -rivalries are which strive for the improvement of the condition of the -artisan class and the poor. The difference between them lies in the fact -that the Catholic party is opposed to education. They wish to give as -charity the Republic’s offer as a right earned by labour. - -There are two other influences at work upon the artisans of France; one -exclusively masculine, and the other an influence equally strong with -each sex—the wineshop and the public ball. Statistics assure us that -France leads the list for the consumption of alcohol—and statistics are -weighty and respectable matter. But can it be true? one asks one’s self -in amazement, remembering the evil sights of London and the astonishing -absence here of drunken men in the streets. Now and then you will meet -such a thing as a drunken man, but the sight is unusual enough to attract -notice. Tippling is the general form of drinking to excess here. The men -go into the wineshop to have a drink, and to talk things over. There -is always something to be talked about, and the public bar is the best -place to have it out with your neighbour, and the _marchand de vin_, sly -rogue, is accused of supplying queer, unwholesome drinks that provoke -thirst, so that one drink follows another. - -The _marchand de vin_ sells more than liquors. He is the local -post-office keeper, sells stamps, postcards, tobacco, and usually has a -rude little dining-saloon where workmen and coachmen gather. So it stands -to reason that there is a great deal of coming and going, of movement and -life; there is always something to be learnt in the way of rumour, and -someone to listen to you in the hour of revolt. Thus many private and -personal revolutions are planned here and it is decided here whether, on -the occasion of public functions, the cry shall be, _Vive l’Armée_ or -_Vive la République_. As a different decision will probably be taken at -the next wineshop, when these valiant heroes meet in the streets we are -threatened with a renewal of the barricades. After the first or second -shudder at these menaces, the citizens come to take them very quietly. I -remember the afternoon the Chamber of Deputies met under the protection -of the troops, when the whole large Place de la Concorde was laid out in -bivouacs, mounted police and cavalry gathered in knots around groups of -resting horses, both sides of the bridges guarded by lines of _sergeants -de ville_ through which a needle could not pass, except by wily and -clever entreaties; egress to the avenues, Rue de Rivoli, Rue Royale, -all severely barred. You rubbed your eyes, and wondered if the city were -besieged. Well, not a soul sought to cross the Place de la Concorde, -except some curious, inoffensive spectator like myself. So quiet, so -still and silent, was everything that it was impossible to account for -all these regiments and this look of a besieged city. Visiting a friend -who lives near the Pont des Invalides, she informed me that two young -English girls had just left her in a state of acute disappointment. “We -came to Paris to see the great French Revolution, and there was nothing.” -That has been the true state of affairs in Paris for the past two or -three years. We were constantly sallying forth into the streets, and -there never was anything much to be seen. What little there was in the -way of civic uproar was centred round the reactionary and anti-semitic -beershop Maxeville on the Boulevard. It rarely led to anything but a few -arrests of a few hours’ duration, and then we quieted down to await with -fortitude and patience the next explosion. - -The public ball is, if less revolutionary in its consequences, more -morally disastrous. The French love dancing; when they dance together -in the open or in big kitchens, as the peasants dance, there is nothing -for us to do but cheer and envy them. Here we recognise in the dancing -of tired workers a legitimate outlet for compressed activities, the -eternal measure of joy which children of nature must ever tread. If it -lead to love and marriage, or, maybe, only through the dalliance of -flirtation, that, too, is in the fitness of things, since men and women -must flirt, make love, marry or jilt; and the only thing we have to ask -of humanity is that it shall do these things with decorum and taste. -It is just this sense of decorum, of taste, which is so conspicuous in -the French of all classes, and so absent in the British Isles. And the -only place where this decorum and taste fail them is at the public ball. -Here they literally go off their heads, and become vulgar, gross, and -indecent. Modest little _grisettes_ come to these vile rendezvous for -the first time, well-mannered, timid, perhaps with some of the bloom of -youth about them still, a reserve which might be interpreted as a kind -of virtue,—such a pretty, engaging dignity does it give them,—and this -they leave behind in the empty bowl of hot blue wine, with the slices -of lemon or orange floating in it. They breathe the air of obscenity, -and grow vain and audacious, believing this is life, and that they have -learnt it. Inept and stupid rascals think it a grand thing to dye their -souls in purple-black, and make a foolish mockery of all things sacred. -Tenth-rate, vulgar-minded scribblers haunt these halls of horror, and -pretend to prefer the popularity earned by their brutish impurities, -couched in coarse verse, in such abodes of vice to that of the reading -public. And when, by chance, you see printed, or hear one of those hymns -of Montmartre of the glories of Bullier or the Moulin Rouge, it seems to -you a proof of infallible justice on the part of contemporary judgment -that these mediocre scoundrels should have failed. - -Yet the Parisian _grisette_, even when she is far from being a model -of virtue, if she has not been vitiated by the _bal public_ is a very -well-behaved and gracious little creature. Her standard of life is not -high, but such as it is, it is attained with surprising dignity, and -it is thanks to the lover who leads her to the public ball, that she -becomes acquainted with the ignoble, the profane, and the outrageous. -Left to herself, she would ask for nothing better than a quiet and -refined interior, a little money to spend capriciously, as many pretty, -inoffensive fineries to wear as are necessary to make her always pleasant -to be looked at, an occasional cheerful outing, with a picnic at Robinson -or in the woods of Vincennes, or safe water-excursions at Bougival, -with the certainty of replacing the present lover on the same discreet -and advantageous lines. She takes no heed of the morrow, and it is this -improvidence and the public ball that inevitably accomplish her ruin -when she does not find—and it must be admitted she more frequently than -not does find—an honest workman willing to overlook her past and to -start married life with her. Made for the stability of home, neat and -competent, she soon settles down, and proves herself a good housewife. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER X - -THE PARISIAN LECTURE AND SALON - - -In no city in the world is the public lecturer so popular as in Paris. -The _Conférence_ is almost a national institution, like the _salon_ and -the _foyer_. I will frankly confess that I find the average Parisian -lecturer overrated, and the whole thing sadly overdone. In the winter and -spring there are a great deal too many lectures, on too many subjects, -but that is the way the Parisian, above all, Parisian woman, likes to -take a dose of culture. When the season opens in January, you will -generally find that your friends have subscribed somewhere or other for -a course of lectures—six or twelve. Sometimes they take place in the -lecture-hall of the Rue Caumartin, or in a lecture-hall in the Rue Boissy -d’Anglas, or at the Société Géographique on the Boulevard St. Germain. -Then there are the lectures of the Sorbonne, or the Collége de France, -where the salaried professors of the State lecture, and a host of stray -lectures on every subject under the sun, in various private dwellings or -hired rooms. In spite of the competition between the well-known French -lecturers, professors, men of letters and of science, foreigners are -given courteous hearing, and if they have anything novel and interesting -to say, are heartily thanked as well as generously paid for saying it. -This I know, for I have had the honour of giving several lectures in -Paris on modern English literature, and had reason to congratulate myself -on my sympathetic and appreciative audience of intelligent and cultivated -Frenchwomen. They dress so well, these pleasant-looking Frenchwomen, -and listen with such speaking, sparkling visages, that no wonder there -is so much competition between the male lecturers. Even a morose man of -science, when he casts his eye over his audience, must be gladdened and -freshened by their presence. He may prefer communion with the masculine -intellect; but he must find his countrywoman’s alert and agreeable face, -under its ever-becoming bonnet, a welcome vision. - -Distinguished foreign writers, if they know enough French, are generally -invited to lecture by some society. Fogazzarro was asked to lecture -here on his recent visit, and a very pleasant little lecture it was, -delivered in the best and easiest manner possible; and after him came -Madame Pardo Bazán, the Spanish writer, with a few commonplaces about -Spain. The fashionable resort for the lecture fanatic has been, for -some years past, the Bodinière, in the Rue St. Lazare. This is an old -theatre, a concert hall, a kind of fast musical chamber, where ballets, -songs, and lectures all mingle strangely, and the lecturer, when the -curtain rises, is revealed seated before a table, with ballet-girls -heel-and-toe-tipped on the walls around him. The first time I attended a -fashionable lecture at the Bodinière, it was to hear the Abbé Charbonnel -talk to us on Lamennais. I am not easily shocked, but I found both -incongruous and indecorous the picture made by an abbé in his uniform -of religion, between two ballet-girls, with images everywhere of public -dance and light morals. The lecture was an impressive one, far above the -average Parisian lecture, eloquent, original, solemnly grave, polished -as only a Frenchman’s prose is polished, with a note of burning revolt -running through it. This, too, surprised me. When all London gathered to -hear why an eminent clergyman of the Church of England left the faith -of his fathers, they congregated in a church, and listened with a sense -of solemnity to a solemn avowal. Here was a French abbé talking to us -with a just indignation of the tyranny of Rome; talking with passion and -admiration of Lamennais’s revolt and the injustice of Rome, talking as -only a man who felt and shared the moral sufferings of his hero could -talk. It was undoubtedly beautiful and thrilling. It was like hearing -a heart beat, like watching a brain throb, feeling one’s self face to -face with a naked soul in one of its great crises. But was a fashionable -lecture-hall the place for such a public confession? Were frivolous, -fluttering women of society a fitting audience in such an hour? Were -these ladies of the ballet painted on the walls, this theatrical curtain, -seemly environment? And was it in his abbé’s robe that Victor Charbonnel -should have denounced the tyranny of Rome in public? Shortly afterwards -the Abbé Charbonnel was excommunicated, which was no more than everybody -expected; and though there was not a word he uttered in that remarkable -lecture on a remarkable subject with which I did not sympathise, I should -have preferred to hear it delivered elsewhere,—in other and more solemn -surroundings. - -There is one thing that I have always noticed in the Parisian -lecturer,—his complete lack of timidity, of want of self-confidence. -However dull he may be, however mediocre, however uneloquent,—and -he is often one, or all three,—no matter, he is sure of himself. He -has chosen to shine as a lecturer, and as a lecturer he will under -no circumstance be induced to recognise himself as a failure. This -stupendous self-conceit is a masculine characteristic, I know, but the -Parisian lecturer carries it off with art. He is an artist in his genius -for believing in himself. How many great men have I gone forth to hear -talk of their art or of themselves, and come away amazed by the string of -admirably delivered commonplaces they have uttered! - -M. Gustave Larroumet is a lecturer all Paris was wild about some years -ago. I was told that for love or money you could not get a place at -one of his lectures, unless you subscribed beforehand for the whole -course, and even then that he was bombarded with declarations, like -a popular tenor, and that young girls died of undeclared love for -him. Never was such a popular lecturer as M. Larroumet! I went in -dread and awe. Should I, too, succumb, and add one more to the daily -thousand and one declarations of a hopeless passion? The vast hall was -thronged, the dresses were exquisite, the bonnets dazzling. All the -young girls of fashionable Paris were there, with note-books and scented -pocket-handkerchiefs for the expected great emotions. He came, the -popular lecturer, and never was I more grievously disillusioned. He spoke -well, his gesticulation and enunciation were equally delightful to hear -and behold. He was, what one might expect him to be after such a course -of public worship, the _blasé_ fine gentleman of the lecture-hall, -good-looking, youngish, the very tenor of lecturers. But to what hopeless -mediocrities he treated us, what _lieux-communs_ he imperturbably walked -us through! It was one of Gresset’s plays he analysed. The gist of it -all was that our grandmothers were better bred than we are, because they -indulged in _persiflage_ and we in _blagues_. And this was the great -lecturer of the hour! - -Everybody knows the initial story of the French _salon_, and the -fortunate influence on manners and literature of the prestige of the -Hôtel de Rambouillet; Molière, who laughed at everything, even at -his own desperate sufferings, laughed at it in his _Les Précieuses -Ridicules_, for nothing on earth is sacred to a Frenchman. Whatever his -name, in whatever century he was born, he must, in consistency with his -nationality, prove himself a scoffer; and as he has the art of mocking -admirably, it is always very difficult to know when he is serious or -when he is laughing in his sleeve. A Frenchman will work night and day -with frenzy for a purpose dearer to him than anything on earth, and -all the while will deliberately make a mockery of his labour and his -devotion. Writing to me on this subject, the eternal passion of the -French for _blagues_ (my correspondent defines in lucid English the word -_blaguer_, “To say about somebody or something one admires or respects, -jokes of which one does not believe the first word,” and I leave the -definition with its pleasing French savour of composition and sentiment), -a Frenchman says: “There is not a man in the whole of France about whom -we have more joked than about M. Brisson, the ancient minister, the -only political man to whom nothing could ever be reproached, but the -epithet ‘austere’ deprived him of three-fourths of his authority, though -Frenchmen are, after all, as sensible as other people to the virtue of -honesty.” And so may be said of Molière. He was as well aware as anyone -could be of the immense benefit to his race and to his language of the -establishment of the _salon_, even when he laughed at it. - -Though the century of the _salon_ has passed away, and carried along -with it some of the glory of French literature, some of its traditions -still linger, and will never be lost as long as the race delights in -good conversation. English people visit to kill time, to fulfil a -social obligation, and consider that their duty to themselves and their -neighbours is done if they happen to remark that it is a fine day. -Now, the French visit to talk. A pretty and well-dressed woman will, -perhaps, have other more private and personal preoccupations, and wish -to distract masculine attention to an adorable gown or a bewitching -bonnet; this was one of the reasons why that model keeper of a _salon_, -Madame Geoffrin, excluded women from hers. She found they interfered -with serious conversation. I advisedly call Madame Geoffrin the “keeper” -of a _salon_, because she made a business of it, and ruled and tamed -her literary menagerie by a discreet and liberal use of her purse. I -have often wondered if her great men in their hearts did not sometimes -revolt against the thraldom in which they lived from the moment they -became celebrated. To be bound to be brilliant and witty, in return for -a good dinner and a consideration every evening of one’s life! And to be -condemned to meet none but brilliant and witty persons, and listen to -their splendid talk when not talking splendidly oneself! There is matter -for reflection here to make dull and obscure persons occasionally thank -their stars. If good talk is not spontaneous, I own it has no charm for -me, but then I have never aspired to hold a _salon_, and if you hold a -_salon_ and wish it to be a success, talk cannot be spontaneous. - -Quite recently Madame Aubernon died, and Paris lost a literary _salon_, -modelled, at a long distance, on that of Madame Geoffrin. Madame -Aubernon was a rich _bourgeoise_, with no pretensions on the score of -age, good looks, or dress. Her only ambition was to form a menagerie of -celebrities. She gave them every evening dinners by no means as good -as those of Madame Geoffrin, and checked, controlled, made them march -to her liking. She, too, professed mistrust of pretty women, whom she -invited only to lunches and teas and such entertainments, because she -feared that their pretty frocks, their arms and shoulders, would divert -the attention of her great men from their duty to her and her _salon_. -She kept a little bell beside her, and only allowed the great men to -talk in turn. “Now, M. Renan,” and Renan poured forth to order. “If -you please, M. Dumas,” and behold M. Dumas acquitting himself with -docility and force. The famous story of the _petits pois_ is told of -every distinguished guest of Madame Aubernon. Sometimes you hear it -with Dumas’s name, or Renan’s, or Pailleron’s. It does not matter, but -the incident remains a delightful illustration of the inconveniences -of eating your dinner on the understanding that you are to pay for it -in wit. The great man opened his lips out of turn, when the hostess -stormily rang the bell, and ordered him to shut them again. Somebody else -was speaking with permission. When he ceased, Madame Aubernon turned -graciously to her tame lion, and said: “Now you may speak. What was -it you wanted to say?” “Oh, nothing, madame. I only wanted to ask for -another helping of peas.” Musical celebrities are not so easily trained. -When, after dining at some Parisian countess’s, Chopin was asked to play, -he quietly retorted: _Madame, j’ai si peu mangé_. But if the great men -of letters had been such bears as Chopin there would never have been the -_salon_, and the story of Parisian life would be the poorer. And, after -all, it is an excellent discipline. Men acquire the art of listening as -well as that of talking, and it is a virtue of national importance to -teach people not to be dull. For if you are dull you have no possible -place in a salon. Your hostess has no desire to crowd her rooms with -inanimate or bored figure-heads. You come on a distinct treaty, the -conditions of which are accepted by your appearance,—to amuse and be -amused. If you speak, either you must have something to say, or you must -say whatever you wish to utter well. - -Since the Faubourg has been sulking, and the aristocracy is no longer -a power in the land, the aristocratic _salon_ has dwindled into a -tradition. The young men are so desperately taken up with sport, with -automobiles, that they have not the leisure their elders had for the arts -and graces of life. The _rosse_ literature has spoiled the traditions -of the Faubourg for us. The French aristocracy has come to mean Gyp and -Lavedan for us, and a course of those writers may be warranted to drive -any intelligent reader into the society of washerwomen and tramps as a -pleasing change. The absence from all these heraldic pages, in which -everybody is more or less titled, of such a thing as a gentleman, or -even an ordinarily honest man, is what stupefies me. What their admirers -can imagine would be the benefit to France in upsetting the Republic in -order to place in power a party, upon its own testimony, so scantily -furnished with brains or honour, is what I am unable to grasp. And if -their women-folk had their way, we should have back the “White Terror,” -and science and liberal thought would receive an emphatic blow. But -happily there is no immediate fear of their triumph. The Duc d’Aumale and -the Prince de Joinville took with them to the grave all the prestige that -was left the House of France, and not even his followers take the Duke of -Orleans seriously. - -Political intrigue is, of course, worked in the _salon_, as Academy -elections are helped. The Frenchwoman’s influence is too great not to -find an opening in every question of the hour. If she has no vote, she -inhabits a land where the sorcery of her sex exercises a wider and -deeper, a more permanent power than any political rights could ever -give her, though, for many reasons, I am inclined to believe that it -would be better for her and for her race if the significance of this -power were other than it is. In a country where the courtesan plays a -triumphant part, where newspapers solemnly recount her doings, describe -her toilettes at Longchamps, at Auteuil, and interview her, we can -scarcely expect women not to misuse their sovereignty. They know that -the day it bores them to be chaste, they need not cloak sin in the mantle -of night. They may wear their lovers on their sleeves in broad daylight, -and lose not a pennyweight of consideration. The _salon_ of the woman -who is known to have had (or to have) sentimental adventures will be -thronged, and people will only smile and say of her that she “distracts” -herself. I remember hearing an extraordinary story once of a beautiful -woman, the admired and courted holder of a famous _salon_. The cousin of -the friend who told me the story fell a victim to her charms, and was -staying with his mother at some Mediterranean resort, when he learnt of -the siren’s arrival at a neighbouring town. He forsook his mother to -rush after her, and remained with her during the greater part of the -long summer vacation. When their holiday had drawn to a close, the lady -took the train, and called on her lover’s mother, and in the highest -_ancien régime_ manner, said: “Madame, I come to return your dear son -to you.” His little _fugue_, she said, was at an end. The two ladies -parted on the best of terms, the one to welcome back the erring sheep -(not that a French mother regards her son under these circumstances as -an erring sheep), and the other to open the doors of her closed _salon_ -in Paris to all the notabilities she had left sighing for her brilliant -and hospitable roof. What will you? When a woman is not his own wife, a -Parisian does not put any price upon her honour. True, he makes up for -this laxity in regard to his neighbour’s wife by arrogating to himself -the right to murder his own faithless wife with impunity. By this legal -ferocity he buys back the privilege of considering himself at times a -model of Roman virtue. - -The _salon_ is all very well, so are the songs of Montmartre, the Théâtre -Rosse, but there is just one little point, a solitary point, on which -the Frenchman is in no mood to _blaguer_, not being Molière, and that -is _his_ wife’s fidelity to the marriage vow, which vow, if we are to -believe him (I confess I do not) he spends his own life in breaking. -He laughs at most other things, but here he displays a desperate and -unhumorous gravity. The law considerately assists him, by telling him -that killing is no murder. But if he doesn’t laugh, his neighbours round -him laugh joyously for him. The infidelity of another man’s wife is the -best of all jokes in France, and public sympathy always goes with the -wife. - -[Illustration: GLEANERS - -_J. A. Breton_] - -And yet, while laughing at himself, and at all things round him, the -Frenchman offers us the ideal of an indefatigable worker in whatever -road he has elected to run his career. If he can talk well, he can work -hard, and no race seeks so strenuously as his to achieve perfection in -every path. The alacrity and precision of his speech he brings into -all he does, and I know no men who have won renown able to wear it so -simply, with such a delightful absence of pompousness, as distinguished -Frenchmen. Victor Hugo was, of course, the big exception indispensable -for the proof of the rule, for Victor Hugo sat in pontifical state on -his Throne of Letters, and posed as a sort of Napoleon. But that was a -part of his flamboyant genius, which had to make a life apart for itself. -Renan, with his delicate scepticism, his good-humoured tolerance, was -a much more convincing figure of French genius; he was more in keeping -with the urbane, gentle traditions of his race. The French language lends -itself to such a daily dignity of existence, that this may partly be the -reason there always seems to me something peculiarly and indescribably -harmonious about intimate life in France, as well as in its larger social -phases. Everybody about you, beginning with your servant, speaks so well, -that long intercourse with them unfits you for latitudes where speech is -less admirable and less choice. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -THE “LITTLE PEOPLE” OF PARIS - - -The “little people” of Paris are not confined to any particular quarter -of the city. They are to be found everywhere, in spacious avenues, -in streets of heraldic renown, in the sinister neighbourhood of La -Roquette, through the noisy length of St. Denis. Opposite the palace of -the Duke of La Rochefoucauld in the Rue de Varennes will you see an old -curiosity shop, and close by work a mild-eyed cobbler and his wife, a -little sempstress. Excellent types, both of these indefatigable little -people of Paris, living in two tidy attics of this aristocratic street, -with an air of quiet independence. The little people are of all sorts: -beginning with the “little” _bourgeoise_ and ending with the rag-picker -and the _marchand de quatre saisons_. The little _bourgeoise_ is a -curious study, and to penetrate into the precincts where she breathes and -thrives, the foreigner must be her boarder. Else will he obtain none but -a superficial view of her; and as her aspect is generally cheerful, her -manners pleasing, he will be disposed to think better of her than she -altogether deserves. The thrift of the little _bourgeoise_ must be given -its real and ugly name, avarice, for it is nothing else. It has turned -its back upon the virtue of economy, and has assumed the coarseness of -a vice. And so when she furnishes a spare room, it is that she shall -exploit mercilessly the stranger at her gates. The traveller in search of -experience may drop in upon her, but those not supplied with patience, -with fortitude in the endurance of cynical imposition and lucre to meet -complacently exorbitant demands upon their purse, should avoid this -interesting creature, and go to a hotel. In the first place, the opening -of private doors to the traveller or over-seas student is so foreign -to the habits and instincts of her race, that once she has allowed the -brilliant idea of “taking in” a foreign boarder to enter her narrow mind, -she starts immediately by magnifying her legitimate profits, and in her -ardour to amass francs on ground where she is practically free from all -commercial or professional restrictions, she is not beset by any paltry -fear of overstepping the limits of honesty. Her sole conception of that -homely virtue lies in its rigid application in her own regard, in an -austere resolution to see that nobody on earth shall cheat her of the -value of a single farthing. I know not which is the more astounding: her -inflexible insistence on the honesty of her _bonne_, or the flexibility -of her conscience when she comes in contact with alien claims upon her -own honesty. - -Her favourite boarder is the young American or English art student. -Young women she naturally prefers, because it is easier to fleece them, -and they are shyer of monetary disputes than men or experienced women. -She will not scruple to demand for the poorest table imaginable and -the perfunctory service of a single maid-of-all-work, the terms of a -first-rate _pension_ or a comfortable hotel, where there are servants in -plenty and the table is varied and excellent. Her excuse is that, not -being a boarding-house keeper or a hotel keeper (“Would that she were -either!” dejectedly moan her victims), she is entitled to relatively -higher prices for the privilege of a seat at a private table. In the -region of bills she is altogether her own mistress, for she has no -commercial reputation at stake to balance her notions on the subject of -profits, which are colossal, and so she enters every extra she can think -of with gaiety of heart, and a smiling conviction that all is fair that -puts cash into the big pocket of the rapacious little _bourgeoise_. Not -that she will risk frightening off a possible boarder by a revelation -of this view beforehand, and no mention of those formidable trifles -called “extras” will be made in the preliminary treaty. Then it will be -all beguilement and blandishment, allurement and promise, with a hint of -paradise through the open door of her modest establishment. Within there, -seems to say this cheering creature, will you find the warmth of home, -maternal care and tenderness when you are ill, and intelligent sympathy -in all hours. Ten pounds a month seems a small sum to pay for this, and -you enter gratefully, not disposed to criticise, on the contrary, eager -to see everything through the rose hue of satisfaction, to find another -fifty or seventy francs added to your bill at the end of the month for -wine, light, coffee, service, linen, and baths. When fire comes to -be included, you discover that you might have boarded, with comfort, -independence, and good living, for the same price in one of the hotels -of the Rue de Rivoli. For independence is the very last thing the little -_bourgeoise_ is disposed to allow her “paying guest.” It needs a quality -of brain of which she is destitute, to recognise a single woman’s right -to liberty. - -The foreign boarder’s days under her roof constitute a march through -surprises. Here no gleaming glass and shining damask at table; no -flowers, no silver, no tasteful arrangement of desert; for tablecloth a -coarse sheet and cloths to match for napkins, sometimes patched, and -invariably sewn down the middle. There is nothing to please the eye or -the palate, but the disappointed boarder must stoically hold her tongue -if she would maintain agreeable relations. The hostess is an arbitrary -as well as a parsimonious and dishonest housekeeper. The exactions, the -arrogance, must be allowed to remain all on her side and the malcontent -has nothing to do but pay a month’s board and lodging in advance and pack -up her things. If she stays, a hushed civility is expected from her, and -all payments rigidly in advance. Why, the little _bourgeoise_ should have -instituted this singular law, that a month’s food should be paid for -before it has been consumed, I have never been able to understand: but I -confess I have never been able to master the complicated ethics of this -interesting woman. She is a fervent Catholic, attends church regularly -morning and evening, confesses, teaches Catholicism and morality to the -outcast infant, and never seems to suspect that honesty is one of the -virtues incorporated in the Christian doctrine. When she orders anything -for you she will pay one price in the shop and charge you another; yet, -good, consistent creature, she goes to market on market days after Mass -to take note of the prices, in order to calculate to a farthing what the -day’s purchases will cost, so that the _bonne_ shall not cheat her of the -value of a sou. This is hard on the _bonne_, whom she pays as little -as she can, and underfeeds, and overworks, and who is thus defrauded of -one of the acknowledged perquisites of the servant in France,—_le sou -du franc_. When a Parisian servant makes a purchase over a franc, each -tradesman returns her a sou on every franc paid in cash. The avid “little -_bourgeoise_” usually insists on having this sou back, and if the _bonne_ -is meek and afraid she gives up the sou, for her mistress understands the -question of perquisites only in her own right. She watches her servant -closely, though there is nothing of a shrew or a Sally Brass about her. -She victimises her through the attendant vice of avaricious, unsleeping -suspicion. And so she visits the kitchen when the girl has left, to see -if a lump of sugar or a piece of bread, or anything else, should be -secreted anywhere. Perhaps once a week she will give the domestic martyr -a half-dozen rotten strawberries or cherries when these can be had for -next to nothing, or the last spoonful of rice or stewed prunes when the -enraged boarders have turned their eyes from nauseous remains of these -choice dishes three or four days old. - -Her cuisine is a thing to gape at. You forget you are in France, the land -of good, inexpensive living, and pronounce it frankly execrable. The -dinner usually consists of vegetable water or greasy water with pieces of -bread floating about, of ragged _bouilli_ (the meat used in the boiling -of this insipid liquid), a tasteless dish of sorrel and of stewed prunes -that will be served no less than four or five times successively until -the very last of the dish has been consumed, or a dish of rice which -will also in its half-finished condition make its successive appearance -until the last grain has vanished, and the dish, presumably on the score -of economy, on which these luxuries are served will not even be changed. -In the same quaint spirit the remains of cold vegetables are reheated -and served again, with such result for eye and palate as no pen can -describe. Whatever you find at her table you may know beforehand will be -of the worst and cheapest of its kind, and there will be as little as -possible of it. When fruit outside, in the markets, along the streets in -barrows, in the shops, is plentiful, excellent, and absurdly cheap, she -will assure you it is far too expensive for her table, and treat three -art students, each paying, exclusive of extras, ten pounds a month, to -musty biscuits and dried figs that taste like caked sawdust. As for -sweet dishes, creams, sauces, varieties of well-cooked vegetables, all -the thousand little kickshaws we associate with the dainty French term -cuisine, these you are as likely to find at her table as ice-cream or -champagne. - -The home life of the little _bourgeoise_ is a strange and a dull one. -She possesses a house, one wonders why, when a bedroom seems to be all -that she requires. She lives in her bedroom as Englishwomen of the same -class live in their parlours. That a _salon_ was made for use, to be -sat in and worked in and talked in, never enters her head. She uses her -dining-room only for meals, and thus never has any fire in it during the -winter, does not dream of lighting the stove which every French _salle -à manger_ has, however small. She puts on a shawl to go into lunch and -dinner. The _salon_ is hermetically sealed all the week, and opened -gingerly should she have an at-home day; if not, it is opened only when -some very important visitors call. I have known a little _bourgeoise_, -whose “paying guest” I, for my misfortune, happened to be, who allowed -the inmates of her establishment to pass into the _salon_ after dinner -for exactly an hour. At nine o’clock she rose and graciously dismissed -us from the sacred precincts, bidding us disperse to our chambers, while -she locked up the holy of holies. Here, as elsewhere, I discovered that -such a thing as a comfortable chair or sofa is unknown, undreamed of by -the little _bourgeoise_. To do her justice, she never lounges herself, -and consequently does not understand the need. This is the admirable side -of her character,—the complete absence of self-indulgence. She swindles -you, not for her comfort, but for the security of her old age. She is -circumspect and formal in all her attitudes, absolutely self-respecting, -of a cordial coldness, and there is something impersonal, something -claustral in her selfishness. I have remarked that nuns resemble her -astonishingly in all their material relations with the world: the same -implacable hardness, the same smiling austerity, the same lack of honesty -or of consideration for others, the same resolute determination to get -the best of outsiders in the matter of labour or bargains, to give as -little and obtain as much as possible in all transactions, to underfeed, -underpay, and overwork,—and all with the same high air of self-approval -and righteousness. - -Religious communities will cheerfully, singing, as it were, hymns of -thanks, do for the glory of God things modest pagans would shrink from -in honour of the devil, and the little French _bourgeoise_ has much -of this inexplicable complacency in dishonesty. Like the nuns, she is -active and virtuous, and she is most pleasant as long as you are pliant -and uncomplaining,—the ideal art student! But she is essentially a -despot, the unyielding mistress of her own house; and she is cynically -indifferent to your dissatisfaction should you think fit to make it -visible. She has no hesitation whatever in letting you understand, -with a sincerity that does her honour, that she did not take you as a -boarder with the naïve intention of rendering you comfortable or giving -you an adequate return for your money, but with the simpler design of -making a considerable profit on you. She will say to you, with that -French independence I ever admire, that it is not your purse but hers -that is in question; and I judge her to regard as idiots such saints as -Martin of Tours and Francis of Assisi. Truth is no more conspicuous than -charity and honesty among her virtues, for she will lie with a courage -befitting a nobler cause in the interests of her pocket. The minute and -persevering genius of Balzac alone could follow her through the maze of -economical twists she has devised wherewith to save or make a sou. She -is impaled in my memory over her sugar-bowl like the king of nursery -legend counting out his money. If avarice be an impediment to reception -within the gates of Paradise I fear my arrogant, self-approving little -friend has small chance in the next world. Yet far be it from me to deny -her good qualities and her charm. She is so well-mannered, so pleasant, -so intelligent, such a plausible villain when off the field of her -illegitimate profits, that fain would I see her flourish and triumph. -After all, money matters are not the sole test of virtue. I have known -persons of the most unimpeachable honesty and delicacy on this ground, -utterly insupportable in all things else, with horrid tempers and -tongues, an utter lack of heart, which is not the little _bourgeoise’s_ -failing, for if you are ill she will overwhelm you with kindness and -attentions, accompanied ever with her equable, smiling cordiality; and -if your bill is the heavier, well, at least you have had the pleasure -of the attentions; and her presence, when you are not considering its -consequences in your bill, is more often than not a tonic and a ray -of sympathy and gaiety. Of so priceless a quality is gaiety, that -good-humoured roguery is better any day than sour, ill-natured honesty. - -The small dressmaker is another pleasing picture of the humbler walks -of Paris. The _grisette_ I deem to be as extinct as the dodo, while the -class of work-girl I have in view may be supposed to step out of her -rank. But the novelist who would try to turn her into copy for Musset or -Mürger would be all abroad. She earns her bread honestly and diligently -in the skilful exercise of her art, with a band of juvenile needle-women -round her who ought to be playing in the fields, but who, instead, are -content to sit in a tiny workroom and sew and snip all day. Nothing -more dignified, more modest, more self-respecting than all this young -world, seemingly unaware of any reasons for dissatisfaction. The youthful -mistress exercises her authority with good-humour and gentleness, -and her willing little workers appear really fond of her. It is in -Paris that I have become converted to Tolstoi’s belief that the humble -class is the _vrai grand monde_, a thousand times more interesting and -instructive, worthier of our admiration, than the wealthy and educated -classes. The deeper you penetrate into these obscure lives, the deeper -you feel a sense of humiliation by confrontation with the futility of -education, breeding, blood,—the accepted adjuncts of superiority. The -poor and humble of the world are inarticulate, and they live and die -unconscious of the heroism of their existence. But the average woman -of the people gathers more virtue into a single day than the educated -woman, who enjoys the priceless benefits of leisure, space, and ease, -spreads over a week. Mark the gaiety and content with which she will -toil for inadequate pay, rising early, resting late, with few pleasures, -fewer distractions, maintaining through all her never-ending trials a -dignity of bearing, an ideal of honesty, an incomparable altitude of -disinterestedness that should shame us for the idle price we put upon -birth and education. Let us pick out of the crowd one figure of the small -dressmaker Dickens or Daudet might have made a charming study of. I have -been observing her life now for some years with friendly interest, and -have not found a flaw in it. She is good to look upon, a supple French -figure, clear skin, pretty features, reddish soft eyes, and red hair -a painter would delight to paint. Young, too, with winning manners, -she would not have far to look for assistance in her difficulties with -term-day, work-girls, and other expenses. Her father, an invalid, and her -mother live in a suburb, and she dwells alone all the week in a somewhat -squalid flat near the Bon Marché, her own protector, and needing none -other; such is her indestructible purity. No well-born girl could show a -more delicate reserve towards men than this pretty French dressmaker, no -nun could reveal herself less of a flirt. Her sole desire is to please -her customers and extend her connexion, to work early and late, sometimes -into the small hours of the morning; and her sole distraction, after a -week’s hard labour, is to go out to her parents in a dusty suburb beyond -Sant-Ouen, from Saturday evening to Monday morning. She never grumbles, -she is never unhappy; and though I give her books and encourage her to -talk to me about them, I have never detected in her remarks a particle -of envy or discontent with her humble lot. Her mind is clear and fresh, -essentially a lady’s mind, and her notions on the score of honesty are as -primitive as those of the poet who taught us in our infancy that it was -a sin to steal a pin. Quite as good and graceful pictures may be drawn -from the lower class of sempstresses who come to the house and work by -the day. These, too, have their ideal of conduct, which owes nothing to -education, and which a lady need not disown. - -The _concierge_ belongs to a more complex order of being. These often run -down to desperate depths of degradation, and, in the wealthy quarters -especially, constitute one of the curses of Parisian life. I suspect -it is the tips and the endless sources of gossip that demoralise them. -And yet I can remember a delightful old lady, who looked as if she had -stepped out of a perfumed page of the last century, with her lovely white -hair fluffy and soft under a black mantilla; tiny, elegant, wrinkled -hands; gentle glance and exquisite smile, with the manners as well as the -appearance of a French marquise. She was my _concierge_, and a sweeter, -more disinterested little creature I have never known. I lived on the -fifth floor, and had no servant, contenting myself with the services of a -_femme de ménage_ in the morning. I was seriously ill for months; and had -this dear, gentle old lady been a relative or a friend she could not have -nursed me more devotedly, and never a farthing in coin would she accept. -She overwhelmed me with thousands of charming attentions, and the only -payment she would take gratefully was the assurance that they gave me -pleasure. - -So, though I constantly hear terrible tales of the wicked doings of the -Paris _concierge_, I have to pass them over lightly for the sake of my -white-haired little marquise. Whenever I want to show an English friend -what an enchanting creature a Frenchwoman of the people can be, I make a -point of passing through her street, for the pleasure of looking in on -her, and saying, “Good-day” to my old friend. The _concierge_, should he -or she happen to be disagreeable, can do a singular lot of mischief, and -make the lodger’s life a burden to him. If you are out, friends who call -can be sent up several flights of stairs for nothing; if you are in, your -callers will be assured you are out. Letters can be held over, mislaid, -or forgotten; your servants can be set by the ears in the _concierge_’s -parlour; evil reports can be spread of you in the neighbourhood; -hints given to trades-people against your solvency. All these things -I have known to happen to persons in discordant relations with their -_concierge_; so that it is recognised in Paris that if the _concierge_ -does not like you, the best thing you can do is to pack up your things, -pay a term in advance, and go. - -The rag-picker of Paris is a familiar figure. To him belongs, I know -not why, some of the glory of romance. Everybody feels a sneaking -tenderness for the rag-picker. When, some years ago, M. Poubelle, the -Prefect of Police, decided that the rubbish of Paris was no longer to -be left outside along the pavements, but that each house should have -its big refuse-box, called ever since by his name, there was a general -uproar in the Press. What! disturb the amiable customs of the interesting -rag-picker! Diminish the income of these delicious Parisians! - -Little by little their favourite and most famous citadels have been -demolished, their oddly named groups dispersed. There used to be the -_Cité des Singes_ and the _Cité des Mousquetaires_, now no longer in -existence. The rag-pickers are everywhere, and live just like other -citizens. I visited the rag-pickers of my quarter the other day. I found -them in an airy quarter of Grenelle, like a quiet little town of the -provinces on the edge of a wide river. Who would dream it was Paris, and -that broad splash of dull grey, the lively brilliant Seine that flows -past the Louvre? When I reached the rag-picker’s dwelling, she was out, -and two neighbours from different doors appeared to assist me. If they -had known me all their lives they could not have given me a more friendly -greeting. One went off in search of the rag-picker, the other pressed -me to take a seat in her room. The rag-picker came, one of the jolliest -and pleasantest-looking women I ever saw. She spoke admirably, with -perfect gesticulation, with inflection of voice, management of eyebrows -that would have won her distinction in a _salon_. Her expressive face -was clean, but her hands were the hue of soot, and her hair was the -grey of dust. Her little room, kitchen and sleeping-chamber, was freshly -washed and in perfect order. Outside the window clothes hung drying, and -below in the courtyard a pile of rubbish lay for sorting. It would be -impossible to find anywhere a healthier-looking or a happier creature. -Yet this has been her life from the age of twelve: she gets up at four -A.M. winter and summer, hail or snow; she heats some milk for her dog, -boils coffee for herself and her husband, leaves coffee simmering for -her three children, who, when she and her husband, with their cart and -dog, have gone off on their rag-gathering mission, get up, dress, and go -off to school. She paid fifty francs to her fellow-rag-pickers for the -whole of the Avenue de Breteuil, which was then only half built upon, and -to-day her practice is worth three hundred francs. I imagined the tax was -paid to the town; but no, it is paid to a sort of guild of rag-pickers, -who thereby assure her and her husband that they only have the right to -the refuse of the avenue. When they have picked up all the refuse, they -return and sort it out in the yard. She told me the prices of each thing, -and hair is the most valuable,—above all, white hair. The honesty of the -Parisian rag-picker is proverbial, and I know something of it, for once -a silver spoon of mine was accidentally flung out, and the next day the -rag-picker brought it back to the _concierge_. - -Her visage shone with a positive radiance of soul. Her cheerfulness was -so contagious that it set me wishing to be a rag-picker too. Her devotion -to her husband and her children, of whom she spoke in rapturous terms, -was hardly more touching than her devotion to a saintly priest, who seems -to do an immense deal of good in the neighbourhood. - -This man is quite remarkable; and a friend, speaking of him to me, and -of his well-known enthusiasm for rag-pickers and their like, told me he -once said to her: “See you, when once you get into the heart of that -class, you can’t endure any other. It becomes a passion.” And I can well -understand it, from all I have seen of the humbler classes of Paris. -There is a fulness of life, of vitality, of inarticulate, unconscious -goodness about them that puts you in sympathy with Tolstoiïsm. But -instead of the mysticism, the intensity of the Russian character, you -have here that irresistible French gaiety, which is not by any means -so light as it is said to be. Action is its virtue. Its mental horizon -is brightened by a personal charm of character, as a twilight sky is -enriched by an arch of radiant colour. In spite of the false romancers, -morality is in the air, everywhere about us. - -In these humbler walks I refer to, pure girls, faithful husbands, -devoted wives, hard-working, honest sons and daughters abound, and the -force, as well as the weakness of all may be found in the love of home -and family. The temple of self-respect is lit with the unquenchable -flames of independence. All these admirable “little people” work so hard -and so contentedly that they may enjoy the delights of freedom and a -hearth, and they work the more contentedly, without embittered or soured -temper, because they have the inestimable art of living and enjoying -themselves when they leave aside work. The lower down you go among the -people, the greater the readiness to open the purse, and a workman bent -on a holiday will not hesitate to pay twenty or thirty francs for a -picnic carriage for the day, and fill the hamper with an abundance of -good fare and drink. I remember once hearing a well-to-do woman violently -complain because her coachman’s brother-in-law had paid such a price -for a vehicle to take a marriage party out into the country. I could -not share her indignation, to her disgust. The French people work so -hard, and so gallantly, and so well, that I think they earn their right -to an outbreak now and then. They at least pay for their pleasures and -dissipations with the sweat of their brow, and we who profit by their -labour owe them all thanks and indulgence. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -ORGANISED PHILANTHROPY AND PUBLIC ASSISTANCE - - -It would be difficult to say whether or no France compares favourably -with England in the matter of philanthropy and the poor laws. But this -much must be admitted in favour of the Republican Government,—charity -was never so widely practised, was never so effectual or so free-handed, -as it is to-day in France. You will hear the futile nobles and those who -would pass for a part of the aristocracy by the mere virtue of adopting -its vices and prejudices, assure you that everything was better under -the _ancien régime_; that shopkeepers, peasants, farmers, and workmen -were all better off when they depended upon an absolute king. French -Catholics, like nearly all other Catholics I know, soar above argument, -logic, the surprises, revelations, and irrefragable testimony of history. -What they desire to have been, to have happened, must have been and -happened, and there is nothing more to be said. And so to-day, whenever -a handful of titled malcontents out of office, followed by a train of -wealthy and fashionable imitators, rail at a Government indifferent to -their interests, it is solemnly maintained that the people groan and -sweat under tyrannical laws, and that France has gone to the dogs. A -statement more contrary to truth and fact could not possibly be made. - -Without examining even the enormous efforts of private charity to -improve the condition of the poor, we need only take up the subject of -Public Assistance to assure ourselves that the incessant preoccupation, -under republican rule, of the municipalities all over France is the -amelioration of the lot of the unfortunate classes of humanity. If you -lend an indulgent ear to the Catholics, they will assure you that the -municipality of Paris, because hitherto it has been democratic and -secular, is a mere gang of thieves, that the public funds are squandered -on private ends, and that not a penny of its vast revenues finds its -way into the pockets of the poor. This is simply a calumny—a stupid, -groundless invention. The _Assistance Publique_ has done more for the -poor than all the kings of France put together. In the days of Louis XIV. -there was no such thing as a public lying-in hospital. Wretched women, -without a home, or means of any kind to obtain shelter for the birth of -their children had to go to the Hôtel de Ville, where they lay on the -floors, and even two occupied each of the few beds, and childbirth took -place in a state of indescribable filth and discomfort. - -The calumniated _Assistance Publique_ has built a large _maternité_, -where mothers and infants receive all possible care; and, in case of -pressure on their space, they pay midwives, properly diplomaed, to take -charge of poor women in their own houses. Everything at present is so -comfortably organised in these public institutions that many women of -small means prefer to avail themselves of them rather than endure the -domestic upheaval of a confinement at home. It should, however, be -admitted that the _Assistance Publique_ took the idea from M. Pinard’s -charmingly situated _maternité_ of the Boulevard Port Royal. M. Pinard is -something more than a celebrated _accoucheur_; he is a philanthropist, -or, as his enthusiastic disciple, Dr. Franck Brentano, said of him when -kindly doing me the honours of the _maternité_ of the Boulevard Port -Royal, he is a saint. He decided that his hospital should be cheerfully -situated, and so it lies in lovely gardens, and, on every side, the -patients have views of flowers and trees and green spaces between -well-kept paths. Not a hospital this, surely, but an elegant old mansion, -through whose long, open windows the fragrance and bloom of flowers -carry joy to the senses, while the song of birds makes perpetual music -for the weary convalescents. Dr. Franck Brentano showed me the trim -rose-beds with the proud intimation that it was M. Pinard who reared -them exclusively for his invalids. From time to time he gathers them, -and places a rose, moist with its early dew, beside a patient, bringing -her, with such delicacy, the assurance that she is, for him, something -more than a public patient. Not so were cherished unfortunate women -under the _ancien régime_. We laugh at the official legend bequeathed -France by the Revolution, and, of a surety, we are not justified in -that laughter. If liberty, equality, and fraternity are not all that -they might be in France to-day, there has been made a considerable step -towards their accomplishment which the conscientious observer is forced -to recognise. If brotherhood is still in a nebulous state, the same -cannot be said of equality. Where, in London, will you find the head -of a large hospital cultivating roses and gathering them at sunrise to -carry a breath of delight to a worn-out woman of the people? Such a -division and infrangible distance as exist between classes in England are -here no longer known. The people are the better for it, and certainly -society is not the worse. If republican independence has done nothing -else for France, it deserves national gratitude for having abolished what -flourishes so desperately in England,—the painful whine of poverty, not -ashamed to cringe, and the smirking curtsey and bob of the people, proud -to acknowledge what they are pleased to call their betters. - -I have heard a great deal of abuse of the lay nurses who replace the -sisters now in public hospitals. All I can say is, that I was struck -with the spirit of cordiality and exquisite humanity which seemed to -emanate from everybody I encountered at M. Pinard’s _maternité_. This, -of course, may be due to the governing hand, for where so rare a nature -as the chief commands the illimitable devotion and passionate admiration -of his subordinates, it is but natural we should find an atmosphere of -disinterestedness and good-will. That M. Pinard’s delicate consideration -for oppressed womanhood does not end or even begin in this well-ordered -hospital is proven by the establishment of his admirable asylum close by. -This is a home for friendless women awaiting their turn to be received -into the hospital. Here they may come for two or three months, free to -live and work as they like, to go to mass, to the temple or synagogue, -or to no church whatever; and, by sewing or some such light labour, -to earn a little to put by for the day they leave the _maternité_. -Surely this is the most practical of all forms of free philanthropy. -No propaganda, no religious exclusiveness, no other preoccupation, but -the wish to persuade a despairing creature to live and give life under -the best conditions of care and personal kindness. Yes; let us frankly -admit that the Revolution has not been in vain, in spite of its horrors, -its inexplicable baseness, its acts of inconceivable cowardice. The -men who made it were no heroes, and we can bear at this hour to call -them remorselessly by their proper names. But the evil they did in the -cause of humanity has finally led to the amelioration of their race. -Lay France, with all her liberal aspirations, with her generous hatred -of injustice, tyranny, and oppression, bids fair to construct a France -which shall be the real and not the illusive home of freedom. The land -that can produce men and women like M. Pinard and Madame Coralie Cahen -need have no fear of the triumph of decadence. There were nearly seven -thousand births during the past year at the _maternité_. When we remember -that women are not obliged to give their names, and that their secret is -honourably kept in the teeth of all inquiries that may be made, there -seems less and less reason to-day for the extremities of despair. - -The _Assistance Publique_ is not exclusively concerned with hospitals. -The increase of its income and the increase of its expenditure -sufficiently testify to the extent of public charity in France. In 1834 -its income reached 9,946,874 francs, and in 1894, 43,043,935 francs. The -number of patients received in hospitals in 1834 was 66,521, and in -1894, 172,500; of children helped in 1834, 21,781, and in 1894, 48,000. -It disposes of 11,989 beds in hospitals, 12,370 beds in asylums, and the -average of persons helped is 480,600 a year. In outdoor help it spends -11,365,951 francs. - -Again to compare the _ancien régime_ with the new order of things. It -was not until 1660 that the horrors of forsaken childhood obtained -commiseration. Yet St. Louis had lived; more than one king had been -called the father of his people, and the good King Henri IV. of legend -had asserted his royal wish that each family should have a fowl boiling -in the pot. It was the work of St. Vincent of Paul who, after founding -the excellent order of Sisters of Charity, bethought himself of unwelcome -babes left to suffer the consequences of their parents’ fault. Since -then the idea has rapidly progressed. In 1881 the _Conseil Général de la -Seine_ instituted what is greatly superior to the mere animal succour of -new-born infancy, the _Service des Moralement Abandonnés_. The morally -abandoned! How much more needful, how much more clamorous for the good -of the race, is the succour of these little creatures, morally depraved, -from want of training! In 1888 this society received 2062 boys and 905 -girls, the numerical difference being explained by the fact that there -are always more ways of disposing of girls than of boys, and their -adoption by private persons is much more frequent. - -Too much praise cannot be given to the _Assistance Publique_ for the -admirable fashion in which it discharges its duty to the children placed -under its protection. Zola in _Fécondité_ records the improbable tale of -a whole town in Normandy living solely upon the slow murder of babies put -out to nurse by the institution. I need give only one example of what has -come under my own notice. My servant, unfortunately married, was deserted -many years ago with three children, one new-born. The Public Assistance -took the two elder boys and placed them out to nurse in a farmhouse, -where every quarter an inspector visited them, and himself inquired -into the condition of their health and general welfare. The inspector -makes his report to the prefect, and his visits are supplemented by the -doctor’s. It is he who signs the agreement of apprenticeship, distributes -clothes, and pays the nurses and adopted parents. As an encouragement -to treat the children well, these receive a present of money when each -child reaches the age of thirteen; an outfit is bestowed upon the child, -who is then apprenticed, preferably for farm-work, and, in order that -the precious ties of family life shall not be broken, it is invariably -exacted that the boys shall continue to live with their foster parents -during the years of apprenticeship. A portion of the boy’s earnings is -placed in the Caisse d’Épargne to make him a tiny capital, when of age to -start upon his own account. My servant’s children were well-treated and -happy, and when she went down to the farm to spend ten days with them, -she found two healthy lads and a hospitable family to receive her, and in -their midst enjoyed a delightful holiday. The boys had their pass-books, -and could make her a present each of twenty-five francs. The other day -one of them decided to come to Paris to earn his bread, and even at the -station the mother was not allowed to claim him, it being a notorious -fact that boys fresh from the country often fall into evil hands at the -big railway stations. Scrupulous in the acquittal of its duties, the -_Assistance Publique_ will only deliver its charge into the mother’s hand -in official circumstances that render all fraud impossible. The boy wore -a fine new suit of clothes and new boots, and his great fear was that, -leaving the care of the _Assistance Publique_ these peacock feathers -would be taken from him. But they were not, and when he came to see me, I -found, instead of a cowed charity lad, a pink-cheeked, open-eyed youth, -well dressed and strong, with an independent air and an excellent fashion -of speech. I sent him with a card of recommendation to the _Figaro_, and -he was engaged on the spot. It speaks well for the people who brought him -up, that he already regrets them and their quiet shepherd-life, and says -he was much happier in the country than ever he expects to be in Paris. -In the case of children leaving the correctional schools, the State has -organised several schools of apprenticeship for the young prisoners of -both sexes. - -There are, as well, a considerable number of these establishments under -the direction of private persons and charitable societies. The boys -are taught a trade and are classed according to their antecedents, if -brought up in town or country. They work seven hours a day, and the -money they earn is placed to their account in the Savings Bank. The -colony at Belle-Ile-en-Mer receives the pick of this corrupt young -world, and trains them for marine service. They are taught reading, -writing, history, geography, and arithmetic, while Sunday is given -up to gymnastics and long walks with their professors. The rewards -for good behaviour are—praise, additional food, good-conduct stripes -with pecuniary remuneration, gifts, a grant of three francs a month, -confidential employment, and weekly leave of absence, provisional -freedom, and military service. The Maison Darnetal for girls, near Rouen, -has excited such admiration that the Italian Government has ordered its -nuns to imitate it. Young girls here, when they leave the correctional -school, are trained as farm wives, to grow fruit and vegetables, to make -butter and cheese, to rear fowl; and they themselves carry to market the -produce of their labour and learn to make excellent bargains. When they -have earned their freedom, they are independent young women, capable of -directing a farm, with all the thrift, the natural, keen intelligence and -unsleeping industry of that most admirable portion of the French race, -the hard-working, good-humoured women of the people. - -For years past there has been raging in France a bitter war between -the Catholics and the Radicals on the subject of hospital nurses. The -Republic, which mistrusts the Catholic party, has sought to limit their -power in every direction. It was a mistake, I think, to attack them at -hospital beds, for if there is a place which belongs by divine right, -if I may say so, to the nun, it is the side of a sick-bed. With their -guimps and coifs, their life of religious meekness, their cheerfulness -and self-abnegation, they make ideal sick nurses. Then, the patient -feels that with them it is not a profession, the means to an end, that -money is not their object, nor are they likely to forget their duty -in a flirtation with the doctor. In England and France I have had, -unfortunately, experience of both kinds of nurses, and I unhesitatingly -give my preference to the French nun. She is softer, kinder, gayer, -and more delicate and modest in her handling of a patient than the -average lady nurse of England. She nurses you for love of nursing, or -for the good of her soul, and she has the secret of a boundless sympathy -and untiring good-will. Yet many scientific Frenchmen and doctors, -while praising her disinterestedness and purity of motive, allow her -unsatisfactory peculiarities. For instance, they complain of her -indocility to the doctor and surgeon, and state that when a difference -of opinion between them and the mother superior arises, the religious -sick nurses will obey the latter rather than those in whose hands lies -the fate of the patient. Dr. Fauvel, of le Hâvre, stated before the -International Congress of Assistance, relative to the laity of the new -hospital of that town: “As regards primary instruction and professional -education, the nuns are in no wise superior, quite the contrary; with -an incomplete professional education, the lay staff has shown special -knowledge ignored by the nuns, nursing the sick with greater intimate -skill, preparing instruments, baths, helping the doctors and pupils more -efficiently, being more docile in taking the thousand precautions ordered -in operations and the dressing of wounds.... It is a mistake to regard -as false all the accusations made against the sisters; and I declare -emphatically that I have found in lay nurses an equal and often a more -spontaneous devotion.” This is quite possible, but I maintain, upon -personal experience of both methods, that the religious atmosphere brings -a refinement and delicacy into the sick room by no means to be despised. -Whatever throws a charm, a grace, a sweetness over the sick-bed carries -an inappreciable value, and Frenchwomen, at least, however religious, -have that delightful tact of their race to prevent them from worrying a -recalcitrant patient on the subject of her faith. - -At Lyons, as early as the fifteenth century, a medium was found between -congregational and secular sick-nursing. It appears to work excellently, -though the persons in this state affair who deserve our pity are the -unfortunate sick nurses, whose sole reward for a life of unceasing labour -is the precarious value of fifty low masses after death. I cannot, for -the life of me, see why these poor women, so wretchedly paid in life, -should not at least enjoy the glory of fifty high masses and a monument. -But women who devote themselves to public service are, in all lands, and -under every _régime_, ancient or modern, gallantly exploited. It is a -recognised duty to overwork them, underfeed them, and pay them next to -nothing, and then expect gratitude from them for permitting them to waste -their lives in the service of their ungrateful fellow-men. In mediæval -times the town of Lyons decided to profit by the repentance of loose -women, and ordered them to attend the sick for the good of their souls. -They took no vows, but little by little they adopted a uniform, and, in -1598, a meeting of Lyonese doctors resolved that this lay order of sick -nurses should be known as _servants of the poor_. There is such a pretty -mediæval twang about this name, that we salute it, still existing in -these modern days, with respect. This lay order has existed throughout -all the storms of French history, and works as well to-day as when it -was founded four centuries ago. True, it is now recruited from quite a -different class, and is divided into three terms of service: _novices_, -_prétendants_, _sœurs croisées_, or decorated sisters. When a young girl -wishes to become a “servant of the poor,” she is severely catechised -as to the reasons of her choice, is compelled to furnish proofs of -her capacity for her chosen task, and the consent of her parents or -guardians. Inquiries are made about her, and if she is accepted, her -novitiate lasts a year, during which period she wears no uniform. Then -she becomes a _prétendant_, and wears a uniform, receiving in payment of -her incessant service the sum of eighty francs a year, out of which she -must pay for her uniform and linen. She can leave when she likes, or the -hospital committee can discharge her for any reason whatever. She obeys a -superior nurse, who in turn obeys the administration, and her period of -service lasts from twelve to fifteen years. Imagine her, then, wishful of -rest, far away from lint and bistouries and hospital odours. Her £3 4_s._ -a year will not have afforded her much chance of putting anything by. But -if, happily, her vocation for unrewarded service lasts, she is decorated -with a silver cross; and though she still takes no vows, and can leave -when she wishes, she is regarded as having a life-claim upon the -administration. They cannot now turn her into the streets, and there is -no fear of her dying of hunger. In return for this assurance her salary -is reduced to forty francs a year. But she is titled _Cheftaine_, with -also its pretty ringing sound of the Middle Ages; she has seventeen days -holiday every year, and she has her silver cross and fifty low masses! -There are eight hundred of these disinterested creatures in the city of -Lyons; and it will be admitted that the great silk centre of France knows -how to manage its affairs with prodigious economy. - -It would be impossible, in a short chapter dealing with organised -philanthropy in France, to mention even a tenth of the private -institutions and associations that abound. In Paris alone there are -thirty orphanages for boys and a hundred and twenty for girls, the -deficiency on the side of the boys being supplied by innumerable -patronages, or boys’ clubs. There are forty-three societies for infancy, -eighty-seven _crèches_,—an excellent institution invented nearly fifty -years ago by M. Marbeau,—two hundred and ten infants’ schools, first -established by a Protestant clergyman in the Vosges, and now spread -all over France. In 1895, 37,253 children were placed in the country, -entailing an expense of 9,336,711 francs, and every year the number -increases. - -Each denomination has its private and organised charities, and the late -Maxime du Camp awards the palm of incomparable perfection in this path to -the children of Israel. The Rothschild hospital, the Rothschild asylum -for old ages of both sexes, the children’s school, and school for girls -of Madame Coralie Cahen, are the best of their kind in Paris. When one -reads the story of Jewish charities in Paris, one is stupefied by the -senseless outburst of mad and wicked anti-semitism which rages in France -to-day. The Baron Henri de Rothschild has instituted a sort of mothers’ -refuge up in the poor and populous quarter of Belleville, where he -gives advice to mothers, and supplies them with a litre of sterilised -milk daily. Believe me, when you dive below the surface of Paris, you -will find it to be something nobler than a city of pleasure. Poverty -and misery abound because, alas! they are inseparable from existence; -but there is no city in the world where poverty is more endurable than -in Paris, none where it is sweetened with a surer and more efficacious -fraternity. Between the classes there is not that intolerable arrogance -and impertinence which constitute the blight of British philanthropy. In -England I have seen charitable women go into poor men’s cottages with -the air of tamers entering a menagerie. They ask unendurable questions, -fling open windows without consulting their victims, pooh-pooh everything -said to them, order this, command that, till I have marvelled at the -long-suffering of the poor, and wondered that they restrained themselves -from flinging their torturers out of the window. And I have remarked -that these busybodies, under the guise of philanthropy, rarely brought -the victims of their implacable sense of Christian duty anything but -their arid advice. Now, whatever the failings of the French are, I can -confidently assert that tactless spiritual arrogance is not among them, -still less an impertinent interference in private matters. They will -not open their purse as freely as the English do—the French themselves -are the first to admit it—and the secretary of the Academy of Medicine, -speaking to me of English private charities, and the vaster scale on -which they are managed, said, with delightful gaiety of admission, “In -England, you know, you always find a benevolent old lady or gentleman, -who will give you for a charitable project £20,000, as I might give -you two sous”; but they will not thrust their advice upon the poor with -wounding contempt as the English do. - -If you would obtain the most striking possible contrast of the hospital -workings of the old and new _régimes_, comparison should be made of the -authentic plan of the old hospital under the kings of France, and the new -hospital of the Institut Pasteur under the directorship of M. Duclaux. -Under the old system, patients suffering from various maladies, all more -or less contagious, lay four in one bed, two with their heads above, two -with their heads below, the legs of the four touching. We may imagine the -rest of the details in keeping with this frightful situation—sanitary -details not improved between the eighth and eighteenth centuries—food, -attendance of doctors, surgeons, and nurses of the worst and coarsest -kind, sickness not other than a filthy and hideous visitation of destiny, -the inevitable precursor of the common ditch of burial. One wonders what -degree of physical despair and disgust it was necessary to reach in those -days to face the horrors of a public hospital. The courage such awful -contact entailed means, to me, greater far than any involved in fronting -the vicissitudes of battle. To die untended and forsaken on the bloodiest -field of history, with unchanged linen, unwashed and unbound wounds, the -visible prey of vultures, without hope of decent burial, were surely an -end more honourable and less nauseous than illness and death in a public -hospital of Paris in the much lauded and poetised days of the _ancien -régime_. - -A well-known charitable institution of France is the order of the Little -Sisters of the Poor. These Little Sisters are highly popular, and -whenever anyone _bien pensant_ (as the Catholics call themselves) dies, -his or her relatives hasten to send all the wardrobe of the defunct -to the Little Sisters. A branch house is almost beside me, and I see -cartloads of clothes driven off frequently for sale from its door. I -visited the establishment once, and cannot say that I was much impressed -with the spirit of charity revealed to me. To enter this asylum, men and -women must have attained the age of sixty. The old men are better cared -for, better treated, by the Little Sisters than the old women. The best -side of the house is theirs; they have a handsome covered terrace to -walk along when they are not in the gardens, have a smoking-room, and -can spend their days playing cards. Their quilts are of silk and velvet -patchwork, while the old women must be thankful for cotton, and the nun -who showed me over the establishment reserved for the men all her smiles -and pleasant greetings. The poor old women got nothing but sour looks and -silence, and while the men amused themselves, these were condemned to -hard work in the big laundry and kitchen. “As we have no servants,” said -the nun, “the old women must work.” To enter a charitable institution -over sixty, having worked hard all one’s life, in order to stand over -a wash-tub, seems a dubious advantage. A very devout Catholic friend, -with whom I discussed this fact, has told me of a lasting grievance she -has against these Little Sisters of the Poor. A broken-down gentle old -washerwoman, near seventy, in whom she took an interest, was recommended -to them, a friend paying four hundred francs to the asylum. The nuns -are not supposed to take money, but it is never refused, and in this -case the generous donor meant to secure a little extra comfort for the -hard-worked old soul. She was put in there to rest from the wash-tub, -but the excellent nuns understood it differently, and placed her at once -before it. Within a year she died from overwork. Whenever you penetrate -below the surface of conventual charities, they will always be found -profitable for the order and never for the individual. The hearts of nuns -seem implacably steeled against human suffering, steeled against pity -and generosity. They are among the worst paymasters and taskmasters in -the world, on the pretext that, being hard to themselves, nobody has the -right to expect that they shall be soft to others. - -The Mont-de-Piété is a civil institution, which exists for the benefit -of the needy. It is not in the least like our pawn-offices, for here no -usury is practised, and the town benefits by any profits that accrue. The -central house is in the Rue des Blancs-Manteaux, and there are four large -branch offices. Money is advanced on the objects offered, and when the -sum is brought back, interest is charged, and the objects are restored. -If no claim is put in at the end of eighteen months, the objects are -sold, and the profits are handed over to the _Assistance Publique_. All -classes of society in straitened circumstances have recourse to the -Mont-de-Piété which is a most useful institution. - -Turn now to the latest public edifice for the poor under the Third -Republic. The late Baroness de Hirsch, a Jewess, was one of the several -founders—all of them women—of this splendid hospital, attached to the -Pasteur Institute. Here each patient has a room to himself free on the -raised ground-floor or on the story above. Below there are bath-rooms -and douches; there is a workshop for the carding of mattresses, each -patient sleeping on a new mattress, each mattress passing through an -immense steriliser. To improve upon the old method, by which doctors and -surgeons visit the patient at stated hours, a private house of handsome -dimensions has been built expressly for the doctor, who must be always -on the spot. In the case of contagious sickness there is the process of -purification in the lower cells, while ordinary cases of illness are, -after the _consultation à la hâte_, despatched to one of the bright, -clean, little sick rooms on the ground-floor. Here the rooms are divided -by glass partitions, which are muffed or not, as may be required. -Grown patients are more likely to wish for the privacy of muffed-glass -panels, whereas it is preferable that the panels should be transparent -when the patients are children and need constant supervision. During -convalescence, the patients, weary of solitude, can seek change by -transportation to a public ward, and there is a long glass gallery, or -winter garden, well located, and gay with green seats and tables, where -they can walk up and down, and receive their friends among the palms and -India-rubber trees. This part of the establishment has more the air of a -convalescent home than a public hospital. As deaths may occur even in the -best regulated hospitals, there is a subterranean passage constructed for -the _service des morts_, by which means the living are spared all contact -with lugubrious eventualities. M. Duclaux calculates that the yearly -expenditure of this admirable institution will reach £20,000. Let us hope -that those who profit by this foundation will prove not destitute of -good feeling towards those who have spent so much time, labour, money, -science, and thought on their behalf. But, alas! the poor are essentially -mistrustful of public charities. I know not why, but it is, nevertheless, -a fact that they seem to labour under the impression that such edifices -exist mainly to exploit and defraud them in some mysterious fashion. One -would approve of a sentiment of independence, and the conviction of a -sacred claim in their usage: but the feeling of distrust of them is ever -to be deplored. - -It is due, no doubt, to groundless suspicions among the benefited -themselves, the flame of discontent being steadfastly and perfidiously -fanned by the Catholics, ever yearning for Catholic rule in France, -that all sorts of reports are spread as to maladministration of the -_Assistance Publique_. The fact is, of course, that centralised state -assistance to the poor can never be so cordial, so satisfactory -and helpful, as that administered by private hands. The State is a -functionary-tyrannised machine, which nobody thanks, and from which -everything is expected. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -INDEX - - - Académie Française, 147; - reception of M. Lavedan, 149; - reception of M. Hervieu, 151; - its restoration after the Terror, 154; - its influence and mission, 155; - prizes, 158 - - _Affaire Dreyfus_, 88, 93, 101, 126, 220, 237 - - Alsace and Lorraine, 102 - - Angoulême, 214 - - Anti-Semitism, 26, 53, 151 - - Aristocracy, 47; - its disaffection, 50; - the old-fashioned aristocrat, 55, 56; - the modern rowdy aristocrat, 52, 56, 75, 259 - - Army, 87; - its attitude, 90; - its popularity, 91; - the perils of militarism, 94; - conscription, 94; - a military document, 95; - military service, 99; - attitude of officers in civil courts, 101; - M. Urbain Gohier’s indictment of the army, 103, 104; - military plays, 105; - French generals, 108; - military rewards, 109; - _Au Tableau_, 110 - - Artisan, 219, 244 - - Assistance Publique, 284; - contrast of the state of the poor in Paris under the _ancien - régime_ and under the Third Republic, 284, 285, 288-292, 300 - - Aubernon, Madame, 257 - - _Aversier_, 17 - - - Baccalauréat, 116 - - Balzac, 148, 205 - - Barrès, Maurice, 103, 156 - - Bazin, René, _La Terra qui Meurt_, 106, 205, 227 - - Béarn, 3 - - Blaguer, 255 - - Blaze de Bury, Madame, 178 - - Bodinière, 252 - - Bon Pasteur, 225 - - Bourgeoisie, the, 60; - its provincial pretensions, 5; - its prejudices, 63-65; - its passion for titles, 66; - the “little bourgeoise,” 264-274 - - Bourget, Paul, 51 - - Breton, 2; - Breton superstitions, 19 - - Brisson, M., 256 - - Brunetière, M., 53, 152, 156, 159 - - - Catholicism, the cult of St. Anthony of Padua, 18; - hostility to the Republic, 89; - its influence, 128 - - Charbonnel, Victor, 252 - - Châteaux, 9, 21, 22 - - Child service, 223 - - Clericalism, 27 - - Comédie Française, 161; - its traditions, 161; - its composition, 163; - the new theatre, 164 - - Concierge, 277, 278 - - Conférence, la, 250 - - Conservatoire, 170-172 - - Convent life, 139-146 - - Country life, 5, 6, 25 - - Coppée, François, 103, 157, 236 - - - Daudet, Alphonse, 172, 233 - - Demolins, M., 70, 113, 115, 117, 120 - - Duclaux, M., 241, 300, 304 - - Duruy, Georges, 104 - - - École des Beaux Arts, 164 - - École Polytechnique, 104 - - Education, 112 - - England and France contrasted, 34, 37-42, 59, 65, 76, 118, 121, 167, - 197, 206, 232 - - Environments of Paris, 82 - - Estaunié, M., _L’Empreinte_, 123, 127 - - - Fabre, Ferdinand, 124 - - Fairs, 82 - - Farmer, 12 - - Fashionable Paris, 53 - - Faubourg St. Germain, 35, 50, 54, 55 - - Fiction, 118 - - Flats, 39 - - Flower markets, 43 - - - Gallifet, General de, 108 - - Geoffrin, Madame, 256 - - Gouvernantes, 137 - - Grisette, 248, 274 - - Gyp, 50, 137, 259 - - - Halévy, Ludovic and Daniel, 241 - - Halles, the, 43 - - Hirsch, Baroness de, 303 - - Hobereaux, 8-12 - - Home life, 55; - its economies and courtesies, 179, 188; - French table, 193, 194; - home habits, 197 - - Hospitals, 285, 298, 300 - - Hugo, Victor, 263 - - - _Jacquou le Croquant_, 124 - - Jeanne of Angoulême, 214, 520 - - Jesuits, 123; - their mission and training, 124-127 - - Jeunesse Royaliste, la, 46 - - _Journal des Débats_, 231, 234 - - _Journal d’une Femme de Chambre_, 213-215, 234 - - - Larroumet, Gustave, 254 - - Lemaître, Jules, “Ligue de la Patrie Française,” 156, 157, 236 - - _Le Vieux Marcheur_, 148-150, 225 - - “Little bourgeoise,” the, 264-274 - - “Little people,” 226, 264, 273, 274, 281 - - Little Sisters of the Poor, 301, 302 - - Lycées, 113-122 - - - Maison Darnetal, 292 - - Marais, the, 31 - - Marchand de Vin, 245 - - Maternité, the, 285-287 - - Métayer, 227 - - Minister: Waldeck-Rousseau, 230, 237, 240 - - Molière, 255, 262 - - Mont-de-Piété, 303 - - Montmartre, 32, 38, 85, 248 - - Morality, 38, 42; - influences of public-school training, 117; - the moral training of Stanislas College, 130-137; - tolerance of vice, 176; - feminine cynicism, 177; - the Frenchman’s vices, 198 - - Motor cars, 60, 61 - - - Napoleon, 46, 87, 110, 117, 154, 163, 234, 263 - - Nationalists, 75, 78, 79, 103, 220, 231, 236, 237 - - Nurses, religious and lay, 287, 293, 294 - - - Orleans, Duc D’, 54, 91, 260 - - - Paris and Parisianism, 28-57; - the gaiety and charm of Paris, 29; - the influence of women, 32; - the old streets of the Faubourg St. Germain, 35; - inoffensiveness of the streets, 38; - rents, 39; - walks, 41; - markets, 43; - Parisianism, 47; - aristocratic Paris, 50; - the old-fashioned noblewomen, 54, 55; - Parisian washerwomen, 220-222 - - Pastimes, 80-86 - - Patriotism, 80, 103, 236 - - Peasant, the, 202, 215, 228 - - Pellouaille, La, 202-205 - - People’s colleges, 238-244 - - Philanthropy, 283, 298 - - Pinard, M., 285-288 - - Press, 229-235 - - Prix de Rome, 166, 167 - - Public ball, 246, 247 - - - Rag-Picker, 278-280 - - Renan, 258, 263 - - - Sainte-Beuve, 153, 155, 158 - - Sand, George, 205 - - “Servants of the poor,” 295-297 - - Stanislas College, 128-135 - - - Taine, 179 - - _Temps, Le_, 231, 233, 234 - - - Vogüé, M. De, _Les Morts qui Parlent_, 225 - - - Woman’s rôle, 200, 201 - - - Zola, M., 156, 205, 213 - - - -THE END - -[Illustration] - - - - -Our European Neighbours - -Edited by WILLIAM HARBUTT DAWSON - - 12ᵒ. Illustrated. Each, net $1.20. - By Mail 1.30 - - -I.—FRENCH LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY - -By HANNAH LYNCH. - -“Miss Lynch’s pages are thoroughly interesting and suggestive. Her -style, too, is not common. It is marked by vivacity without any drawback -of looseness, and resembles a stream that runs strongly and evenly -between walls. It is at once distinguished and useful.... Her five-page -description (not dramatization) of the grasping Paris landlady is a -capital piece of work.... Such well-finished portraits are frequent -in Miss Lynch’s book, which is small, inexpensive, and of a real -excellence.”—_The London Academy._ - -“Miss Lynch’s book is particularly notable. It is the first of a series -describing the home and social life of various European peoples—a series -long needed and sure to receive a warm welcome. Her style is frank, -vivacious, entertaining, captivating, just the kind for a book which is -not at all statistical, political, or controversial. A special excellence -of her book, reminding one of Mr. Whiteing’s, lies in her continual -contrast of the English and the French, and she thus sums up her praises: -‘The English are admirable: the French are lovable.’”—_The Outlook._ - - -II.—GERMAN LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY - -By W. H. DAWSON, author of “Germany and the Germans,” etc. - -“The book is as full of correct, impartial, well-digested, and -well-presented information as an egg is of meat. One can only recommend -it heartily and without reserve to all who wish to gain an insight into -German life. It worthily presents a great nation, now the greatest and -strongest in Europe.”—_Commercial Advertiser._ - - -III.—RUSSIAN LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY - -By FRANCIS H. E. PALMER, sometime Secretary to H. H. Prince -Droutskop-Loubetsky (Equerry to H. M. the Emperor of Russia). - -“We would recommend this above all other works of its character to those -seeking a clear general understanding of Russian life, character, and -conditions, but who have not the leisure or inclination to read more -voluminous tomes... It cannot be too highly recommended, for it conveys -practically all that well-informed people should know of ‘Our European -Neighbours.’”—_Mail and Express._ - - -IV.—DUTCH LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY - -By P. M. HOUGH, B.A. - -Not alone for its historic past is Holland interesting, but also for -the paradox which it presents to-day. It is difficult to reconcile the -old-world methods seen all over the country with the advanced ideas -expressed in conversation, in books, and in newspapers. Mr. Hough’s long -residence in the country has enabled him to present a trustworthy picture -of Dutch social life and customs in the seven provinces,—the inhabitants -of which, while diverse in race, dialect, and religion, are one in their -love of liberty and patriotic devotion. - -“Holland is always interesting, in any line of study. In this work its -charm is carefully preserved. The sturdy toil of the people, their quaint -characteristics, their conservative retention of old dress and customs, -their quiet abstention from taking part in the great affairs of the world -are all clearly reflected in this faithful mirror. The illustrations are -of a high grade of photographic reproductions.”—_Washington Post._ - - -V.—SWISS LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY - -By ALFRED T. STORY, author of the “Building of the British Empire,” etc. - -Switzerland forms one of the smallest states of Europe, being little more -than half the size of Scotland, and is almost the only one whose history -is the history of its people. It is the centre of the grandest scenery, -the birthplace of four of its best known and most considerable rivers, -and has for centuries enjoyed the special distinction of being the home -of democracy and freedom. - -As Mr. Story points out, the average tourist, passing more or less -rapidly through the country, while impressed by the grandeur of the -scenery, fails utterly to secure any true insight into the home life of -the people. Mr. Story has, however, pitched his tent among the Alps and -has made a careful and sympathetic study of Swiss life,—the keynote of -which is simplicity and sincerity. - - -_IN PREPARATION_ - -SPANISH LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY - -By L. HIGGIN. - -ITALIAN LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY - -By LUIGI VILLARI. - - G. P. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: French life in town and country</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Hannah Lynch</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Editor: William Harbutt Dawson</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: July 7, 2022 [eBook #68469]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: ellinora and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRENCH LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY ***</div> - -<div class="ad box"> - -<p class="center larger">OUR EUROPEAN NEIGHBOURS</p> - -<p class="center">Edited by <span class="smcap">William Harbutt Dawson</span>. 12ᵒ. Illustrated. -Each, net $1.20. By mail, $1.30</p> - -<p class="center"><i>NOW READY</i></p> - -<p class="hanging"><b>French Life in Town and Country.</b> <span class="smcap">By Hannah -Lynch.</span></p> - -<p class="hanging"><b>German Life in Town and Country.</b> <span class="smcap">By W. H. -Dawson</span>, author of “Germany and the Germans,” -etc.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><b>Russian Life in Town and Country.</b> By <span class="smcap">Francis H. -E. Palmer</span>, sometime Secretary to H. M. Prince -Droutskop-Loubetsky (Equerry to H. M. the Emperor -of Russia).</p> - -<p class="hanging"><b>Dutch Life in Town and Country.</b> By <span class="smcap">P. M. Hough</span>.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><b>Swiss Life in Town and Country.</b> By <span class="smcap">Alfred T. -Story</span>.</p> - -<p class="center"><i>IN PREPARATION</i></p> - -<p class="hanging"><b>Spanish Life in Town and Country.</b> By <span class="smcap">L. Higgin</span>.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><b>Italian Life in Town and Country.</b> By <span class="smcap">Luigi -Villari</span>.</p> - -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS, New York and London</span></p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_i"></a>[i]</span></p> - -<p class="titlepage larger">OUR EUROPEAN<br /> -NEIGHBOURS</p> - -<p class="center">EDITED BY<br /> -WILLIAM HARBUTT DAWSON</p> - -<p class="titlepage larger">FRENCH LIFE IN TOWN AND<br /> -COUNTRY</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_ii"></a>[ii]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus01" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="" /> - <p class="caption">THE PEASANT AT HOME—THE CANDIDATE</p> - <p class="caption"><i>Michelena</i></p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_iii"></a>[iii]</span></p> - -<div class="box-red"> - -<div class="box-red-inner"> - -<p class="center larger">FRENCH LIFE<br /> -IN TOWN AND<br /> -COUNTRY <img class="inline" src="images/deco1.jpg" alt="" /> <img class="inline" src="images/deco1.jpg" alt="" /></p> - -<p class="center"><img class="inline" src="images/deco2.jpg" alt="" /> <span class="smcap">By HANNAH LYNCH</span></p> - -</div> - -<p class="titlepage">ILLUSTRATED</p> - -<p class="titlepage">G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS<br /> -<span class="smaller">NEW YORK AND LONDON</span><br /> -<span class="gothic">The Knickerbocker Press</span><br /> -1902</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_iv"></a>[iv]</span></p> - -<p class="titlepage smaller"><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1901<br /> -BY<br /> -G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS</span></p> - -<p class="center smaller">Set up and electrotyped March, 1901<br /> -Reprinted August, 1901; January, 1902</p> - -<p class="titlepage gothic">The Knickerbocker Press, New York</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_v"></a>[v]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/header1.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS</h2> - -</div> - -<table> - <tr> - <td></td> - <td class="tdpg smaller">PAGE</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER I</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>FRENCH RURAL AND PROVINCIAL LIFE</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">1</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER II</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>PARIS AND PARISIANISM</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">28</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER III</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>SOCIAL DIVERSIONS AND DISTINCTIONS</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">58</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER IV</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>THE ARMY AND THE NATION</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">87</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER V</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>SECULAR AND RELIGIOUS EDUCATION</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">112</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER VI</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>NATIONAL INSTITUTIONS</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI"> 147</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER VII</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>HOME-LIFE IN FRANCE</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">173</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_vi"></a>[vi]</span></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER VIII</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>PEASANT AND ARTISAN</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">202</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER IX</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>THE PRESS AND THE PEOPLE’S COLLEGES</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">229</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER X</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>THE PARISIAN LECTURE AND SALON</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">250</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER XI</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>THE “LITTLE PEOPLE” OF PARIS</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">264</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER XII</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>ORGANISED PHILANTHROPY AND PUBLIC ASSISTANCE</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">283</a></td> - </tr> - <tr class="pad-top"> - <td>INDEX</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#INDEX">307</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 21.875em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/footer1.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_vii"></a>[vii]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/header2.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> - -</div> - -<table> - <tr> - <td></td> - <td class="tdpg smaller">PAGE</td> - </tr> - <tr class="pad-top"> - <td>THE PEASANT AT HOME—THE CANDIDATE</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus01"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdsub"><i>Michelena.</i></td> - <td></td> - </tr> - <tr class="pad-top"> - <td>BLESSING THE WHEAT</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus02">16</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdsub"><i>J. A. Breton.</i></td> - <td></td> - </tr> - <tr class="pad-top"> - <td>THE PARDON OF SAINT ANNE (BRITTANY)</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus03">42</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdsub"><i>Guillou.</i></td> - <td></td> - </tr> - <tr class="pad-top"> - <td>A REVIEW AT LONGCHAMP</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus04">88</a></td> - </tr> - <tr class="pad-top"> - <td>CONSECRATED BREAD</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus05">114</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdsub"><i>Dagnan-Bouveret.</i></td> - <td></td> - </tr> - <tr class="pad-top"> - <td>THE REFECTORY</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus06">120</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdsub"><i>A. Bouvin.</i></td> - <td></td> - </tr> - <tr class="pad-top"> - <td>THE CHAMBER OF DEPUTIES</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus07">130</a></td> - </tr> - <tr class="pad-top"> - <td>THE FRENCH ACADEMY</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus08">148</a></td> - </tr> - <tr class="pad-top"> - <td>THE FOYER OF THE OPERA-HOUSE</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus09">170</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_viii"></a>[viii]</span></td> - </tr> - <tr class="pad-top"> - <td>A SEASIDE SERVICE</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus10">190</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdsub"><i>Edelfelt.</i></td> - <td></td> - </tr> - <tr class="pad-top"> - <td>AN OUTDOOR MEAL</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus11">206</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdsub"><i>Zimenez.</i></td> - <td></td> - </tr> - <tr class="pad-top"> - <td>GLEANERS</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus12">262</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdsub"><i>J. A. Breton.</i></td> - <td></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 21.875em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/footer2.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_1"></a>[1]</span></p> - -<h1>FRENCH LIFE IN TOWN -AND COUNTRY</h1> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/header3.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I<br /> -<span class="smaller">FRENCH RURAL AND PROVINCIAL LIFE</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>Among the nations of the earth there exists -no more striking contrast than that between -the people of Paris and the people of -France. While the capital is a political furnace, -where all sorts of conflicting ideas and opinions -are continually boiling with such a rage of effervescence -that the inhabitants, unaccustomed to -the sense of calm and security, work, dance, and -rest on the brink of an ever-menacing revolution; -in the provinces town life drags through -its monotonous days, absorbed in dull provincial -interests, and rural life knows no other -changes or menaces than those of the seasons. -We distribute to each race certain broad characteristics, -and trace out for them in all circumstances<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_2"></a>[2]</span> -an ideal of conduct from which, if they -will be true to their blood, they must not deviate. -And so we are all decided upon the general -French characteristic, excitability, forgetting -the immense provincial differences that are to be -found in the people of France as well as elsewhere. -The heavy Flemish natives of Picardy, -large eaters, deep drinkers, hard workers, slow -of speech, somewhat coarse and unperverted, -are as French as the natives of Latin Provence, -garrulous, sober, alert, and exuberant. They -are not less French than the wily, hard-bargaining -Norman, who eats and drinks as much, but -brings a clearer brain into business, and may always -be relied upon to get the better of his -neighbour in all transactions; or the dreamy -Celt of the Breton coast, the thriftless slave of -superstition, with brains to spare as well as -prejudices, but not intended by nature as a pillar -of the Temple of Wisdom. Not less French the -rich green midlands than the white and sunburnt -south, the champagne vineyards eastward, and -the rocky Cévennes rolling southward. Could -anybody differ, more from the morose and inhospitable -Lyonese, in whose eyes every outsider -is the enemy against whom he sedulously -barricades his doors, in whose esteem the pick -of humanity is the prosperous silk-merchant, -than the pushing, loud-mannered Marseillais, -with what he would fain have us take for his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_3"></a>[3]</span> -heart so aggressively upon his sleeve, emotion -so transparently transient ever on the surface, -subtly disguising self-interest and calculation?</p> - -<p>For every diversity of character equal diversity -of scenery—from the Alpine grandeur of the -Dauphiny land to the beautiful lagoons of the -Marais; the Vendean plain washed by the long -blue roll of the Atlantic; Provence, land of salt -lagoons and dead old cities of Greece and Rome; -the central provinces, with their lovely rivers -and chestnut woods; Celtic Brittany, half English; -Normandy, with its glorious capital, one -of the fairest of France; the radiant cities of the -Loire, French river of romance; the bright and -witching little kingdom of Béarn, exquisite Roussillon, -with its old hum of wars and troubadour -songs, its delicate sweetness of herb and leaf and -bloom, its quaint old towns breathing of Spain, -and its high air of legend; the east, with its -mountains and dense pine forests, up to sunnier -Ardennes. And the <i>patois</i> of these so different -districts are not less distinct than the scenery, -the note of town and province, and the characteristics -of each race. Shelley most seriously wrote -that there was nothing worth seeing in France. -Even the tourist will find more to delight his eye -in going from one department to another than -he will find place to record in the most voluminous -note-book. Let him only content himself -with such a province as Touraine, with its<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4"></a>[4]</span> -rich and pleasant landscape, its castles of undying -interest, its river of thrilling associations. -Or let him wander in summer amid the cherry -orchards of the Jura country, with the rampart -of mountains above the pine-tops and the touch -of Swiss beauty around; or dream away the -present in musing upon forgotten Mediterranean -glories among the ruins of dead Provençal cities -between the grey-green silver of the olive and -the sapphire waters beyond the broad grey river -bends.</p> - -<p>It is true that the townsman all over the land -is largely governed by a need for excitement, -and having, as a rule, no personal initiative to -enable him to minister to it, he contents himself -with looking toward the capital with envy, and -devours the newspapers from Paris in eager expectation -of the “something” he is in daily hope -of happening. But whatever does happen in -Paris rarely makes itself felt in the intellectually -sleepy, industrious provinces; thanks to which -wide-spread spirit of commercial and bucolic -denseness to the inflammatory influences of the -capital, France thrives now as she throve before -the war, when at a word she could produce -funds to pay off an enormous indemnity, without -flinching or hesitating.</p> - -<p>When you travel in the country or through -small French towns, you are struck with the -gaiety, intelligence, and good-will of the people<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5"></a>[5]</span> -and of the little shopkeepers, and with a -certain unintelligent stiffness, pretension, and -moroseness of the middle class, whose ambition -it is to pass for the aristocracy, or at least for -<i>des gens de bonne famille</i>. As these pretensions -are rarely in keeping with their actual fortunes, -these ambitious provincials, the victims of the -political follies born of hostility to the Third Republic, -think fit to garb themselves in the unbecoming -vices of ill-humour, rancour, and idle -pride. These they conceive to be the adjuncts -of noble birth. If the fathers have refrained, -the sons are certain to announce themselves, -sooner or later, by titles of their own choosing. -The general preference runs to count and viscount, -though baron is not despised. I have -known of a respectable middle-class family in -the provinces, where the eldest son, a lawyer, -is content to remain a republican, and the second -son, an officer, a gentleman of aristocratic instincts, -eager to profit by the present enthusiasm -for the army in anti-governmental circles, calls -himself a count. The humorous part of the -situation lies in the fact that the wife of the plain -Monsieur is not satisfied with her lot, since -destiny, ruled by her brother-in-law’s will, has -given the latter a title; and so at the recent -marriage of that military worthy, the newspapers -spoke of M. le Comte giving his arm to his -sister-in-law, Madame la Comtesse, while the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6"></a>[6]</span> -disgusted republican elder brother stayed in the -country, indifferent to the self-appointed glories -of his relatives.</p> - -<p>Within late years, tennis parties are beginning -to introduce a little stir in certain select circles -of small provincial towns, where these entertainments -are still regarded as novel; but, speaking -generally, the dulness of such centres in -France cannot be surpassed anywhere. Social -life is at as low a level as intellectual life. Few -books are read, fewer still are discussed. The -very aspect of the streets—with their sealed -doors, shut persiennes, sullen absence of neighbourly -trust and geniality, high-walled gardens—is -morose and incommunicative. They wear, -however, as compensation, a look of distinction, -not infrequently accompanied by a picturesque -charm. Should a river roll in view, or a little -street slope down to a busy quay, where the -washerwomen kneel and lend mirth and colour -to the scene, while above, an old historic castle, -high against the sky, on a dusty square, or the -grey of Gothic stone and delicate spire add a -hieratic note to the quaint picture you forget -the unfriendly reserve of those barred and blinded -houses, you forget the somewhat aggressive -coldness and inhospitality of their front, in recognition -of the tempered brilliance, the graceful -and distinguished effects around you. Mingle -then with the market-folk, and listen to their<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_7"></a>[7]</span> -speech—pleasant vocables, rendered pleasanter -still by vivacity of gesture and vividness of gaze; -neat peasant women, in spotless caps and sabots, -who look all the merrier because they are so -hard-worked; tanned, wrinkled faces, that smile -as they did in youth, hard-set, but not unkindly, -in the rapacity of commerce; responsive to a -joke, unflinching in the teeth of trouble, not -destitute of a promise of comfort in life’s softer -hours—though softness is the very last quality -they betray. A genial hardness is, perhaps, the -dominating character of the French peasant woman’s -expression: it would never be safe to -trust in the hope of finding her head napping -and her heart too wide awake. But if she is -not soft to others, she is implacably hard to herself. -Her industry is amazing, and only less -amazing is her resourcefulness. A more competent -woman does not exist anywhere. Nothing -of a dreamer, she is contented with her -lot, provided only there is neither thriftlessness, -waste, nor idleness about her. She will willingly -work for four, if the men will honestly work -for one. And while the men loiter and squander -substance and health in the wineshops, this -gallant creature continues to labour and save -and scold, to deprive herself of small comforts -in favour of others—a son, a daughter, as the -case may be; and, thanks to her, the country -ever prospers.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8"></a>[8]</span></p> - -<p>Country life is, of course, far less dull than -provincial town life; less unneighbourly, and -less destitute of all the charities of existence. -For one thing, nature is the eternal friend, benefactor, -and instructor of man. The thousand -vulgarities of towns are forgotten in the midst -of her bounties. A man who lives in bucolic -silence, watching the seasons and counting new-born -things, dreaming of oats, of crops, of fruit, -is essentially the superior of his fellows who -dwell amid the sordid details of small towns, -commerce, and rivalries, the gossip and drivel -which make a spurious animation in the circles -of the provinces. There are diversities among -the type <i>hobereau</i> (a kind of French squire), as -among all other types in France and elsewhere. -Many years ago I travelled through a charming -south-western province, furnished amply with -letters of introduction. I well remember the -extraordinary contrast between two families of -<i>hobereaux</i> I once visited. A relative of the -small squire, who lived in a dull, quaint little -town, drove me out to see her bucolic son-in-law -and his bucolic parents. The family was -described to me as “exceedingly rich.” We entered -a brilliant bit of park and avenue on a hot -afternoon in July, drenched with the dews of -heat, athirst from the dust of the broad, long -white road. On the <i>perron</i> stood the young -couple and their parents to receive us. The<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9"></a>[9]</span> -bride was gaudily and hideously attired in yellow -and brown satin and silk; the groom in -grey, with straw hat and leggings, more appropriately -adorned the landscape. He was a heavy-eyed, -high-complexioned, silent youth, who -seemed at ease and happy only in the society -of his most beautiful dogs. To them alone did -he sometimes discourse in heavy undertones, -while he surveyed me furtively under his lashes -in unmistakable awe, but addressed me no word. -His father-in-law looked like a farmer or a -yeoman, and cracked small jokes. He quizzed -his son, who blushed the hues of fire, and his -son’s mother-in-law, who ingeniously strove to -make me believe that she did not understand -him, and he nudged his daughter-in-law in a -way she must have resented. Without exaggeration, -I have never met a more peasant type -of country gentleman in my life. His wife was -a simple, ill-mannered person, who talked -chiefly about the weather. The grounds were -lovely, the orchard a splendid dream, but the -floors of the “château,” as every country-house -in France is pretentiously called, were mere -unvarnished planks; not a rug anywhere, not -a hint of beeswax, and even the drawing-room -was disfigured with ugly presses. When liquid -refreshment was called for—chartreuse and -iced water—we were served in coarse glasses, -and the iced water was brought in in a kitchen<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_10"></a>[10]</span> -jug. There was not even a flower in a vase, -not a pretty window curtain, and the drawing-room -chairs were of horsehair. Whatever -occult advantages their wealth may have procured -them, it cannot be said that beauty, comfort, -the joy of living, were amongst them, for -a more undecorated interior and duller persons -I have never met, and yet, with so much comfortlessness, -there was not a touch of vulgarity. -The squireen was a rough son of the soil, but -you accepted him as the animals of the field; -you felt he belonged to the land, and, as such, -claimed indulgence. You would not elect to -pass your days in his society, any more than -you would care to have a bear prancing about -your drawing-room, but you instinctively felt -his superiority to the town fop, who thinks -himself a very fine fellow, with a little tailoring -and a vast amount of pretension.</p> - -<p>The second <i>hobereau</i> dwelt in the same department, -but I visited him with very different -results. I was invited to lunch, and my host -drove me seven miles in a pony-cart. Here, -also, were an imposing park and avenue, and an -immense manor, which seemed all windows. -There was among the guests a magistrate from -Poictiers, who was witty as only a Frenchman -can be witty. Our host was a charming, bright-eyed, -lean little old man, full of vivacity, of -charm, and intellectual alertness. He was voluble,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11"></a>[11]</span> -and avid for information, and walked me up -and down a delightful <i>berceau</i> to obtain my -views of the woman’s question and the relative -positions of the young French and English girl. -He even pressed me to contrast the French and -English novel, and said he greatly preferred -Scott to Zola—an opinion I endorsed with fervour. -People drove over from neighbouring -places, and we were quite a large party at lunch. -The talk was capital—local, but interesting; no -cheap gossip, but plenty of genial wit, anecdote, -and repartee. The women were dowdily -dressed, as provincial Frenchwomen frequently -are. I judged them as dense, impervious to -ideas, utterly uncultivated, never, in all probability, -having read anything except the thin religious -literature on which the virtuous ladies of -France nourish their minds; but they could well -hold their own in conversation, could cap a -phrase with elegant neatness, and the hostess -deserved well of her kind for the evidence she -furnished of a perfectly ordered household. It -would, however, be a mistake to credit them -with grace because they are Frenchwomen. -Nothing comes with such a shock upon the -traveller in France, used to the feminine grace -and charm and witchery of dress in Paris, as -the dowdiness and want of ease, the total lack -of taste in dress, the heavy figures and unexpressive -faces of many of the women of the provinces.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12"></a>[12]</span> -They dress shabbily, will even wear -cotton gloves and badly cut boots when they -consider themselves extremely exclusive, and -carry off these defects of costume with a singular -and unmistakable air of distinction. The commoner -kind prefer to shine in fashions and colours -unfamiliar to the eye of Paris; and, as a -rule, look clumsy and obtrusive in their fine -feathers. The same applies to the men. These, -when they prefer to be shabby and roughly arrayed, -look far better than the pretentious gallants -who, by means of obvious tailoring, offer -destruction to the susceptible dames around -them. There can be no doubt that an elegant -male costume is out of place and a vulgar blot -along a sleepy little street where men in blouses -pass and bonneted girls and women wheel -barrows before them.</p> - -<p>The farmer’s life has undoubtedly a larger share -of natural interests than that of the <i>hobereau</i>. It -is more purely animal, without any attachments -to a world unconnected with the land. Ask a -farmer what he thinks of politics, and he will tell -you that he has nothing on earth to do with idiots -or tricksters. He who must warily watch the humours -of the seasons cannot trouble himself -with the humours of electors and the ravings of -voluble deputies. He walks his dew-washed -meadows at dawn in wide-leafed felt; and, as -he surveys the produce of his labour, his long<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13"></a>[13]</span> -hours of sweating travail, can he feel other than -contempt of the highly remunerative and windy -profession of the politician? The superiority of -the lord of the soil to whom he pays tribute, he -will readily acknowledge, but none other. In -the west he will speak of his family as “my sons -and the creatures,” meaning his daughters. In -the land of the Cévennes, his children are <i>les -drôles</i>, and the same unquestioning obedience is -expected from both sexes by this rough and -silent tyrant of the soil. Outside his farm he has -little esteem to waste upon his fellows; within, -is far from prodigal of tenderness to his women-folk. -These he expects to stand at meals in a -corner of the kitchen, while he and his sons sit -to eat. He governs haughtily, with few words; -but in his rude heart he knows that the real, the -silent, and unobtrusive government lies in the -hands of his wife, who, with the tact and watchfulness -of affection, corrects the errors of his -harsh temper, and smooths out the asperities of -home-life. It would be difficult to find a people -to whom modern feminism is more repugnant -than the French, and hard to name one that -owes more to the intelligence, good-will, and incessant -labour of women. Frenchmen object to -women in the liberal professions, and make a -desperate hue and cry the day a talented lady -seeks leave to wear the lawyer’s toque and -gown. Yet the fields are tended by women;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_14"></a>[14]</span> -flags are waved at railway gates by them; in -the lower ranks they bravely do all the rougher -work of men, and nobody lifts a voice in protest. -Woman may leave her home to make money -in the humbler walks of labour, and cause no -flutter in male bosoms; but let her elect to do -so in paths where ambition lures and pay is -higher, and instantly a howl of dismay runs -through the ranks of her oppressors and slaves. -And yet, if common sense and logic were general -instead of rare virtues, even in France, it -would be understood that the abandonment of -the homes by peasant women is of much more -serious consequence to a nation than the infrequent -flight into legal and medical circles. The -woman lawyer will always be the exception, -and if she makes a good thing of her venture -nobody is a penny the worse. But examine the -home where the wife and mother spends her -day in a factory, in the field, whose occupation -requires no talent or ambition, and their physical -and moral effects are of a very different nature -from those that follow the winning of diplomas. -The woman works as hard and as long as her -husband, and is paid less. They return home to -a cold hearth, an uncooked dinner. The man, -never an angel where his stomach is concerned, -swears and threatens, then sulks and goes off to -the wine-shop. There is no compensation for -the missing comfort in the few miserable francs<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15"></a>[15]</span> -earned. No women are more admirably adapted -for making the home happy than Frenchwomen. -Their general competence is matched only by -their industry; and it is a pity to see these fine -domestic qualities wasted on outdoor work. Of -course, in the case of widows nothing can be -said. When the bread-winner is taken away, -the woman must perforce shut the house door, -and go abroad in quest of the right to live. Girls -are in their proper sphere, too, in working manfully -on their father’s farm until their marriage, -and fatherless girls, without that most useful of -national institutions, the <i>dot</i>, must needs find -bread wherever they can. But the outside labour -of the wife and mother can never be too -deeply deplored, above all in the case of the best -of wives or mothers, such as Frenchwomen, -taking them as an average, usually are.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus02" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/illus02.jpg" alt="" /> - <p class="caption">BLESSING THE WHEAT</p> - <p class="caption"><i>J. A. Breton</i></p> -</div> - -<p>Connected with rural and provincial life are -some quaint and pretty religious ceremonies. I -need not refer to the <i>Fête-Dieu</i>, familiar to all -travellers in Catholic countries. The sight of -this well-known procession will please or repel -you according as it appeals to your head or your -imagination. But a far more picturesque procession, -and one containing an element of poetry -not at all discoverable in the <i>Fête-Dieu</i>, is the -blessing of the fields and orchards between -dawn and sunrise. What a novel and peaceful -treat I used to find this ceremony in my far-off<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16"></a>[16]</span> -French schooldays, whereas the Corpus Christi -procession was but a scorching misery! To -rise in the blue crepuscular light, with the early -birds just stirring in their nests and heard behind -the unshuttered windows, and emerge from the -deep convent porch into the dew-washed country, -following and followed by all the town, -walking in two long lines, widely apart, behind -the priests in their stoles and surplices, and -chanting solemn Latin hymns! It was a rich -Norman land we wandered along, now by glittering -rills, with the smell of violets in the air, -by narrow green paths through the newly -ploughed earth, while the mounting sun cast joy -into our faces, warming the chill spring wind, -and provoking the birds to rival our hymns with -their clearer and sweeter notes; then through -continents of apple bloom, whole lakes above of -pink-white blossoms on either side, with rivulets -of upper blue seen through the tracery of foamy -waves. Who, watching that solemn procession -of amiable enthusiasts, chanting hymns to God -and beseeching Him with confidence and fervour -to bless the earth and all its produce,—wheat, -wine, fruit, and flower, the water we drink, and -the grass we tread upon,—could smile or carp at -the sprinkling of the ground, of trees, of river-bed -with holy water? There was something -deeply impressive in the hymns sung at that -early hour, while the towns still slept and the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_17"></a>[17]</span> -woods were scarce awake. As a superstition it -seemed to carry us back to the great primal -superstitions that have run through the earlier -religions. It remains ever upon memory as a -large and noble and beautiful form of belief, -where Pagan and Christian of all time meet in -their fear of inclement nature. Religion has ever -associated itself with the rural dread of disaster. -Priests say masses for sick cattle, and if the cattle -do not benefit by this harmless custom, the -peasants are thereby greatly comforted; they -have the satisfaction of knowing, at any rate, -that should the cattle so prayed for die, it was -in the design of Providence, against which even -the prayer of devout man was inefficacious. If -religion never made more injurious concessions -than these to ignorance, the wildest freethinker -that ever unsheathed a sword against it must be -shamed into laughter at his bellicose attitude. -Indeed, it is not only the Catholics of France -who expect their ministers to stand between -them and rural misfortunes by prayer and holy -water; in the Protestant Cévennes a pastor of -the Reformed Church has been known to exorcise -a field of evil spirits, or tackle by prayers -the devils in a poor beast, and even in an entire -herd of cattle; and the peasants dread even -more than the devil a mysterious god called -the <i>Aversier</i>.<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> An apologist for these peculiar<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_18"></a>[18]</span> -customs maintains that since Christianity cannot -prevent superstition it is wise in directing it,—sending -it thus into a right and beneficial -channel. This is surely debatable ground. Superstition -is by no means the appanage of -ignorance only, and we must be grateful when -we find it inoffensive and poetical.</p> - -<div class="footnotes"> -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> The maker of rains.</p> -</div> -</div> - -<p>In Paris to-day, you will meet educated Frenchwomen -who are convinced that St. Anthony of -Padua went to heaven and was canonised in the -exclusive interest of their lost property. A friend -of mine, witty, cultivated, a wide reader and -traveller, accompanying me on a walk, dropped -one of her gloves just outside the avenue door. -She perceived her loss when we had gone a few -paces ahead. “Oh, dear good St. Anthony,” -she exclaimed fervently, “make me find my -glove, and I will light a candle in your honour. -And now I am reminded, dear St. Anthony, that -I owe you already a candle for my note-book -which I lost and found last week; I will pay -both on the recovery of my glove.” I listened -to the prayer in stupefaction. We turned on -our heel, and there at the <i>porte-cochère</i> lay -her glove. She pounced upon it, and cried, -“Thanks, thanks, good St. Anthony, you will -have your two candles this afternoon.” Now, -this was not a peasant, a servant, an ignorant -little bourgeoise. She was a woman of liberal -education, a frequenter of the noble Faubourg,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19"></a>[19]</span> -the friend, guide, and philosopher of several -authentic counts and countesses and marchionesses -and diplomats, a woman who had travelled -in Russia, Poland, Germany, and England, -and admired all these races; in fact, a charming -old lady, a mass of pride and prejudice, yearning -to-day for another St. Bartholomew, and yet devoted -to several Protestants and to at least one -freethinker; who professes an <i>ancien-régime</i> -hatred and scorn of the lower classes, and treats -her servant, her portress, her <i>frotteur</i>, the woman -who sells her milk, and the woman who -sells her vegetables as her dearest friends, from -sheer largeness of heart and generosity of nature. -She is not the first person of whom I can truthfully -say, “Her virtues are all her own, her vices -belong to her religion.”</p> - -<p>In Brittany it is the custom to bless houses, -and this ceremony is not always accomplished -without some bluster; above all, if the spirit of -the dead should be attached to it. When a -Breton suspects his house to be under ghostly -domination, he sends for a powerful fellow in -sacerdotal raiment to dislodge the devil. The -priest comes, clad in surplice, and, holding his -stole in hand, takes off his boots, so that he -“shall be a priest to the very ground.” We are -told that the staircase and the floors are inevitably -covered with sand as evidence of the traces of -the ill-intentioned dead. The priest must follow<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20"></a>[20]</span> -those sandy traces as far as the chamber where -they stop. There he shuts himself up, bursts -into fervent prayer, and has a hand-to-hand fight -with the evil spirit. His triumph is asserted as -soon as he succeeds in casting his stole over the -neck of the dead, who has taken the shape of -an animal, usually a black dog. The beadle and -the sacristan are told off to carry away the possessed -animal. They lead it to a sterile marsh, -or a forsaken quarry, or a meadow hollow, and -the priest cries, “Here shalt thou henceforth -dwell,” and lets the evil spirit go free; saying -this, he makes a wide circle, and departs.<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p> - -<div class="footnotes"> -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[2]</a> “Satanism” by Jules Bois.</p> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Coming from a feverish centre like Paris, -where, as a rule, lives are too crowded with -interests, one wonders at the limited interests of -rural and provincial life. Sometimes you will -meet a country gentleman who dabbles in literature, -writes a local guide or an historical essay -on some personage or fact connected with his -own particular town or village, and then you -may count yourself fortunate. Depend upon -his natural wit to make the place interesting to -you. Such a pleasant squire once imparted a -sort of glow and charm for me to Taillebourg, -and that dullest of little towns, St. Jean d’Angély. -He peopled the neighbourhood with great names, -and the very pavements instantly grew sacred. -His erudition went so far as to revive Blue Beard,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_21"></a>[21]</span> -an ancestral neighbour, and show me the Marquis -of Carabas, with his immortal feline friend, getting -married in the reign of Francis I., from the -castle at which I was a guest; and though the -life at that summer castle was frightfully monotonous, -one forgot the monotony in romantic -associations. But this is an infrequent blessing. -Unless you form one of a hunting party, I know -nothing that palls more quickly upon the outsider -than the kind of existence led in French -châteaux. There are no day or evening amusements. -Ladies between meals sit under trees -and talk. If they always talked brilliantly upon -general topics, this would be pleasant enough, -but as all roads lead to Rome, so do all topics -to-day in France lead directly or indirectly to -politics, and this is fatal. Literature is only a -tepid discussion on the latest novel: and this -does not carry one far. Then there is a solemn -walk with your hostess about the grounds, or a -drive outside, and in the evening after dinner a -game of bezique with somebody, or the pleasure -of watching somebody else play “patience,” and -conversation of a not too thrilling kind. Should -your hostess or any other visitor be exceptional, -delight and pleasure can be extracted from notable -talk; but in the case of ordinary men and -women, it is very trying to meet together for -the dismal satisfaction of being bored simultaneously. -The proprietors naturally do not realise<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22"></a>[22]</span> -this. They have the excitement of receiving -guests, whose arrival must be a change in the -burthen of inalterable routine. But I have never -left a French château without a feeling of sincere -gratitude for not possessing one. The sensation -of imprisonment, of futile chains, is oppressive. -Here, as elsewhere, individuality is effaced by -inexorable common law. To be original is to -be amusing, no doubt; but, still more, unseemly -and mad. You may be a little wild in speech, -provided you walk the respectable step of your -fellows without the slightest deviation. Your -wit, if you happen to have any, will never be -more appreciated, for on that ground the French -are exquisite judges; but if you cross your -knees, or pick blackberries, or dance a hornpipe, -or climb a tree, or smoke a pipe, or whistle a -tune (I mix up the offences of both sexes against -French propriety), you are safe to go forth with -a blighted reputation. Many years ago, before -I knew these things, I shocked an amiable country -gentleman and his son, a correct young -officer down from St. Cyr, by breaking away -from them to gather and eat lovely blackberries -along our path. They told me it was considered -extremely improper in France. They mentioned, -upon pressure, so many other things that are -regarded in rural esteem as improper, that I suggested -writing, with their aid, the things a man -and a woman (especially a woman) cannot do<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23"></a>[23]</span> -in France, but on consideration found it would -make too large a volume. Here is exhibited the -lasting charm of the French character. Had I -said such a thing to an Englishman, imbued -with a sense of his own correctness, he would -have resented it as a foreign impertinence. My -French host was charmed with a criticism which -he understood to be meant good-naturedly, and -added, “I have ever wondered at the reputation -we give the English in France for excessive -formality, for, personally, I have always found -them to be a great deal more genial and easy -than ourselves, and I readily recognise that we -are much more formal.” When you read French -and English newspapers, and see these two -great races, the greatest of the world, showing -their teeth like angry dogs, you might believe -both nations incapable of a just or generous -word of each other. Well, I, who am neither -French nor English, can testify to the magnanimous -recognition of national virtues of both to -each other. A feeling of rivalry, of jealousy, of -bitterness, may exist on either side, but I know -none who have expressed more cordial admiration -of British qualities than the French, none -who have returned the compliment to them -so generously as the English. I still remember -the words of a gallant French officer to me -one evening after dinner: “It is an unfortunate -misunderstanding, exploited by infamous<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24"></a>[24]</span> -journalists of both countries, between two races -made to sympathise with and admire each other. -English and French, we complete one another, -and as friends would hold the world.” And -how true this is! There are faults on both sides, -as there always are in a misunderstanding. The -English are admirable, the French are lovable, -and both have the defects of these qualities.</p> - -<p>Even now, as I write these lines, feeling runs -high in both countries, one against the other; -higher and more aggressive in France, I admit, -than in England, and yet I should fill a volume -were I to attempt to repeat the splendid and -noble things I have lately heard said of England -in France, the proofs of regret for this lamentable -and, I trust, fugitive state of affairs which -I have received from various sources, beginning -with cultured men of letters and science, then -from Catholic women of the world, who see no -reason to hate England because their newspapers -tell them to do so; and lastly from workmen, -women of the people, from my washerwoman, -who once wisely said to me, “If we listen to -the newspapers, French or English, we shall all -become as stupid and degraded as the Boxers of -China.”</p> - -<p>What one first remarks about the French -peasantry is the clean and comfortable aspect -they present: tidy blue blouses, sabots, strong -shoes, neatly patched trousers, and their air of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25"></a>[25]</span> -natural breeding. Among the mountains they -are of rougher build and manners; but in the -plains of Berry, in the flat, green department of -the Loiret, where the landscape looks like a -little bit of Holland on the edge of the still and -sedgy Loire where it ceases to be navigable, the -very labourers more resemble well-to-do and -well-bred farmers than the class to which they -belong. Their breeding and neatness, if you -come upon them in the wild solitude of the -fields, are in keeping with the gracious silence of -shepherd life, instead of being a blot upon it, -and their civilised speech does not jar upon the -banks of grey, flowing water, or among the -warm, sunlit meadows.</p> - -<p>Farther south-west the manners are less commendable. -Mistrust of the foreigner is more -visible; and if you ask your way, you risk falling -upon the practical joker, who deliberately -sends you wrong out of gaiety of heart. Landscape -is decided by region, and local character -is decided by religion. Volubility and Catholicism -seem to go hand in hand; rigidity and -sternness with Protestantism. La Rochelle and -Rochefort are Protestant towns on the coast; -the Cévennes territory is Protestant, also the -towns of Nîmes and Montpellier in Provence. -Speaking broadly, I should say the French -Protestants are more intelligent, the Catholics -brighter; the Protestants deeper in brains and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26"></a>[26]</span> -sentiments, the Catholics more winningly vivacious. -You esteem the Protestants, you like -the Catholics; and your sympathy for each will -be prompted by temperament, intellect, and instinct. -Catholics will always regard Du Chayla, -the Christian persecutor of the Cévennes, as a -martyr; Protestants, more justly, will pronounce -him a hateful persecutor. Religious persecutors, -the world over, find their fervent apologists, and -it may be said that a large proportion of the -French race approve to-day of their St. Bartholomew, -and yearn for a repetition of it; just as -the good Catholics of the Spanish race find little -to condemn in the horrors of the Inquisition. If -there should break out a second Revolution in -France (we have been living so long on the -brink of it that I am constantly reminded of the -story of the boy and the wolf, and ask myself in -dismay, How long have we to run before meeting -with the famous moral of the story?), be -sure this time that religion will prove the provocation. -I cannot predict on which side it will -burst, but assuredly the red flag will be “anti-Semitism.” -In the provinces this sentiment runs -in a feebler, less aggressive channel, and the -rural atmosphere seems to cleanse the air of it -entirely. Here religious feeling is either stagnant -because of the absence of religious rivalry, or it -is a dull assertion of hostility in abeyance, only -waiting for the occasion to break out in a torrential<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27"></a>[27]</span> -downpour. In provincial circles known -as clerical, bicycling is regarded as improper, -because it has been pronounced unfashionable. -At Orleans you will see women and young girls -punting as you wander out beyond the suburbs -towards the source of the Loiret, in the charming -demesne of the Polignacs, but you will not encounter -a woman on a bicycle, for Orleans is a -clerical town, and, consequently, all that is most -fashionable and pretentious. France is aware of -the ills which clericalism has brought upon Spain; -yet, for the moment, she is deliberately walking -backward, through the strenuous efforts of the -snobs and of a defunct aristocracy. These reactionary -influences are the work of a coterie of -intriguing women and ambitious priests in Paris, -and now even material and private interests are -menaced by conspiring malcontents.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 21.875em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/footer2.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_28"></a>[28]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/header4.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II<br /> -<span class="smaller">PARIS AND PARISIANISM</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>The exaggerated Parisianism of the foreigners -who settle in Paris is one of the things -the French of to-day profess to resent; it is one -of the reasons of the great Nationalist cry, -“France for the French!” as the Chinese yell -more murderously, “China for the Chinese!” -Such a feeling of resentment ignores the tribute -paid by these foreigners to the indescribable -charm and fascination of Paris. For it is not the -affairs of France that the foreigners meddle with, -but exclusively those of Paris. The provinces -are much like other provinces, and you might -live therein a half-century and fail to find out -that there was anything particularly catching in -French politics,—anything absorbing in the questions -of the hour. I have known foreigners -established for years in Florence, in Venice, in -Rome, who have never once opened an Italian -newspaper; who take not the slightest interest -in anything that concerns Italy beyond that -which picturesque Italian peasants and noble<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29"></a>[29]</span> -stones may inspire. Not so with this bewitching -and exacting Paris. Everything here combines -to force your powers of resistance; and -while you are musing in the Louvre or the Musée -de Cluny, behold, the roar of revolution is heard -without, and down the solemn halls must you -hurry into the blithe air,—forgetful of past, of -dreams, of historic associations, of sentimental -reveries in front of Leonardo’s “Gioconda,” to -learn the latest whim of a petulant city, to learn -the latest black deed of whichever party you -have come to detest as a personal enemy.</p> - -<p>Elsewhere will you meet architectural effects -more beautiful,—quaint old streets a thousand -times more captivating, reaches of river more -lovely and more strange,—but nowhere else will -you find modern life unrolling in an atmosphere -of such beguilement, set in a frame of such large -and harmonious beauty. Nowhere else will -you find the very poorest in a measure to be envied, -since even they, with a little good will and -an eye to look about and enjoy, may make -something cheerful of their lives by reason of -their environment. The perspective of starvation -is not an agreeable one anywhere on earth, -but surely a dry crust may be not altogether ungratefully -munched walking along the quays of -Paris, with those broad sweeps of lines and hues -of enchantment upon either horizon; and something -not unlike a step of delight may be danced<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30"></a>[30]</span> -along the joyous, noisy “Boul’ Mich’” with an -empty pocket, even if one be the victim of the -remorseless term-day, or have no prospect but -the shelter of the doss-house at night. For -there is no squalor in Paris, no griminess, and -penury itself is decent, discreet, admirably self-respecting; -and even drunkenness, though of a -far more perilous character, if we are to believe -the newspaper reports, than in London, abstains -from the revolting outrages against sight and -hearing we are accustomed to in the cities of the -British Isles. To be poor in London is to be the -poorest of poor devils upon the globe, for there -life offers you no compensation. You live in -such a slum as the Parisian eye has never gazed -upon; the faces around you are sour or bloated, -according to temperament and habits. There is -no lightness of air, no brilliance of perspective, -to distract the eye from the inward contemplation -of daily misery, unless you put on your hat -and trudge endless miles to get a glimpse of the -long, bright boulevard of Piccadilly, or the sophisticated -wonders of the Strand. The attractions -of these I willingly admit, and own the -Strand, on a wet, lamp-lit winter’s evening, to -be a beautiful, strange vision of grandeur and -diversity. But then how far these all are from -the slums, and the way in London is long, and -if your pocket is empty, how are you to get on -the top of an omnibus to enjoy a change of view?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_31"></a>[31]</span></p> - -<p>But in Paris, should your pocket be empty -and your room sordid, you need only saunter -into the clear, vivacious air to find yourself -within walking distance of every charming point -of the radiant city. Between her broad and -winding river, Paris lies, a two-volumed tale of -romance; on every leaf, as you turn it, matters -for musing and rapture, life around you full to -overflowing,—the life that has been lived still -vivid to remembrance, not clothed in sadness, -but in the gracious gaiety of tradition. The -scenes of dead hours are animated with floating -suggestions. In the Marais, with all these neat, -alert workwomen, well hosed, hair alluringly -dressed, contented with their lot, which is laborious -and frugal, so long as they can brighten it -with laughter and the customary joys of beautiful -objects which abound here on all sides,—who -is to weep for the days of old, and the -great historic dames who made its ancient glory? -You remember the great ladies of yore, and you -are thankful for the sight of the sympathetic -workwomen of to-day, and greet them with a -tributary smile. For it is the women of Paris -who create the better part of its living charm, -whether in the populous quarters, where they -toss their morning greetings to each other, or to -their swains, along the freshly awakened faubourgs -and clean streets, with their shining runlets -of water which you must dexterously jump,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_32"></a>[32]</span> -by broad boulevard and acacia avenues; or, -later in the day, in the regions of luxury and -millions, where the sirens of fashion, arrayed -with a taste Solomon never dreamed of at the -time sacred tradition supposes him to have envied -the lily of the field, corollas emerging from -exquisite sheaths, with the plumage of paradise -upon their frivolous heads, pass and repass on -their mission of smiling destruction, of ruthless -rivalry, of scented glory. As well dream of a -city of London without its trousered armies, -rushing on the wings of time in pursuit of gold, -as try to imagine a Paris with woman dethroned. -She holds all the strong places; she vivifies the -town from the old Place of the Bastille to the -heights of Montmartre, where the texture and -trimming of her garments is the topic of the -hour; and men gather on the boulevards at the -hour of absinthe, in devout expectation of seeing -her pass by. Whether they discuss politics or -art, be certain she is at the bottom of all their -talk. The talk is assuredly not of the most respectful -kind, nor is the attitude of Parisians to -her such as we could with accuracy describe as -clean or chivalrous, but they give to her what -she, light-minded as she is, demands,—their full -attention, a consideration of her charms, her -dress, her vagaries, her virtues, her vices,—an -attention that never wanders, the most generous -measure of contempt, admiration, eternal gratitude,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33"></a>[33]</span> -and eternal faithlessness that the perversest -witch ever clamoured for. Such is her -power that I am tempted to believe that if her -ideal were a high, instead of a low, one, she -might invent a type of Parisian very different -from the well-known <i>boulevardier</i> and hero of -French romance. But alas! this is her failing. -She has no other ideal than that of ruling by the -senses, and mastering the worst in man by the -worst in herself. The ideal in her is wrecked -on the alluring rock of her own making,—dress, -for which she lives, and without which Paris -would not be the Paris we know; and, being -frail and human and sadly silly, as the best of us -are,—Heaven be praised!—we admire even when -we would fain deplore.</p> - -<p>The finest impression the life of London -leaves on memory is that of the wealthy quarters. -The pageant of Rotten Row is unforgetable. -The splendid roll of life and movement -along Piccadilly, the bright impressiveness of -Park Lane, of those squares of lofty town palaces, -give such a notion of privilege and purse -as may be had on no other spot of the globe. -But the happiest and most lasting impression of -Paris lies in the poor and populous quarters. -Who in memory dwells most on the magnificence -of the Champs Elysées? Who in after -years, remembering Paris, cares about all the -luxury of the Park Monceau, with its fashionable<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34"></a>[34]</span> -and expensive avenues? But what we do remember, -with pleasure and surprise, are the -agreeable aspects of labour, of every-day life, of -outdoor breathing, the variety, labour, vivacity, -and insistent beauty, at every turn, of public -existence. It is the delights of street study -which hold our imagination enthralled. In Paris -we realise that the Revolution has indeed -brought about something very near to human -equality, since here the poorest know and love -the feeling of independence, and we understand -the world to be made for them and not exclusively, -as in London, for the privileged few. -Here aristocracy is an incident in social existence, -and any attempts at insolence or haughty airs, -which thrill to admiration the soul of the British -burgess and small shopkeeper, would in this -democratic Paris speedily bring insult on the -head of the offender. The Parisian workman -will “Monsieur-le-Comte” the aristocrat to his -liking, but Monsieur le Comte must mind his -manners and be careful not to trespass. He -took his head off once, and he hopes that will -prove enough, not being more bloodthirsty than -his own interests and privileges demand. Who -can consistently pity a populace, however hard -it may work, and however ill it may feed, that -has the right of way along such well-kept -thoroughfares; that has such fine statuary and -elegant architecture to keep it in good humour!<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35"></a>[35]</span> -Who is really poor that may refresh his eye upon -the terrace of the Tuileries, across the Concorde -Place, and take his airing along the boulevards, -or in the lovely, old-fashioned Luxembourg Gardens? -What point of Paris is dull to look at? -Where are the shop-fronts that do not fascinate? -Take even one of those old aristocratic streets of -the noble Faubourg Varenne, or of Saint Dominique. -At first glimpse it looks a long, dull -harmony of stone,—a uniform grey, with high -emblazoned gates and closed lodges. But note -the peeps into flowery old courtyards, the -charming tufts of garden foliage lifting their -green branches above the high walls. Glance -down the sudden break in the street, where a -kind of tall walled terrace runs, trellised, rich in -leafage, as silent as the street of a dead city, -where wealth shelters itself from envy by its -tone of subdued and sober elegance. And yet it -is not more trim than are the haunts of commerce, -the abodes of labour. Who would not -envy the flower-women of the Quai des Fleurs, -with their glorious vista of stone and waterway? -The curving Seine, ribboned round its beautiful -old island, grey-walled, upon the river’s brink; -the spire of the Sainte Chapelle, painted gold, -upon a soft or brilliant sky, and the magnificent -gates of the Palace of justice, as much theirs as -are the rich man’s priceless possessions in his -own house. The pleasure of possession alone is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36"></a>[36]</span> -lacking in their enjoyments; but they miss its -anxieties, and they have not to pay for the keeping -in order of all those splendours upon which -their eyes daily repose.</p> - -<p>To talk of taste in connection with Paris seems -as unnecessary to-day as to speak of coals in -Newcastle. And yet it is the prevalence of taste -everywhere that perpetually surprises inhabitants -of less privileged places. Whatever these -people do, whatever they make, whatever they -wear, the result is pleasing to the eye. If the -picturesque is not always achieved, be sure neatness -is. Give a poor woman an old skirt or -bodice, and instantly will she go home, take it -to pieces, and make a new skirt or bodice out of -it that will gladden the eye, once upon her. So -in her modest way will she improve the general -view, and freshen up a porter’s lodge or little -doorway. It is by the united action of all those -various devices of a race of unerring taste and an -indestructible sense of neatness, that Paris, in all -its open corners, and byways, and thoroughfares, -is, by outward manifestations, the home of permanent -and unchequered grace and suavity.</p> - -<p>It is a particularly pleasant feature of Parisian -life that people of small means can live both -decently and economically there. Of course, -economy is the chief virtue of the race; and -though it would be difficult to name a less attractive -one, because of its close alliance to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37"></a>[37]</span> -avarice and meanness, it deserves our respect -because of its national significance. To it do -we owe the exterior neatness of person and -home, the tidiness of the poorest interior of -Paris. Where else but in Paris will you find a -<i>concierge</i> living with her family in one small -room and a kitchen just large enough to turn in, -and able to preserve that space scrupulously -clean, inoffensive to sight and smell, with not so -much as an article of clothing hanging about, -nor a speck of dust visible, nor an ornament or -chair disturbed? I have not penetrated into the -ragpicker’s City of the Sun, about which Maxime -du Camp wrote so eloquently in the <i>Revue -des deux Mondes</i> some years ago; but I -have no doubt that even in that elemental nest -of humanity I should find orderliness, as far as -it is compatible with the ragpicker’s trade, to -be the general law. Does not M. de Haussonville, -in his <i>Enfance à Paris</i>, assure us, after repeated -visits to the doss-houses of London and -Paris, that the striking difference between these -fugitive shelters for the refuse of mankind in -both capitals is a certain dim striving towards -cleanliness and taste noticeable in the Parisian -outcast, and utterly lacking in the London pariah? -The impartial traveller, who knows little of -France and French characteristics, will have no -difficulty in believing this when he crosses the -Channel, and the first thing his eye encounters<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38"></a>[38]</span> -in London is the frowsy female, with horrid -bonnet or atrocious hat and feathers askew, -hateful alcoholic visage, and sordid frippery all in -tatters. Need one follow the squalid and ghastly -vision to its lair to guess the conditions of its -dwelling, the habits of its home? There are -many blessings France might fittingly borrow of -England and be the better for them, but we cannot -deny that England, the mightiest empire of -the world, would be improved by imitation of -French exterior decency. It would brush from -English public life many a brazen horror. The -love-making of the masses would then be relegated -to the privacy of four walls, and we would -not see at every turn of our path Harry and his -girl with their arms round each other’s waist, or -giggling girls in omnibuses sitting on soldiers’ -knees, or sights far worse than these, that scare -the virtuous and make foreigners stare.</p> - -<p>It is a settled thing that Paris is the home of -vice. French novels of the day attest this fact; so -do the lyrics of the halls of pleasure, where that -decadent songstress, Yvette Guilbert (admired -of decadent London), offers the strangest entertainment -that ever delighted mankind in search -of distraction; so, above all, do the songs of -the unpublished poets of Montmartre, who fondly -and seriously take themselves for misprized -genius in the lump, and pose as so many Verlaines. -Yet nothing in Paris offends the eye of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39"></a>[39]</span> -the casual lounger through its streets as the eye -is offended constantly in London. In Paris you -have to look for manifestations of wickedness, -and then it is known that you will find them in -abundance, but they are not thrust under your -nose at every street corner. You may walk the -streets and boulevards at the small hours of the -morning, or in the full glare of evening gas, or -in the gathering gloom of midnight, when the -lights are being put out, and if nobody assassinates -you, you risk no evil sight or sound. There -are quarters, we know from the daily papers, -where vile creatures of both sexes group themselves -for the peril of the passer-by, where blood -is shed, and hideous language befouls the air, -but these lie off the travelled highways of the -city; and if you never read a newspaper, you -might live for fifty years in Paris and never suspect -that such a thing as crime took place within -its fortifications.</p> - -<p>Rents in Paris are comparatively high, and -space is precious; hence the exiguity of the -average home of the middle and lower classes. -Spare rooms are unknown, and closets and presses -must be packed with the nicest precision. -But it is surprising how soon one becomes reconciled -to want of room in a French flat, and in -how short a time one learns to pity the London -householder—above all his wife and servants—for -his superfluity of chambers. Once you have<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40"></a>[40]</span> -climbed up the stairs of your flat, there is no -more climbing, no futile running up and down -stairs. Everything is at hand. You walk from -your dining-room into your salon and across a -level floor into your bedroom; and it needs no -excessive labour to keep all things straight, and -polished, and spotless. If you are fond of experimental -cooking and light housework, you -can dispense with the trouble and cost of a servant; -avail yourself of the services of a <i>femme -de ménage</i>, in a land where women of the people -are admirably competent and honest, and -potter about your doll’s-kitchen to your liking. -Fuel you will find much cheaper than in London, -thanks to the little charcoal furnaces in enamel -fireplaces, which can be lit and extinguished at -will, at a nominal expense. And so a poor lady, -a teacher, or a student, can live respectably and -agreeably in Paris on an income that would -mean squalor and misery in London. A flat -consisting of three bright rooms, a kitchen, several -presses, a closet large enough to stow away -endless boxes in, and serve as well as a hanging-clothes -closet, plenty of water, and excellent -sanitary arrangements may be had in an enviable -spot, with pleasant outlook and good entrance, -for six hundred francs a year (£24); a -<i>femme de ménage</i> who will cook, market, mend, -and clean up as a French woman knows how, for -six sous (threepence) an hour; and if you treat<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41"></a>[41]</span> -her fairly well and secure her loyalty, she will -give you devotion and friendship, as well as excellent -service and amazingly intelligent speech. -For here you need never be at the expense or -trouble of cooking complicated dishes. These -are sold at the pastry-cook’s or the baker’s for -considerably less than they will cost you at -home; so that you can live well and keep your -household bills within your means, even if meat -in Paris be dear. And then, when you want -amusement, should your income not permit of -frequent theatre-going what need to open your -purse? You have but to open your house door, -and emerge upon the public Place. On a summer -afternoon or evening a ride on the top of an -omnibus or tram is better entertainment than -that offered by many a theatre in London. A -walk through old Paris, or along the ever lovely -quays, is refreshment enough for eye and fancy. -Three sous will take you from the Madeleine to -the Bastille; and where is it you may not go -from the Bastille for another three sous? If the -chestnuts are in bloom, on foot, or on the <i>impériale</i> -of a public vehicle, in imagination you -are wandering through your own avenues; and -you really have little envy for the rich in their -cushioned victorias. This is why I contend that -the philosopher of either sex, whose purse is -light and whose tastes are frugal, can make shift -with less in Paris than elsewhere; can live and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42"></a>[42]</span> -be infinitely happier there on small means than -in London. So much beauty is provided for him -gratis, that he must be a churl who can spend -his time in moaning and whining because his -private walls are undecorated, or costly carpets -do not cover his floors. Let him go to the -Louvre or Cluny Museum when the fit takes -him, and count himself a king without the cost -and care of sovereignty. Let him sit in the Tuileries, -and call them his private gardens while he -feeds the sparrows; let him loaf among the -book-stalls of the Seine, and leisurely turn the -pages of books he means not to buy. Where -will he better such luxuries, even at his own -price, if fortune stepped his way? In London, -poverty is galling because there is no escape -from its meannesses and its miseries. That is -why the poor in London may be pardoned for -taking to drink. That seems the only door, for -it would need that a poor man living in a London -slum should be very drunk indeed to find -beauty of any kind in his environment. But -poverty in Paris may be found both amusing and -instructive. I am not sure that it is not the -poor, the needy, the small clerk, the overworked -teacher, the shop-girl, the underfed student, who -do not get the best of Paris; feel to the fullest -measure its common joys, which lie not in wait -for the rich and worldly. These are in too great -a hurry between their amusements and frivolities,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43"></a>[43]</span> -their dress, their precarious triumphs, their -fugitive passions and idle loves, the consuming -cares of social ostentation and rivalry, to understand -Paris, to seize the thousand-and-one delights -of its streets and squares and river-bends, -to realise how much enjoyment may be got out -of an hour in the Luxembourg or Tuileries Gardens, -of a penny run down the river to Auteuil, -and from Auteuil to Suresnes. When I read -a fashionable Parisian novel, where the titled -heroine, doubly veiled, is invariably driving in -a fiacre to a perfumed and luxurious bachelor’s -<i>entresol</i>, in a house with two exits; and -the hero, when he is not in an elegant “smoking” -costume, is making most fatiguing love to -his neighbour’s wife in evening dress, I am always -very sorry for these misguided creatures, -and think how much better employed they -would be, how much happier and high-spirited -they might be, if they only went down the river -in a penny boat, or watched the children play, -and fed the sparrows in some dear nook of the -enchanting public grounds of Paris.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp53" id="illus03" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/illus03.jpg" alt="" /> - <p class="caption">THE PARDON OF SAINT ANNE (BRITTANY)</p> - <p class="caption"><i>Guillou</i></p> -</div> - -<p>Another source of pleasure are the markets -of Paris. The great Halles Centrales one generally -visits once, and no more, as a truly wonderful -sight; but the flower-markets of the -quays, of the Madeleine, and St. Sulpice are -scenes of perpetual delight. There are many -markets in the different quarters of Paris, where<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44"></a>[44]</span> -your servant may go in search of vegetables, -fruit, eggs, and fowls for the national <i>pot-au-feu</i>. -It is a small luxury, however, which I do not -recommend, though widely practised by the -bourgeois, who has a positive genius for the -slow and ingenious saving of sous.</p> - -<p>It is for all these reasons, and thousands more -that creep into the blood and the brain beyond -the range of analysis, that Paris takes such a grip -of the foreigner, and becomes the birth-town of -his maturity. In other towns you sojourn as -a stranger or a contemplator. You live apart, -either in your own world of dreams, among old -stones, ruins, and faded pictures, amid the dim -aisles of Gothic poems, or else you form part of a -foreign coterie, and give and go to afternoon teas, -living like invaders, in insolent indifference to -the natives around you, except in your appreciation -of them should they be courteous enough to -lend themselves to your notion of the picturesque, -or treat you with the consideration and -kindness you naturally deem yourself entitled to -expect along the highways of Europe. But Paris -will have none of this patronage. If you settle -there it is inevitable that you will become Parisianised. -I do not say anything so flattering as that -your taste in dress, if you happen to be a woman, -will, of necessity, become that of your adopted -sister, but there will be a chance that her eye for -colour will modify your barbaric indifference to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45"></a>[45]</span> -it, and the cut of her gown and shape of her hat -will insensibly beguile you into altering yours. -Nor, in the case of the young gentlemen of Great -Britain, would I imply that long residence in -Paris will affect their excellent tailoring, or turn -them into the overdressed popinjays of the -boulevards. The Englishman and the Parisian -woman will always remain the best-dressed of -their kind wherever they may live; and, while -the Frenchman, in morals and manners, can descend -to odious depths unsuspected by the blunt -and open-minded Saxon, he can also, when the -race shows him at his best, reveal virtues of subtler -and more captivating quality. I know no -form of young man more charming than a good -young Frenchman, and can never understand -why he figures so little in French fiction. There -is nothing of the prig about him. He does not -spend his days in being shocked at his neighbour; -he is under no compulsion to be narrow and dull; -he does not quote the Bible, nor does he desire, -like the British virtuous youth, to mould all humanity -upon his own stiff and starched effigy. -His wisdom is woven with a great deal of gaiety; -and when he happens to be dull, he carries off -his dulness with an imperturbable amiability. -This type of Frenchman a woman will never -find offensive. He can oblige her with simplicity, -and courtesy and gentleness are the most -distinctive features of his character.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46"></a>[46]</span></p> - -<p>Foreigners in Paris seem to be very much -swayed in their judgments and adoption of -French politics by the mental and moral atmosphere -they breathe, as well as by their own -natural tendencies. The average Briton far too -rarely stoops to consider the question of Republicanism, -but condemns it beforehand on aristocratic -principles. Mr. Bodley, who wrote a -singularly pretentious work on France, frequented -Bonapartist circles, and sat at the feet of the -Comte de Mun, and sundry other political noblemen -of the same mind; and the consequence is -two tomes to prove that what France wants is -another Napoleon—the very thing that nearly -ruined her. The daughter of a sister Republic -carries her millions into France by marriage with -some needy nobleman, who has already figured -in no estimable light in the pages of contemporary -history written by fashionable romancers, under -the guise of fiction, and she perhaps brandishes -her parasol at the head of a band of miscreants, -called <i>La Jeunesse Royaliste</i>, in enthusiastic admiration -of its mission to batter the hat of a guest, -an old man, the Head of the State, the Representative -of France before the world. Mr. Bodley’s -ideal appears to be not the good of France, -but the triumph of the ideal of the archbishops -and owners of castles. The Republic is bad -form, and he would fain see it overthrown for -the pleasure of his good friend, the Comte de<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47"></a>[47]</span> -Mun. What the Parisianised, ennobled American -subject wants is to see her admirable and -chivalrous husband Court Chamberlain, or something -of the sort;—she, too, yearns for the life -which every other countess in Paris wants, a -Court to confer a forgotten dignity upon herself, -and if she longs for the re-establishment of the -old privilege, it is in order to patronise and protect -those she fondly deems her inferiors. Other -rich or needy foreigners in Paris wish for a Court -to shine at, a monarchy or an empire, to be able -to boast of their powerful relations. And what -none of them will see is that France, in her several -experimental moods, is seriously labouring -to discover the form of government best suited -to her needs, and that the elect of the people still -hope, through trial and blunder, to reach the -ideal of a progressive liberality. But the passion, -the earnestness, of all these Parisianised foreigners -in their adoption of the several prejudices -and aspirations of Paris prove the truth of my -assertion, that Paris absorbs us in her furnace of -ardent sentiments and theories as no other place -does. We can not stand by and view the spectacle -of her follies and furies like a philosopher. -Needs must we go down into the fray, which in -reality does not concern us, and brandish the -stick or parasol of revolt, whatever our nationality. -Needs must we adopt a party in the land -which regards us mistrustfully as foreigners, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48"></a>[48]</span> -rewards our generous enthusiasm for its multiple -causes by calling us “Sans-patrie,” “Jews,” and -“Traitors from Frankfort,” subsidised by a -mythical syndicate, like the Czar, the Emperor -of Germany, the King of Italy, and the Pope of -Rome. Needs must we fret and fume, grow -irritable and ill, perhaps long to hear the tocsin -ring for another St. Bartholomew’s, if we are on -one side,—that of the large, unenlightened, and -foolish majority; yearn to people the Devil’s -hole with sundry scoundrels we have come to -hate if on the other side, that of the elect and -liberal minority, with a passion of hatred no -public men in our own country have ever inspired. -What is the meaning of it? Is there -some subtle magnetism in the air of Paris which -makes us see French rascals as so different from -other rascals, French tragedy as more poignant -and intense than any other? I know I could -cheerfully get through the remainder of my days -in Spain or Italy without giving a thought to -either government or caring a straw whether -Sagasta or Crispi were in or out of office. I -never see much difference between the gentlemen -who in turn manage the affairs of England; -in fact, I never have the ghost of an idea who is -at the head of each department, and could not -for the life of me distinguish between Mr. Codlin -and Mr. Short. Not so in this brilliant, variable, -light-headed, light-hearted, graceless, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_49"></a>[49]</span> -bewitching Paris. I am burningly anxious to -know all there is to be known about each minister -of war, and take their repeated defections -almost as a personal grievance. I eagerly examine -the interpellations and their consequences, -count majorities and minorities in the turbulent -Chamber, follow the fortunes of the Senate, applaud, -disapprove of all that happens with the -ferocity of a citizen who pays to keep the machine -going. I know well that I am a fool for -my pains, and that I would be far better employed -in minding my own business. But it is -all the fault of Paris for being so abominably, so -mischievously interesting. She it is who will -not let you let her alone. She is like a vain -woman; she must have all attention concentrated -upon herself. She clamours for your -notice, and despises you for giving it. If you -stand aside with folded arms and look elsewhere, -she will get into a passion, create a -frightful scene to attract your attention, and -when you obey her and give it in unstinted -fashion, she turns on you and sneers and rails at -you for a foreign spy and busybody. Poor Mr. -Bodley, all ignorant of the fretful indignation he -often roused in France by his thirst for information, -was for long regarded by many an honest -Frenchman as a spy.</p> - -<p>Oddly enough, I hold that the pleasure side of -Paris, its fashionable world, is the least of all to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_50"></a>[50]</span> -be envied. If I were a millionaire, I think I -should prefer London, with its larger public life, -its more varied hospitalities, for the investing -of my millions in the thing called experience. -Even a British ass, with time on his hands, and -millions to squander, can discover an original -method of going to the dogs and casting his -millions into the bottomless pit. But what can -the French idiot do after he has sent his shirts to -London to be washed, and invested in an automobile? -He is such a superlative dandy and -humbug—I would fain use a hideous word, -which describes him still better in three letters, -if it were not for its inexcusable offensiveness—that -he cannot bring sincerity to bear upon his -imaginary passion for sport, and looks ten times -more absurd when he is playing the athlete than -when he is contentedly playing the fool. He is -“the sedulous ape,” not to literature, like Stevenson -in his young days, but to the Anglo-Saxon; -and the folly lasts on to the brink of age.</p> - -<p>The Faubourg holds itself more aloof than -ever. It is now not even on saluting terms with -the Republic. Still its life must be lived after a -fashion, and it must give balls, if for no other -reason than the ignoring of ministers and their -wives. It cannot be said that the country at -large is much affected by its doings; and if we -are to judge the inhabitants by the fiction of the -day,—the dialogue novels of Gyp, of Lavedan, of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_51"></a>[51]</span> -Abel Hermant, the psychological studies of MM. -Bourget, Hervieu, Prévost,—the sane and intelligent -person may thank his stars that he is still -free to choose his society, and is not condemned -by an accident of birth to tread such a mill of vaporous -frivolity and futility, of intellectual blankness -and arrogance, and of senseless corruption. -I do not presume to say that these clever writers -are invariably accurate in their delineation of -fashionable Paris, nor do I deny that there may -be a good deal of exaggeration in their sombre -and revolting pictures,—for what lies under the -sparkling effervescence of the brightest and -wittiest of Gyp’s earlier work if it is not a dead-level -of inanity and perversity? But their singularity -consists in the fact that all are unanimous -in their conclusions, in the general tenor of the -life they portray. Pride of birth is the only sort -of pride this class seems to possess, and for a -nod the heroines of all those heraldic pages fall -into the arms of the first comer and the last -alike. When you make the acquaintance of a -viscount, you may be sure he has an <i>entresol</i> -somewhere for varied clandestine loves, and -passes his time between encounters here, <i>le boxe</i>, -and his “circle.” One solid, useful action never -seems to be entered to his account. His days -and nights are devoted to accomplished idleness -and seduction, and his busiest hours are those -spent on his toilet. And the women of this<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_52"></a>[52]</span> -dreary and monotonous fiction,—how shall we -qualify them? They have all the frailty of the -wicked, red-heeled, minuetting eighteenth century -without any of its charm, its wit, and real -intellect. For if the marquise of the old school, -passed into perfumed memory, were a rake, she -was not a fool, she was not a rowdy, and she -had a feeling for great deeds and great thoughts. -She stands on a picturesque eminence in the history -of her land. We cannot say the same for -the titled rake of to-day. It is the fashion to -treat her as a <i>détraquée</i>, because she subsists -mainly upon excitement. But what needs altering -is her standard; what should be overthrown -is the altar upon which she sacrifices her futile -existence. Not that she is the only example of -her class, but somehow the novelists have not -thought fit to present us with any other. The -strange thing about it is, that she and her mate -in the game of battledore and shuttlecock with -reputation and morality, the incorrigible viscount, -have been brought up under a supervision and -care exceeding northern conception. Neither -was permitted a moment of licensed childhood. -Priest and nun were at the side of each, in constant -attendance upon their minds and manners -and morals. The male cherub lost his wings -when the abbé made his last bow and retired, -leaving his charge alone on the brink of temptation, -a youth with a budding moustache. The<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_53"></a>[53]</span> -maid ceased to be an angel before the honeymoon -had well begun; and, if we are to believe -polite fiction, was already one of the pursued of -snaring sinners before she was a week a bride.</p> - -<p>The Paris of this class is not the Paris that -charms and holds you in its spell. The fast, -luxurious, and expensive Paris belongs to it; the -cosmopolitan Paris, kept going by the millions -of the foreigners who come here to amuse themselves. -Theirs is the Rue de la Paix, the Concours -Hyppique, the Arménonville Restaurant, -the Bois, the avenues of the Champs Elysées and -the Parc Monceau, the race-courses, the Théâtre -Français “Tuesdays,” the charity bazaars, the -flower feasts and exhibitions, the automobile -competitions, the “five-o’clocks,” and M. Brunetière’s -lectures on Bossuet. This is the rowdy, -reactionary Paris, ever on view, which disapproves -of the Pope, and would assuredly array -itself in garments of gaiety if M. Loubet were -assassinated. This is the Paris which sneers at -<i>rasta-quouères</i>, and is ever on the lookout for -American heiresses for its needy titled sons, -which is rabidly anti-Semitic, and supports its -prestige upon Jewish millions. Quite recently, -when anti-Semitism was raging in France, and -we were informed in every tone of fury and -contempt that no self-respecting Catholic could -possibly regard a Jew as an honest man or a -French subject, an authentic French marquis<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_54"></a>[54]</span> -married the daughter of a Hebrew millionaire, -and to console themselves for the obligation of -profiting by their noble comrade’s good fortune, -his friends summed up the young lady’s qualities -in three amusing lines:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Belle comme Vénus,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Riche comme Crœsus,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Innocente comme Dreyfus.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>The raillery did not prevent “tout Paris” from -being present at the splendid marriage ceremony, -and inscribing its best names upon the wedding -gifts. It could not do less, seeing that its king -and master, Philip of Orleans, the <i>digne</i> (for -alas! there is no English equivalent of that indescribable -French word as applied to a man) -representative of the House of France, is said to -have accepted a million from the bride’s anti-Semitic -Hebrew mother.</p> - -<p>There is another side, less known, of aristocratic -Paris. This is the quiet, exclusive, -genuinely religious side, that of old-fashioned, -rigid noblewomen, who live apart in their dull, -old houses of the Faubourg, given up to prayer -and good works. There is a charming distinction -about them, a musty, conventual odour, as -you enter the halls of their faded hotels. They -preside over <i>ouvroirs</i>, where ladies of their like -meet to make church articles and decorate altar -pieces. Sometimes they carry piety and good-will<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_55"></a>[55]</span> -to the poor to excess, for I know of one, -a baroness, who neglected her children to make -perfume and soap of her own invention, which -she sold for the benefit of the poor. The instinct -of trade so developed that she ended by opening -a shop, on which she duly bestowed a saint’s -name; and here, if you are willing to pay exorbitant -prices, you may find wherewithal to -wash and scent yourself with the labours of -aristocratic hands, and tell yourself you are doing -so for the good of mankind. Not that I would -laugh at those ladies, who are the salt, the redemption -of their class. I once lodged in the -dismantled hotel of such a countess, and was -edified by the stately, chill dignity of her austere -existence. Her private rooms were furnished -with a touching simplicity. Even in winter -there was not a carpet anywhere, no sign of -luxury or comfort; but in her private chapel, -where Mass was celebrated every day, the vestments -and ornaments were both beautiful and -precious. She herself had nothing whatever to -do with the frisky countesses of French fiction. -She was in every sense of the word a great -lady,—handsome, with aquiline features, and -with hair worn high off a noble forehead, reserved, -possibly too haughty in bearing and -expression for her reputation of piety, but essentially -one of the elect of this earth, the kind of -woman that an aristocrat should be, and too<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_56"></a>[56]</span> -rarely is, to justify her privileges and pretensions.</p> - -<p>Here, far off from the roar of reaction and the -rumble of revolt, such women dwell amidst the -dim splendours of an impoverished house, unfamiliar -to the frequenters of routs and races; -whose names never appear in the society columns -of the <i>Figaro</i>; who are chiefly known to the -poor and the priests of their neighbourhood; and -they it is who preserve some charm for the -Faubourg, who help us to regard it with some -indulgence and sympathy in its futile discontent. -For what can be the benefit to itself or to France -of this fine attitude of disdain? Every part of a -nation should go with the times, and the Faubourg -would have served its own cause as well -as its country’s in abandoning its belated ambitions, -and making the best of its existing circumstances. -It feeds its pride on its absurd -exclusiveness; and who is the better for this? -It is largely due to this insane vanity, that Paris -has become the centre of rowdy cosmopolitanism, -the pleasure-ground of the entire world, for -it is the titled malcontents who attract the class -they are pleased, with signal ingratitude, to call, -contemptuously, <i>rastas</i>, instead of looking after -the affairs of their country. Since they will not -earn their right to live, they must be amused, -and amusement is the costliest thing in the -world. Not having enough money for this profession,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57"></a>[57]</span> -they needs must set themselves out for -the capture of alien millions; and then when -the foreign millions fall into their laps, by way -of Frankfort, or New York, or South America, -they mourn and lament because the foreigners -take root, Parisianised by the sorceress Paris, -and cry out that France no longer belongs to the -French, and that Paris is sold to a band of cosmopolitan -miscreants.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 21.875em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/footer3.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_58"></a>[58]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/header5.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III<br /> -<span class="smaller">SOCIAL DIVERSIONS AND DISTINCTIONS</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>With a race that has so thoroughly mastered -the art of living, and not merely -working or vegetating, the question of diversion -is of paramount interest. In the fashionable -world, sport monopolises the better part of -man’s hours. This is an overseas passion, -adopted with frenzy and fervour. M. Rémy de -Saint Maurice has given us the odyssey of the -record cyclist in an amusing and humorous -book, <i>Le Recordman</i>, where we see the wealthy -idlers of France in awed adoration before the -prowess of the racing-wheel. The champion -cyclist raises storms of emotion wherever he -runs, be it in Paris or in the provinces. When -he returns to his native town, all the authorities -come to meet him and do him honour.</p> - -<p>The French race is essentially a conversational -and not a sporting one. It has a natural predilection -for the amenities of life, and we feel how -inappropriate is this present craze for rude and -unsocial games. You need only watch a Frenchman<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_59"></a>[59]</span> -on horseback, and contrast him with a -British horseman to assure yourself of the fact -that the point of view of each is quite different. -The Anglo-Saxon rides ahead with the air of -thinking only of his horse. The Frenchman -trains his beast, like himself, to have an eye to -the arts and graces, to curvet and prance minuettingly, -to arch its neck as he himself bows, and -he brings a suggestion of the salon among the -shadows of the Bois de Boulogne. Should there -be a mortuary chapel on their road to this sophisticated -paradise, stand and note the pretty way -these dashing creatures will salute death. Spaniards -would do it, I admit, much more gracefully, -for in the art of salutation the Spaniard comes -first beyond a doubt. But you will not see anywhere -in the British Isles so pleasing a spectacle. -Some bend altogether over their steeds, hat -curved outward on a wide sweep; others pause -midway, less ostentatious and theatrical in their -respect, and hold their hats in a direct line from -their eyebrows, admirably suggestive of diplomatic -reticence, younger and elder men all expressing -every shade of effective recognition of -alien grief with a subtlety, a dramatic felicity of -movement and line the stiff Anglo-Saxon could -never hope to achieve. Of course the supercilious -Englishman would say he had no mind to -play the monkey, and find a cause for just pride in -the rigidity of his body, and the stoniness of his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_60"></a>[60]</span> -well-trained and inexpressive visage. But here -I differ from him. A man loses nothing by outward -grace, and there is no reason on earth why -he should rejoice in the fact that he cannot bow.</p> - -<p>The motor craze has superseded the cycle -craze. The <i>bourgeois</i> bicycles so much that -the youth of fashion needs something to distinguish -him on the road from his inferior brother. -So somebody came to his rescue with the motor-car. -Go to Paris if you would realise what a -perilous thing the crossing of a street may be. -In such a neighbourhood as the Place Pereire it is -almost mortal. I imagine it as a machine invented -by the upper classes to replace the guillotine, -and run down the miserable foot-passengers to -avenge the beheadings of a century ago. Whenever -I return home, and discover that I have -lost a purse, a book, a packet according to my -invariable habit, I am so thankful to feel that I -am still alive, in spite of the automobile which -charges through the streets in such a dreadful -way, that I balance loss and gain, and count myself -still a winner in the game of life by every -new day to my account. In London you are -everywhere enveloped in a sense of public protection. -The cab drivers know how to drive, -a feature of their trade they are most imperfectly -aware of in Paris. The policeman is there when -he is wanted, and, thanks to him, the nervous -passer-by is valiant and unafraid. But in Paris<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_61"></a>[61]</span> -the driver regards him with an eloquent hostility. -His one hope is to get a free chance of -running over him. He is insolent, overbearing, -and menacing, unfettered by policeman or law -in his man-crushing career. And, as if regretting -the very slight limits still left him, Paris cast -forth upon the public way the motor-car. This -machine of destruction hisses along, leaving a -trail of petroleum in the air, and you have barely -time to start back for its passage, such is the -fury of the horror in the hands of its fashionable -owner. There are many motor-cars in use for -the big shops and public offices; but these, being -in no sense competitive in luxury, measure the -ground by a speed less fatal, the drivers seem -to desire to leave you whole, and suggest by -their pace and bearing, some glimmering of humanity -in their heart. For it is only the rich -young men who give one the notion of wishing -to avenge the massacres of the French Revolution. -For the benefit of these flowers of the race, -exhibitions of motor-cars take place, under the -patronage of dukes and counts more or less authentic. -And, so encouraged, these wild Parisians -set out in their automobiles for the harmless -and distant provinces, and charge down the long -French country roads with purpose often more -deadly than that displayed in the capital. The -newspapers acquaint us with frequent accidents; -and whatever the general sentiment regarding<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_62"></a>[62]</span> -these accidents may be, I always feel that they -are a well-merited chastisement. Why must -the poor, the obscure, the inoffensive clerk and -shop-girl, go in fear and trembling of their lives, -that the privileged few may add a fresh sensation -to their list of entailed emotions? Is not the -luxury of a horse good enough for those busy -idlers, without adding heart disease to our inherited -disorders?</p> - -<p>Boxing and fencing are also favourite exercises, -as well as polo and tennis amongst games. One -of the more serious of diversions is the duel, the -first of which must be fought in early youth, -and the last when temperament and politics shall -have said their final word. Then come the -amusements of club life, which absorb a good -deal of masculine leisure, of course, and where -men meet to talk and be entertained, as well as -to eat, and read the newspapers. The races -and the horse-show are sources of pleasure at -which every self-respecting Parisian drinks. -Not to be connected with horses or exhibitions -would be almost as bad as not to possess an -automobile, not to be seen in the <i>foyer</i> on great -theatrical nights, not to have fought a duel. -But beyond even all these pleasures are the noisy -suppers of the fashionable restaurant, where -everybody who is anybody meets “tout Paris”; -where the dresses of the women find rivalry -in the decorations of the men, and the scene<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_63"></a>[63]</span> -approaches the ideal paradise, the mundane city -peopled with brilliant personages.</p> - -<p>In all things the French <i>bourgeoise</i> is more -difficult to divert than her aristocratic sister. -She is much more particular and infinitely more -restricted in her ideas upon feminine liberty. -While the women of the upper class arrogate -to themselves the right to amuse themselves -in whatever fashion they like, with lovers or -without them, bicycling, skating, shooting, on -horseback, in automobile (the Duchesse d’Uzès -was the first Frenchwoman to obtain a certificate -as woman driver of the motor-car), private -theatricals, they can smoke or scale the mountains -of the moon with impunity. All these -varied avenues of distraction are rigorously -denied the <i>bourgeoise</i>. She is the most conventional -of creatures, and anything like marked -originality in one of her sex terrifies her and fills -her with distrust. She was bred in the conviction -that girls should resemble their great-grandmothers, -be clothed until marriage in the -integrity of imbecility, and after marriage in -the narrowness of piety, and know no other -amusements than those strictly suitable to a -“feminine” woman. The path her mother and -grandmother trod is the path she must never -deviate from. She must be just as religious as -they were, taking care, however, to follow the -fashions of her own class, in order to guard<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_64"></a>[64]</span> -from so dangerous and disreputable a pitfall as -originality, which, with her, means pronounced -eccentricity. When she lives in Paris she dresses -well; but the province often transforms her into -an inconceivable shape of dowdiness. In Paris, -thanks to the lectures, music, drama, literature, -the multiple elements of culture, it is impossible -for her to escape, unless her days be entirely -devoted to domestic economy and good works; -she is rarely destitute of that agreeable worldliness -that makes commerce with her, however -shallow and superficial she may be, facile and -often instructive. And when she has the hardihood -to plunge into deeper waters and think for -herself, when she ceases to be beset with a craving -for the ordered in conventional circles, and -to think ill of originality and individual character; -there is no woman on earth more charming, -more capable, of readier wit, of less intellectual -prudery, wedded to a wholesome independence -of judgment and principle.</p> - -<p>But as I have said, the amusements of the -<i>bourgeoise</i>, “big” or “little,” are very restricted: -books, theatres, balls, dinner-parties, with the -excitement of religious ceremonies, an academy -reception, a noisy sitting of Parliament, the -hourly expectation of revolution, a correct evening -party,—the dullest thing on earth wherever -it takes place. But, on the other hand, we -may be sure she will find ample entertainment<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_65"></a>[65]</span> -in looking after her admirably managed establishment, -in making her own and her husband’s -means go a very long way in accomplishing a -thousand little domestic meannesses unknown -to the thriftless Anglo-Saxon, and all with a -certain geniality and discretion that win her the -esteem and goodwill of her fellows. For of -womankind she is the most genial and well-mannered, -and though she may, in straitened -circumstances, deny every pleasing luxury to -her family, her good humour will keep those -around her in good humour, and the counting -of lumps of sugar and of grains of coffee will -seem a slight matter compared with the flavour -of domestic courtesy that accompanies the process. -I have known of an English family where -at table forced strawberries and peaches were -daily eaten, and vegetables at a fabulous price, -upon the finest damask and priceless china, to -the accompaniment of glasses flung by sisters -and brothers at an argumentative head, plates -flying, and oaths showered like missiles. Who -would not prefer the economical French middle-class -table, where, in well-to-do families, lunch -is often served on shining oilcloth or table as -polished as a mirror, to save washing, and where -the amenities are as carefully guarded as if the -household were on view?</p> - -<p>In this world the young men, as elsewhere, -have the best of it. Theirs the licence of manhood<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_66"></a>[66]</span> -in all things. The moment dinner is over -they put on their evening suit and file off (<i>filer</i>, -as they say themselves, in their pleasant French -slang) in the quest of pleasure. If they are well-to-do -they have no difficulty in getting accepted -in the world of third-rate titles. Tarnished -dukes will cordially shake their hands. As -there is no peerage in France to control aristocratic -pretensions, they may have as much as -reasonable man can desire of the society of -marquises and counts, provided they take these -exalted personages on trust, and do not seek to -examine too closely their blazons. The method -of making one’s self a count or a baron in Paris -under the Third Republic is very simple. You -may purchase a Papal title at a not exorbitant -cost. In Abel Hermant’s <i>Le Faubourg</i>, a porcelain -manufacturer was awarded the title of count -by the Pope in return for a dinner-service he sent -him, which was explained on the grant as <i>pour -service exceptionelle</i>. In France and America -only are Papal titles taken with gravity, and pronounced -with all the sounding magnificence of -hereditary names. But a simpler way still, and -less costly even than the interference of Rome, is -to buy a plate, and have graven on it first a -name prefixed by the particle <i>de</i>. When this has -been accepted without demur, and the newspapers -have a dozen times announced you here, -there, and everywhere as M. de ⸺, then boldly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_67"></a>[67]</span> -apply the title of your predilection, and behold -you are, without more ado, a noble of France. -No need of papers or permissions. You are noble -by the grace of your own goodwill; and as -most of the people around you are playing the -same game, there is no earthly reason why your -friend should be more of a count than you are -of a baron. And so you may aspire to a larger -<i>dot</i> from your bride. If you are in the army, -you may even look as high as your general’s -daughter; and when you travel abroad or -journey in the provinces, you will be made to -understand what a fine thing it is to be able, -thanks to your own valour and judgment, to inscribe -yourself in hotel books as M. le Baron or -M. le Comte. You will be served better than -when you were plain Mr. So-and-So. Waiters -will help you off and on with your coat with a -deference hitherto not enjoyed by you in your -anterior plebeian state, and the society papers -will record your great doings with gusto and fervour. -Who, under these circumstances, would -not be a count or a marquis? Had I known -years ago of the facilities and advantages offered -in France to titled adventurers, I might have had -the wit and wisdom to style myself countess of -this or baroness of that, the sole existing representative -of an Irish King or a Norman house. -Indeed, such is the predisposition of the French -<i>bourgeois</i> to believe in the noble origin of his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_68"></a>[68]</span> -acquaintance, that one stoutly maintained before -me that O and Mac were the Irish equivalents of -count; and my remark that every second washerwoman -or policeman in Ireland rejoiced in -those attributes of nobility was received with -frosty incredulity. A French officer’s wife of -the name of Mahon assured me that her husband -was of noble origin, and related to Marshal -MacMahon; but that, unfortunately, the papers -identifying the relationship were lost, and, in -consequence, they could not call themselves MacMahon. -As the good lady really believed every -word she was saying, I could not in courtesy -point out to her that Mahon and MacMahon are -equally common names in Ireland, and, for that -matter, in the British Isles, and that every MacMahon -deems himself a connexion of the late -marshal, though not one would have thought of -claiming the relationship if Marshal MacMahon -had remained in obscurity.</p> - -<p>A substantial source of income is occasionally -derived by the authentic nobles for the presentation -of the other kind into the halls of social -greatness, and for standing sponsors for them in -exclusive clubs. Another source of income for -avid noblemen lies in their shooting and hunting -grounds. So much is paid for an invitation, still -more for the button, which permits parvenus -to hunt on equal terms with their so-called betters. -The extraordinary things these nobles will<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_69"></a>[69]</span> -do passes the imagination. I know of a viscountess -who possesses magnificent hunting -land on which men from all parts are invited to -hunt. The guests departing naturally tip gamekeepers -and servants according to their means. -Every tip, by order, under penalty of expulsion -from the château, must be brought intact to the -viscountess, and out of these tips are the servants -paid their wages.</p> - -<p>The life of fashion in Paris is pretty much the -same as the life of fashion elsewhere. Men and -women ride in the Bois in the early hours, and -it must be admitted that they could not find a -pleasanter spot to ride in anywhere. The landscape -is charming, and if you break away from -the Allée des Acacias—the Parisian Row—you -may even make a feint at losing yourself under -columns of tall trees, by little, moss-grown -paths, where the branches meet overhead, with -ever in view grassy rolls of sward and bright -trellises of foliage above the broad white roads. -In the early hours this trim paradise is cool and -quiet; and even an Anarchist on foot will have -no cause to envy his prosperous enemy on horseback, -for the same delights of herb and leaf, of -sky and water, are his at a cheaper rate. Indeed, -there is no land on earth where a good-humoured -taste of vicarious pleasures may be so freely and -fully enjoyed as in France. Amiable <i>petits gens</i> -sit on chairs and watch the great parade of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_70"></a>[70]</span> -Bois without a trace of envy in their looks, comment -on dresses, horses, equipages, bearing, as -if it were but a pageant got up for their benefit. -I am not sure that this is not one of the advantages -of Society—one of its objects—to minister -to the kindly and generous vanity of the workers -of a country. These, by their labours, -maintain it, dress it, wash for it, build for it, -manufacture for it, keep in order for it the public -roads, give the best of their blood, brains, -nerve, and force to its triumphs, and are content -to see how well the result of all this gigantic -travail of a race looks in the show hours of national -existence. The big dressmakers are repaid -when, sitting in their <i>loge</i> of inspection, -they watch the effect of their several creations -on Varnishing Day, at Auteuil or Longchamps. -The artistic temperament is at the root of all this -contentedness, of these subtle gratifications -which the Philistine workman does not apprehend. -The Frenchman brings this sentiment of -art into all he does. The word “artist” is applied -to cook, dressmaker, milliner, hair-dresser. -In many ways M. Demolins has shown us that -the race is inferior to the Anglo-Saxon races, but -it has one essential superiority—the absence of -vulgarity in the artisan and shopkeeping classes. -You can hold converse with pleasure and profit -with your washerwoman, who also will, in all -probability, be something of an artist, with the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_71"></a>[71]</span> -artist’s personal point of view; with your char-woman, -your hair-dresser; and the grocer’s boy -on his daily rounds, if you come in contact -with him, you will find to be an intelligent -and well-mannered youth. It is only when you -get a little above this class that you light upon a -trace of commercial vulgarity. The <i>commis voyageur</i> -is something of a trial on the public road. -He is not a pattern of manners, and he is apt to -be aggressive in his desire to obtain the value of -his money. Go still higher, among the wealthy -bourgeois, and in no land of all the world will -you find men who can comport themselves -worse. In their attitude to women they seem -to possess no standard of courtesy whatever. -When a Frenchman of this class is polite to a -woman, you may be in no doubt of his views in -her regard, and you may be perfectly sure of her -social and pecuniary value; for he is the least -chivalrous, the least kind, the least disinterested -of mortals, speaking generally, though here, as -elsewhere, you will find noble exceptions. I -hardly know an American or English woman -who has travelled or stayed any time in France -who has not had occasion to note how much -less courteous to women Frenchmen are than -their own men. Two young English ladies, -finding themselves in some dilemma with regard -to trains or luggage, had occasion to call on one -of the chiefs of the Gare du Nord. This gentleman,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_72"></a>[72]</span> -elegant, disdainful, and fatuously rude, -received them in a luxurious office, fitted up -with such splendour as to suggest some of the -complications of the Parisian drama, and bore -himself towards them with such intolerable insolence, -that, on going out, one of the travellers, -to be even with him, said: “Everything may -be found in Paris, I see, except a gentleman!” -This, of course, is angry exaggeration, for nobody -can be more delightful than a Frenchman, -when he chooses to give himself the trouble to -please and to serve; but it is as good an example -as I can give of the attitude of the French -functionary to the public. Put a uniform of any -sort on a Frenchman, invest him in any kind of -office, and he is apt to become insupportable. -Rudeness he practises as part of his official dignity. -It never occurs to him that he is there to -assist the public. He conceives himself to be -there to insult and domineer over the public.</p> - -<p>In France, social distinctions are less insusceptible -of permutation than elsewhere. Everything is -possible in a land where a tanner may hobnob with -a Czar, be embraced and addressed by that august -personage as “friend.” The nations of Europe -may object to this state of things, but the nations -of Europe must put up with it. Amongst -these same nations France cannot be left out of -the reckoning. Her capital is always felt to be -the best morsel of foreign travel. It is she who<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_73"></a>[73]</span> -gives “tone,” for I do not speak of anything so -obvious as the unquestioned prestige of her -fashions. A day may come when this prestige -shall have passed elsewhere, but even when that -day comes Paris will continue for long years to -subsist upon her ancient renown. Even now -there are signs of revolt against her sovereignty. -For in my own town, Dublin, contempt for her -fashions is openly expressed, it being alleged -here that the women of Dublin dress with far -greater taste than their sisters of Paris. Those -who are inclined to make light of these pretensions -should go to Dublin in the Horse Show -week, where I am assured that the dresses of -the girls and women of Dublin leave Paris nowhere. -So the good people of Dublin say, for -they have a fine conceit over there, and profess -to hold Europe in light esteem. But in spite of -this it is not improbable that Paris will continue -to maintain its superiority.</p> - -<p>Under republican rule, woman has no official -position, is in all matters of state a mere cipher. -And so it is not possible for the President’s wife -to start a fashion, or for any Minister’s wife to -guide the vagaries of taste. This in itself suffices -to explain to us the fact that a large majority -of women are anti-republican. They feel -that their sex is insulted by a Government which -takes no recognition of their charm and influence, -presumes to govern without the assistance<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_74"></a>[74]</span> -of their presence, without any loophole for their -unauthorised supremacy. There is no chance for -a Pompadour under a Republic, and whatever -other abuses may exist to-day, ladies of light -morals cannot hope to attain heraldic glory and -hereditary wealth by the “primrose path of dalliance” -with royal Lotharios. And so social -distinctions are now in France more complex and -less stringent than under the <i>ancien régime</i>. -Complexity lies in the variety of claims not -known in former days, when the division between -the classes was sharp and infrangible. In -the world of toque and robe there are men who -count themselves the superiors of the crusaders; -in the army there are generals of plebeian origin -who think themselves the first of Frenchmen; -there are fashionable doctors and surgeons, -painters, authors, politicians, men of science, -and merchant princes who regard themselves -almost as the equals of the crowned heads of -Europe.</p> - -<p>All these varied ranks of society meet at a -general point—social pretension. Wealth is -the sole degree they really acknowledge, though -“good family” is their vaunted consideration. -They are aware that fashion and birth are no -longer synonymous terms, that the goal is -quickest won by the longest purse. A duchess -with a hundred a year may feast on her own -prestige in the eyes of a few intimates, but the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_75"></a>[75]</span> -world at large will forget her existence to run -after the capitalist of yesterday’s standing. With -the suppression of the power of the aristocracy, -its removal in a body from the governing centre, -the field was left free to money and talent; -and with industry and education both may now -be said to be within reach of everybody. The -aristocracy groan, ineffectual and undignified, -while a large majority of the nation heeds them -not. It is perfectly aware of the impotence of -these discontented idlers, aware that, with a few -chivalrous exceptions, who must be admired for -their fidelity to tradition, it is not at all the good of -the country they are working for, but their own -personal triumph. Who to-day is going to stop -to examine the rights, the promises, of the candidates -of the three mutually destructive parties -working for the hour conjointly in their vindictive -hatred of a Government able to get on -without them? But all know very well that -should the Nationalists win and overthrow the -Republic, as they desire to do, it is only then -the country would be hurried into a ruinous civil -war. The inoffensive President holds the balance -between Legitimist, Imperialist, and Orleanist, -and as soon as arms against the Republic shall -be laid down by all three we may prepare to see -them showing their teeth to each other. For one -of the three parties must triumph, and how will -the other two that have fought with it on equal<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_76"></a>[76]</span> -terms tolerate this obvious consequence of its -success?</p> - -<p>While admitting that Frenchmen have brought -much grace along with the continual gratification -of the senses into the diversions of outdoor existence, -it is questionable if they enjoy them really -as the English do. We cannot easily conceive a -French Minister shaking off the cares of office -to refresh himself with all the gusto of a schoolboy -on the golf links. Taste and national character -would be much more likely to lead him -to seek change and distraction in that temple of -fame, the <i>salon</i>. Here we may picture him -talking with the consummate and exquisite ease -of his race. Their sports, like their clubs, the -French have borrowed from England, and, according -to the point of view, have improved or -disfigured these noble institutions; but their -<i>salon</i> is their own. No other race has even tried -to compete with them on this famous ground, -for the reason that no other race has the art of -general conversation. You must have the instinct -of good conversation, be yourself something -of an artist in it, be able to bring an -attention, a readiness of wit and intelligence and -information, demanded in this national pastime. -The French speak well because they know how -to listen so well. With them there is no such -thing as talking down the company. The deference -given is duly claimed and granted, and the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_77"></a>[77]</span> -first thing that strikes you in a <i>salon</i> is the complete -absence among the men of that vexatious -British habit of lounging. Frenchmen in their -families do not lounge as Englishmen lounge in -strange drawing-rooms. I once heard a Russian -woman who had sojourned in both countries -say, <i>Les Anglais n’ont pas de tenue</i>. -And this is true. An Englishman who counts -himself a gentleman will put his feet on railway -cushions when women are present, he will -sprawl before women in rooms, keep his hands -in his trousers pockets while talking to them, -nurse his foot at an afternoon call—in a word, -do everything but sit on the chairs or seats of -civilisation in a simple and inoffensive attitude. -Not one of these things have I ever seen Frenchmen -do, even in intimacy. Their correctness in -a drawing-room is scrupulous. Familiarity is the -very last thing they suggest, though the house -you meet them at may be one they have been -in the habit of visiting once a week at least for -many years. Englishwomen to whom I have -remarked this peculiar characteristic of their -countrymen retort that the behaviour of Frenchmen -in dining-rooms is as inferior, compared -with that of their compatriots, as ever could -be the behaviour of Englishmen, tested by the -same standard, in drawing-rooms. I willingly -admit the accusation, and I confess I should find -both races more delightful if each borrowed the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_78"></a>[78]</span> -best of the other, and so mended their ways and -became perfect. I do not care on which side the -lesson begins, if only Frenchmen will eat as well -as Englishmen, and Englishmen will imitate the -perfect “tone” of the Frenchman in a drawing-room. -The niceties observed by each in its -sphere are equally admirable and equally necessary -if we are ever to arrive at that indefinable -and still distant state called civilisation. But to -hear the Anglophobe in France (or, still worse, -read him), and the Gallophobe in England talk of -one another, it might be believed that these two -great races stood farthest off from the goal we all -aspire to reach instead of being both in their several -ways nearest to it.</p> - -<p>I will be honest, and confess that the race of -my predilection, France, is far the worse sinner -of the two. To soothe her wounded vanity, -and an imaginary hurt of honour skilfully exaggerated -by the Press, she has descended to -foolish misrepresentation of a neighbour with -whom she had far better live on terms of amity. -The Russian alliance turned her head, and for -once she had not wit enough to see that she -was being deliberately fooled for purposes not -in the least connected with her own interests. -Since that memorable date, she has gradually -raised the tone of her hostility to England, till -now her chief aspiration, if we are to believe the -nonsensical Nationalist Press, is to avenge the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_79"></a>[79]</span> -old defeats of Crécy, Poictiers, and Agincourt. -We will not speak of Waterloo. That victory is -associated with Germany and Russia, and her intention -is, for the moment, to pass as the very -good friend of both. Left to herself, France would -never have unearthed these ancient hostilities of -the War of a Hundred Years, for she is in the -main both sane and intelligent; but the Nationalists -do not for nothing profess hostility to the -Government, and they are ready for war, even if -it but lead to the reversal of the ministry, and the -removal of President Loubet. For they hate -poor M. Loubet with ferocity; and I have seen -in the eyes of some of my Nationalist friends, -devout Catholics and Conservatives, that is, rabid -partisans of the lost cause of the aristocracy, a -gleam of joy when one night the late roars of the -newspaper boys led us to fear that the President -had been murdered. <i>On a assassiné Emile!</i> -they shouted, leaping to their feet, and flinging -down their cards. If their lips did not simultaneously -pronounce the words, “Thank God!” -there was not present an expression of countenance, -a tone of voice, that did not eloquently -utter the unchristian thanksgiving at the thought -but my own. And yet these people are all excellent -citizens; possess many lovable qualities, -are capable of kindness to friends, to the poor, to -foreigners even. And so I am led, from intimate -knowledge of the “Boxers” of France, to conclude<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_80"></a>[80]</span> -that the “Boxers” of China may not be -in themselves reprehensible creatures, but only -wild and misguided “patriots.” Patriotism is -accounted one of the noble virtues of mankind; -and when we obey the dictates of patriotism -who is to pronounce them criminal even when -they prompt us to massacre all the foreigners at -our gate, and torture all their partisans within -those same gates?</p> - -<p>The pastimes of the “little people” are infinitely -more interesting than those of their betters. -Here is no idle waste of money on fashion -and display. Every penny spent brings in compound -interest in relaxation and enjoyment. For -the “little people” are mighty careful of their -sous. When the small shopkeeper, with his -wife and limited family, go to dine at a restaurant, -it is an excellent lesson in domestic -economy to watch their proceedings. One good -dinner will be ordered, and the waiter places -this, with a second relay of plates, before the -shopkeeper, who shares this dinner with his -wife, and the children feed surreptitiously off the -parents’ plates. Thus four persons will have -dined, and well, at the restaurant price of one. -As foreigners are not supposed to be up to these -dodges, they will find their adaptation of them -difficult and discouraging. Those who prefer to -picnic in the public woods on a Sunday have a -better time. They fill a lunch basket according<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_81"></a>[81]</span> -to purse and palate, and set out on the <i>impériale</i> -of the tram from the Louvre, which takes them -for three sous each to the wood of Vincennes, -one of the most charming of Parisian fringes. -The people of Paris are more spoiled than any -other, for public pleasure-grounds abound, and -no one can complain that the rich have the -monopoly of the best. Where will you find -such an exquisite park as the dear little Parc -Monceau, with its ruins, and emerald slopes cut -and watered to look like carpets of plush, its -alleys and gorgeous flower-beds? In London -such a cultivated bit of fairy-land would be the -exclusive property of the wealthy residents round -this park; not so in Paris, where verdure and -flowers are cared for for the public, to whom -they belong. The people of Paris have won -their freedom for ever, and the privileges of the -wealthy are reduced to those they can pay for. -Were they to attempt the appropriation of -others, the Parisian workmen are quite ready to -start another revolution. Their argument is that, -so long as they are willing to work, they have a -right to live, and living implies not only bread -and meat, but a fair share of pleasures. These -pleasures for them must be inexpensive, and -their pleasure-grounds must be maintained at -the cost of the public, which in turn is maintained -at the cost of their labour. And so they -are free of the Bois de Boulogne, a gem of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_82"></a>[82]</span> -public woods; of Vincennes, less prepared and -perfumed and rigorously trimmed, with its wilder -bits of scenery along the Marne, its hillsides -and quaint solitudes; of Fontainebleau, that airy -heaven of the artist, on the edge of one of the -cemeteries of the <i>ancien régime</i>, the grand old -palace of kings which now belongs to the nation, -the little town asleep on its forest marge, -where of old the Court played at life in high -dramatic fashion, and “minuetted” itself with -grace into the grave.</p> - -<p>The surrounding scenery of Paris is unimaginably -enchanting. Luckily for themselves, and -unluckily for the fastidious dreamers, the people -have spoiled all this beauty with their gingerbread -fairs, their rowdy diversions, their feasts -and improprieties. Bougival is given over to -ladies of indecorous habits and their fugitive -mates, Asnières is now a place where fast men -take women at war with respectability and -virtue to dwell at ease, so that these pretty resorts -are closed to the puritan holiday maker. -If you have not lived in the neighbourhood of a -French fair for the traditional three weeks of its -duration, you cannot understand to what extent -a nation or a city may be martyrised for the -pleasure of its people. The clamour of diverse -sounds begins at ten <span class="allsmcap">A.M.</span> and ends only at one -<span class="allsmcap">A.M.</span>, fifteen hours later. There are the roars of -the wild beasts, the tambour beating outside each<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_83"></a>[83]</span> -booth at intervals, the whiz and whistle of the -merry-go-rounds, the frightful music of the dancing -halls, each repeating without intermission -the same airs and all simultaneously, so that you -hear the waltz of Faust, of Mme. Angot, the -jingle of the <i>Danse du Ventre</i>, and polkas and -marches in a maddening mingle. Add to this -the uninterrupted popping of guns, and the -shouting of the booth proprietors, and you -have all the elements of an inferno never imagined -by Dante. To complain were idle. The -people are taking their pleasures, and the people -must live. So the world of fashion, when -a fair comes its way as it does at Neuilly, -makes the best of it with the good-humoured -philosophy of France, and goes down into its -midst. At the fair of Neuilly it is the <i>chic</i> thing -for the elegant diners to attend in evening dress, -and admire the pugilist, the lions and tigers, the -merry-go-rounds, and the exhibitions of the -tents.</p> - -<p>The behaviour of the people at these public -entertainments is admirable. No rowdiness, or -drunkenness, or ribald conduct, for the poorest -devil in France has the art of taking his pleasures -decently. But as the reverse of the medal, no -people could be less innocent, less clean in its -choice of amusements, and so these gingerbread -fairs are well provided with obscene spectacles. -I need cite only one case to prove how deep lie<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_84"></a>[84]</span> -the roots of the national perversity of a race -which reveals in all things such remarkable exterior -grace and refinement. My servant, an excellent -creature, well-bred, of the very highest -moral character, and a delicacy of sentiment and -instinct many a lady might envy, a woman a -duchess might make her friend and count herself -the gainer, has a child, a little lad of ten. She -has brought up this boy so perfectly that if fate -transformed him to-morrow into a prince, he -would have nothing to learn. She has insisted -in his training on an exquisite modesty, the delicacy -of a girl, and a corresponding innocence. -I gave this little fellow the other day half a franc -to go down to the fair, then in my avenue, and -told him to go and see a brown bear and a delightful -young camel with which I had made -friends; but before the child reached the wild-beast -booth, an elderly gentleman, going into -another booth, invited him to accompany him. -Now, the elderly gentleman knew where he was -going, and why; the child did not, and he trustingly -went in, paid his twopence, and followed -the elderly reprobate to see—what?—a series of -anatomical models in wax; the man explained -the spectacle to the child, and sent him back to -his mother troubled and unhappy. François -communicated all that had passed to my servant, -who came to me with tears in her eyes, and we -both felt it a hard thing that a boy in Paris could<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_85"></a>[85]</span> -not be trusted to amuse himself in a harmless -way while waiting for his mother, and almost -within range of her glance, without disgusting -snares being laid in wait for him, with no excuse -even on the score that his elders were seeking -entertainment where he was not expected to be -found.</p> - -<p>Other pastimes of the people, besides fairs and -picnics, are the cheap excursions down the river -with inexpensive refreshments on the water-edge, -the public dancing of the 14th of July, and -the illuminations, carnivals, and the feast of the -washerwomen with the coronation of their -queen, the free afternoons at the state theatres. -All these are edifying sights, for they show you -how decorously and charmingly the French -people can take their diversions and how good-humoured -and well-mannered a French crowd -can be. If you venture up to Montmartre, the -hill of impropriety, you will find a different -quality in the entertainment offered. You will -be less convinced of the moral and mental value -of the nation. A great deal of hot blue wine is -consumed, and the desperadoes of misprized -genius meet to shock and shake the foundations -of the hill by their stupid ruffianism in -verse. Ladies display their underwear, and -their havoc of virtue is gauged by the length -of their laundress’s bill. Tenth-rate journalists, -unread and unreadable authors, penniless,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_86"></a>[86]</span> -whose talent consists in their indecency, inane -and flatulent “masters,” pose here and enjoy -in their several ways the sensation of going -to the dogs in a body. They drink out of skulls, -and count themselves original. A waiter dressed -as a devil addresses them, <i>Que veux tu, damné</i>? -Satan at the counter, with hoofs, horns, and -tail, welcomes them to hell, and they think they -have accomplished unheard-of villainy when -they get drunk. It is not unusual to hear that -these amiable gentlemen live upon the profits -of prostitution, while awaiting their merited -recognition from a dense and ungrateful world. -Sometimes, but rarely, real talent has travelled -down to the Boulevards by way of Montmartre -and the dull Red Mill of Folly. Maurice Donnay -is a brilliant example. He dwelt awhile on his -high perch of misprized genius, but he was -speedily valued at his worth, and carried in triumph -into a cleaner and more intelligent atmosphere. -There is nothing drearier in Paris than -its resorts of vice, such as the Moulin Rouge, -Bullier, its “halls of brandy and song.” They -are quite as vulgar as elsewhere, and infinitely -more disgusting.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 21.875em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/footer4.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_87"></a>[87]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/header6.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV<br /> -<span class="smaller">THE ARMY AND THE NATION</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>The question of the hour in France is militarism -and anti-militarism. The emotions -roused by this fierce duel between these two -parties of the nation are poignant and absorbing, -and threaten us ever with civil war. It is impossible -to blink away all the perils and grievances -and wrong-doing in which the final -triumph of militarism could involve France; and -still less possible to deny the sad fact that a large -proportion of the country are in favour of military -triumph. This fact is mainly due to the -infamous campaign of a Press with little instinct -of honour or truth, which persuades the unthinking -multitude that the salvation of France lies in -the hands of a group of unscrupulous and incompetent -generals who, since Sedan, have not -done anything to justify the extraordinary confidence -reposed in them by their credulous and -easily fooled countrymen.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus04" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/illus04.jpg" alt="" /> - <p class="caption">A REVIEW AT LONGCHAMP</p> -</div> - -<p>Thanks to Napoleon, the French are unable to -bear defeat. The race is a nervous, excitable<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_88"></a>[88]</span> -one, susceptible to great moments of dejection, -and easily plunged into terror under the influence -of anxiety. They have not recovered from the -effects of ’70, and their souls are still stamped -with the horrors of that terrible year. They -wince at the memory of Sedan, and have only -been able to check the depressing work of remembrance -by a buoyant conviction in the near -hour of vengeance. For years they have fed -upon the hope of the <i>revanche</i>. Only a general -can give them this desired satisfaction, they believe, -and hence their absurd worship of their -army, and their still more absurd readiness to -fling themselves under the feet of any soldier -who will fool them with tall talk, and intimidate -them with the discovery of traitors. Their apprehension -of treason in their own midst is one -of the most significant symptoms of demoralisation. -According to the modern French, every -man seems to have his price, and every Frenchman -is only longing for an opportunity to sell -his country. Not even the Chinese have an intenser -distrust of the foreigner. In the lamentable -<i>Affaire Dreyfus</i>, the immense majority were -honestly convinced that the nations of the world -(Spain excepted) were banded together to work -the ruin of France, and cast shame upon her -army. They knew the figures paid to the Czar, -their ally, to the Emperor of Germany, and to -the King of Italy by the Jews. England as a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_89"></a>[89]</span> -rich country was supposed to be one of the -paymasters of Europe in its unequal struggle -against the honour of France. It was the <i>Affaire -Dreyfus</i> that revealed to the amazed world the -sudden passion of the French people for its -army. The army saw its opportunity, seized -it, and may now be said to be in revolt against -the nation. Let us be in no doubt of the fact -that France does not desire a military dictator, -and that such a dictatorship would be the very -worst calamity that could happen to her. It is -easy enough to detect the wire-pullers behind a -parcel of mischievous journalists; discontented -shopkeepers, whose suffrages are obtained by -the promise of brisker commerce under a new -condition of things; the large middle class -always in terror of socialism, which might rob -them of their cherished luxuries. There are two -great powers diminished under republican government—the -aristocracy and the Church. These -are working together to overthrow what they -regard as a common enemy, and any means are -welcome to them, whether foul or fair. Hence -we see a marquis who has denied his order, an -atheist and blasphemer who has shocked every -religious and aristocratic conviction, and wounded -every decent French susceptibility by pen and -speech, M. Henri Rochefort, the leading light of -the present agitation, a man who has heaped -obloquy and contempt on French generals in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_90"></a>[90]</span> -days gone by, now the honoured mouthpiece of -the army, fighting, with his usual weapons, the -battle of the Church and the aristocracy. Devout -Catholics will say to-day of the man -whose name some years ago they could not -bring themselves to mention: <i>C’est un bien -brave homme</i> (“Such an honest fellow!”) and -well-born ladies of unimpeachable morals and -manners will spend their halfpennies on the -<i>Intransigeant</i>, in which this amiable gentleman -exhales his patriotic wrath. A more singular -union has never been celebrated even in France, -land of incongruous contracts and odd proximities, -than that between M. Henri Rochefort -and the army of France, the Church, and the -aristocracy.</p> - -<p>The attitude of the army to-day may be traced -to the two parties in the land already mentioned, -through its commanders and officers, who naturally -belong to either or both. The officers who -are not well born—and they are many—would -fain conceal the circumstance in a snobbish -democracy, and, as a consequence, adopt with -exaggerated fervour the prejudices of the class -to which they desire to be admitted. For there -are no partisans of aristocratic privilege so impassioned -and so silly, as the middle class, who -ape their ways and espouse their cause through -snobbishness. It is upon the weakness of this -class that the nobles of France are playing so<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_91"></a>[91]</span> -recklessly. Every second officer calls himself a -count, or viscount, and is accepted as such with -joy in provincial circles and by wealthy parvenus. -I should be sorry to deny the respectability of -honest religious convictions, but Catholicism at -the present hour in France is too much a question -of fashion and politics to inspire respect. -Men who, to my knowledge, believe in nothing, -make a point of ostentatiously attending religious -services and simulating attitudes of advanced -piety, because they think it “good form,” and -that it will give them tone in the eyes of their -neighbours. They are well aware that they cannot -hope to place Philip of Orleans on an unstable -throne, being too cognisant of the fact -that that singular pretender is held in light esteem -even by his followers and would be far -from welcome to the large majority of his intelligent -compatriots, still less to the working classes, -and so they pin their faith to the military dictator.</p> - -<p>The popularity of the French army to-day, the -outcome, be it said, of a well-worked political -campaign, in which credulous French officers -have been shamelessly used as mere tools, is -hard for us to understand, if it were for nothing -else but the heavy mortgage on man’s freshest -and most ardent years which it implies. How, -one asks one’s self, can independent citizens -accept such a tax when combined resistance -to it ought to be so easy? For, after all, in a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_92"></a>[92]</span> -democracy it should be the voice of the people -that rules, and not the law of a dead tyrant. Militarism -to the outsider appears to be not only a -demoralising force, but a monstrous expense; -and it passes imagination how so thrifty a race -as the French can go on complacently squandering -millions on the support of an army that has -stood still for thirty years and may not move for -thirty more. It would be compensation enough -if one could only believe what, in the face of -facts, experience teaches us to be false, that military -life hardens and solidifies a man and gives -him an ideal of honour higher than any he -would learn in any trade or profession that -might assist him to a fortune. The proof that it -does not solidify the citizen may be accepted -when we remember the coarsening influences of -the barracks. How general is the complaint -that the three years spent in the army have unfitted -a country lad for farm service, a town -youth for the shop; and when you dwell on -the rapid downward careers of retired officers, -of men dismissed from service, of their inability, -once out of regiment lines, to stand alone and -cope with the difficulties of individual strife, it is -impossible to agree to the theory that intelligence -and force of character are acquired in the -army. I once heard that <i>bête comme un militaire</i> -is an accepted conclusion in diplomatic circles; -and I think the conclusion a just one. An<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_93"></a>[93]</span> -intelligent soldier over thirty is very rare to find, -however bright and pleasant young officers may -sometimes be. As for the military ideal of honour, -that is hardly a thing to speak of with -patience.</p> - -<p>Recent events in France have proved how -fatal it is to allow the army of a country to dabble -in politics. The military code of honour is -good enough for the battle-field, where all we -need of men is the courage to fight well and -the capacity to provoke and profit by the enemy’s -blunders. When the battle is won, it -would be a churlish people who would ask to -peer too closely into the method of winning it. -For this reason a licence is permitted to soldiers -that could never be tolerated in civilians. But -bring those same morals into civil existence, and -you may judge of the results by an impartial -study of the <i>Affaire Dreyfus</i>. Where the civilian, -bred to allow the individual some rights, -would hesitate, the spurred and sabred hero -knows no fear. He is accustomed to the effacement -of the individual, to the suppression of all -personal rights, to an unmitigated harshness of -rule, to the dictator’s unquestioned authority. -The law has no terrors for him, for he possesses -his own law, which is summary and implacable. -All means which lead to the end he has in view -are alike serviceable and honest, since he is -bound to win, and, as a soldier, must make<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_94"></a>[94]</span> -short work of all obstacles in his path. And so, -when he drifts into politics, liberty, life, honour, -justice are words he recognises not. He is apt -to treat his opponents as the enemy, to be circumvented -at all costs, and into politics he carries -the nefarious theory that all is fair in war. -Unhappily, France for the tristful hour shares his -belief. If militarism were not the execrable -plague it is, such a lamentable state of things -could never have been brought about amongst a -fairly sane and intelligent people. Nowhere will -you find a higher ideal of justice, of honour, of -delicate and noble sentiment, than in France -among the elect. This fact alone proves the -French capable of every generous feeling, which -we may be sure militarism will tend to destroy.</p> - -<p>One of the worst things about the French -army is, undoubtedly, conscription. Who is to -measure the amount of evil done to the country -by taking young men of twenty-one away from -the work which is to make them independent -citizens—to the commerce, the tillage, the liberal -professions of a land where everything must -stand still while its youth learns enough of -soldiering to detest it, as a rule, without any -serious profit to the army? I have gathered -many impressions of barrack-life from Frenchmen -and have never found that they were imbued -with an excessive admiration of it. The -good-humoured and indifferent make a joke of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_95"></a>[95]</span> -their trials; but it is plain to the simplest intelligence -that their time, for themselves and their -country, would have been better employed at -home than dodging and ducking from the furies -of corporals or captains. Here are some impressions -culled from a young soldier’s notes, sent -to me by a scientific student, whose time was -lamentably squandered in his year of futile -service.</p> - -<p>“Monotony is not the only thing a soldier -complains of. I remember suffering many fits of -indignation and of fury, principally in the beginning. -A most remarkable thing about the army -is that you are punished, not only for your own -faults, which is quite right, but also for those of -each of your comrades; and so you are responsible -for the behaviour of the whole army—six -hundred thousand men. Suppose you are at -Brest. You will not, of course, be hanged if a -soldier at Marseilles misbehaves, but if a soldier -on leave a hundred leagues off comes back tipsy -and obstreperous, the leave you hoped to have -will perhaps not be given, and the time you -might have employed in a pleasanter manner -will be spent in cleaning the floor with the -bottom of a bottle, without wax. These vicarious -punishments occur much oftener in your -own regiment, above all, in your own company; -so that the nearer the sinner is to you the more -threatening is he; and if you have the ill-luck to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_96"></a>[96]</span> -have for comrade a stupid or awkward fellow, -you will be insulted and punished until that poor -devil converts himself. I well remember such -an idiot I suffered constantly for. The sergeant -would tread on his feet when he was cold, and, -consequently, more sensitive, and I have seen -tears in his eyes more than once. Nobody, however, -pitied him; everyone laughed at him; and -such was his misery, his loneliness, his deep distress, -that I have seen him weeping in bed like a -child. He entered the army a good, poor creature, -and will probably leave it a hardened -blackguard. From military life, the school of -patriotism, honour, and abnegation, he will only -learn evil.... Sometimes it was so evident -that our sufferings diverted our chiefs, and -had no other object, that I fell into indescribable -anger; though I am not bloodthirsty, I would -gladly have killed some of my superior officers—this -is no exaggeration; and I well remember one -day weeping from impotent rage.”</p> - -<p>Elsewhere he remarks that the only feeling a -soldier comes to cherish is resignation. “He -knows very well that none of his superiors will -ever say a kind word to him, and that his destiny -is to pay for every annoyance they undergo. If -he behaves himself he will be compelled to toil -all day without evening recreation, and his only -reward will be to be called an idiot by his comrades, -to be punished for them, and not be<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_97"></a>[97]</span> -allowed out oftener than they, and, in the case -of a clever comrade, have his work forced upon -him—for in the regiment the clever fellows do -nothing, the fools do everything. Oh, the things -I have seen! A black-hearted sergeant, who -always chose for attack weak and sickly men; a -Parisian workman, one of my comrades, on the -brink of manslaughter or self-murder from persecution, -not ill-natured, but destined to be sent -to Africa for indiscipline or rebellion. Those -who can’t hold their tongues or their tempers are -greatly to be pitied. I saw one strike a chief, -and he was right. I sometimes scorn myself for -not having done so too. It makes a great difference, -of course, when you have a good captain -or a good lieutenant. The beginning is the hardest -time in barracks. The cavalry and artillery -regiments are the worst of all. You would not -believe half the dreadful things I could tell you -of them. The great evil of the army comes from -this. The corporal can injure you; that is all he -can do. He may punish, but he cannot reward. -He can prevent you from going out, but he cannot -give you leave of absence before the regulated -hour. But if his power to do good is small, -his power to do evil is immense. The general -cannot give a leave if the corporal opposes it. -In the army the punishment always suppresses -the reward, but the reward never suppresses the -punishment; and as the number of those who<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_98"></a>[98]</span> -can punish is at least twenty times greater than -that of those who can reward, nearly everything -that happens is disagreeable. In fact, rewards -are unknown. To show a curious example: -leave of absence is not a reward; the privation -of it is a punishment. A soldier’s paradise is -outside the barracks. Offer him fifteen days of -prison and after that fifteen days’ furlough, and -he will not hesitate. What the corporal and -sergeant wish to avoid is being bored, and so, to -get out of work, they punish and govern by -the terror they inspire. The men do not wash -their clothes because they should be washed, -but from fear the sergeant should find them -dirty. The idea of duty does not exist in the -army; it is the kingdom of fear, into which no -ray of hope or justice penetrates.”</p> - -<p>I have left these notes of a young French -soldier in their original English, with hardly an -alteration. This is one of the anecdotes concerning -military denseness he sends me: “In -the town where my regiment was quartered -there was an exhibition, and the directors of the -exhibition, knowing how light a soldier’s purse -is (a soldier’s purse is one of the most remarkable -things I ever saw. It contains everything: -thread, needles, pins, nails, white and black wax, -buttons of six or seven sorts; but if you wish -to dig so far as to find money, you are as likely -as not to reach the ground), wrote to the colonel<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_99"></a>[99]</span> -to say that a certain number of soldiers—sixty, -I believe—could visit the exhibition free every -day. In the beginning it was all right. The -soldiers had as lief go to the exhibition as do -exercise. They understood nothing; they were -watched by a corporal, and could not go away -before the regulated hour. After two weeks -there were not sixty volunteers to be found, -and after a month not twenty; after six weeks -not even five. The colonel’s order was that each -day sixty soldiers <i>could</i> go to the exhibition, -but the corporal understood <i>must</i> go, and so -every day sixty unfortunates were bidden to -dress themselves in their best and go and be -bored for two mortal hours between pictures -and ploughshares, so that in the end the visit -to the exhibition was used as a punishment. -This surely was not the intention of the kind-hearted -director.”</p> - -<p>Something must be said of how conscription -is worked in France. Military life begins at -twenty-one and ends at forty-five, which means -that every Frenchman is subject to the military -authorities during twenty-five years, three in -the <i>Armée Active</i>, ten in the <i>Réserve</i>, six in -the <i>Territoriale</i>, and six in the <i>Réserve de -la Territoriale</i>. A youth, when he reaches -twenty-one, draws a lot in February; he enters -the barracks in November and remains there -until September three years later, and is then<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_100"></a>[100]</span> -guaranteed as a proper defender of his country. -After that, for ten years, he forms part of the -<i>Réserve</i>, and twice he must return to the -regiment for twenty-eight days. In the <i>Territoriale</i> -he must serve once for fourteen days, -and after that he is let alone unless war should -break out, when he must shoulder his gun and -knapsack, and go to the front with the rest. -The drawing of lots takes place in the town -hall, where the mayor sits with a big box filled -with numbers written on bits of wood. Each -youth draws out a number. Formerly this ceremony -had a meaning, for the owner of a lucky -number was exempt from military service, or -only served a year. Now all must serve for -three years, and the numbers count as nothing. -Then comes the Revision Council, a most important -thing. If a man passes he enters the -barracks six months later; if not, he waits a year -and begins again. If he is refused once, he -serves only two years; if twice, one year; -if three times, none at all. But it is exceedingly -rare that a candidate is refused three times, as it -is considered disgraceful not to serve as a soldier, -though you should die in barracks or always be -ailing. Men are passed even in advanced stages -of heart disease or consumption, too weak almost -to hold a gun. The chiefs argue that military -service will strengthen the weak, and be -very good for the strong. My scientific correspondent<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_101"></a>[101]</span> -ironically adds: “It is, above all, very -good for those who die in the middle of their -three years, for, indeed, they were not hardened -enough for such a difficult thing as life.” But -there are so many ways of escaping from the -three years’ servitude, the wonder is all do not -profit by the opportunities offered. These are -the lucky ones: the eldest son of seven brothers, -the eldest son of a widow, of an invalid father, -or of one blind or over seventy; those who have -a brother “under the flag,” or students of all -sorts. To quote my correspondent again: -“There are, I believe, at least a hundred kinds -of students, coming from you could never imagine -where. I had a comrade who was a <i>clerc -de contentieux</i>. I have never known, nor has -anybody I have asked known, what on earth -was a <i>clerc de contentieux</i>. He himself did not -know, and when questioned about it he would -answer, ‘Something in the way of law.’ He -knew nothing more about his own profession. -I am sure that he had none, but those magic -words saved him two years’ service.”</p> - -<p>One of the worst consequences of militarism -has of late years been witnessed in France for -the stupefaction and edification of Europe—the -terrorising of all classes. In 1898, we saw how -the army comported itself in the Palace of Justice, -which it may be said to have carried by assault. -The whole place was packed with officers in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_102"></a>[102]</span> -uniform and in mufti, spurred and sabred menace -going through the hall. The law was laughed -at with amazing cynicism by these booted warriors. -They refused to reply to the questions -put to them, and threatened the civilians who -presumed to differ from them with the horror -of “a butchery.” They held the field with -unexampled effrontery, and the terrorised jury -spoke at their bidding. You must go far back -in the Middle Ages to find another such tale -of wholesale assassinations, perjuries, forgeries, -cynical traffic with justice, insolent manipulation -of documents, suppressed correspondence, distorted -telegrams, bribed evidence, strident vituperation -and manifestation of despotism, the more -extraordinary by the multiplicity of despots; -and so delighted was the befooled populace by -this parade of rabid defiance and booted revolt -against national tribunals (had the magistrates -been honest and the jury courageous, and both -held out in the performance of their duty, the -suffrages of the people would just as likely have -been on their side, since the successfulness of -success is proverbial) that <i>Vive l’armée</i> came to -mean everything on earth, from the servant-maid’s -traditional love of a uniform, the street -Arab’s passion for the blare of a trumpet, the -sentimental citizen’s yearning for Alsace and -Lorraine, and the longing of Imperialist, Royalist, -and every other form of fractious opponent<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_103"></a>[103]</span> -of the Republic to overthrow the Government. -In a word, it became the cry of sedition, admirably -worked up by the Church, the Army, and -Society. M. Urbain Gohier’s famous book, -<i>L’Armée contre la Nation</i>, undoubtedly contains -much exaggerated abuse of French officers and -French chiefs, but it also contains many indisputable -truths. When one hears French officers -speaking of civilians with indescribable contempt -as “pekins,” and remembers that all of these -miserable pekins have served in the army and will -be called upon, without reward or pay, to defend -their country with their lives, it is difficult not to -regard such a passionate attack as his as justified. -The Nationalists to-day have the hardihood to -describe themselves as the only true patriots, -the only pure Frenchmen. The <i>Temps</i> once -pertinently asked what they expected to do in -war more than any other kind of Frenchman or -patriot—carry two muskets instead of one? -One sees MM. Coppée, Lemaître, and Barrès, -the literary chiefs of the patriots, thus accoutred -with an incredulous smile. After twenty-five -years the patriots are still stalking the shades of -Alsace and Lorraine, and hurling defiance towards -the Vosges, while every honest Alsatian -with them passes for a traitor.</p> - -<p>The army owes its present unwonted prestige -and popularity to the fear war breeds in the -modern mind, and this fear it has evidently<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104"></a>[104]</span> -utilised through its mouthpiece—the militarist -Press. Every event is pressed into its service; -the return from Fashoda of a brave man, the -procession of the École Polytechnique at the -grand review, admired for its ill-treatment of -an eminent professor, M. Georges Duruy, the -son of Victor Duruy, because in the intervals of -lecturing to them he presumed to write articles -in the <i>Figaro</i> expressing doubts of the culpability -of an unfortunate French officer, one of -themselves. The sight of these young gentlemen -suffices to create a delirious enthusiasm, -which is fondly hoped by the authors of the frantic -display will prove the death-knell of the Republic. -Never has a nation worshipped stranger, -more incongruous warrior-gods than France of -to-day. She has embraced and wept rapturously -over the military virtues and honour of an -Esterhazy; she has melted in the furnace of -adoration before Major Marchand; she has prostrated -herself in reverence and gratitude at the -feet of General Mercier, and now she is pantingly -waiting for the generalissimo of her -dreams—another Boulanger, plumed, handsome, -and haughty, on a black charger. It used -to be for the <i>revanche</i> she so ardently desired -this deliverer, but now the hated enemy is no -longer beyond the Vosges, but on the other side -of the Channel. A French boy once wrote to -an English comrade that he wanted to put his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_105"></a>[105]</span> -hand through the sleeve (the channel, in French, -<i>la manche</i>), and shake hands cordially with him. -Alas! it is her sword that bellicose France wishes -to put through the sleeve, if we are to believe -the Nationalists, and slay perfidious Albion.</p> - -<p>It is, perhaps, an exaggeration to describe -barracks, as M. Urbain Gohier does, as “the -school of all crapulous vices: idleness, lying, -debauchery, drunkenness, obscenity, and moral -cowardice.” But there is much truth in his -contrasting statement, that “the surprising vitality -and progress in every way of the Anglo-Saxon -races are due to the fact that these latter -escape the corrupting and degrading influence -of the barracks.” In war men may herd together -and be the better for it, since they suffer and -bear privation together. But in peace it is impossible -that general life of this comfortless kind -can have any but a disastrous action upon character. -The twenty-eight days of the reservists -may be an excellent farce, if the discomforts and -trials are borne with high spirits and a sense of -fun. From this point of view it is easy enough -to laugh at such amusing plays as <i>Champignol -Malgré Lui</i>, and the coarse and witty comedies -of Courteline, whose military studies are steeped -in a good-humoured but terrible realism. You -must laugh at that brutal but brilliant little piece, -<i>Lidoire</i>, capitally acted at Antoine’s, even while -you are filled with an unutterable sense of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_106"></a>[106]</span> -sadness in contemplation of the futile suffering -of barrack-life. Why should grown men, under -pretext that their country may some day be attacked, -be submitted to the disennobling trials -of the general dormitory, to the annihilating -process of inflexible and petty discipline, at the -mercy of the temper and caprices of superiors? -The audience at Antoine’s shout with laughter -when the sober fellow is brutalised for his -drunken comrade, whom he is trying to shield, -but the thinking spectator is saddened by -the realistic travesty of justice so peculiar to-day -in militarist France. One applauds the more -the magnificent outburst against the army -in that remarkable play of MM. Donnay and -Descaves, <i>La Clairière</i>, where the tortured -workman shouts, “There is no such thing as an -intelligent bayonet.” Think, then, what it must -mean for the young fellow dragged reluctantly -from his chosen work, to waste three years fretting -in servitude that does his country no good, -to share the common life of men more often -than not repulsive to him. In the case of the -poor it is far worse, for they have no means of -avoiding the obligatory three years’ service; and -if you would have some idea of the corrupting -influence of this experience on a farmer’s son, -read M. René Bazin’s charming story, <i>La Terre -qui Meurt</i>, where the young soldier back from -Africa has acquired such habits of idleness, of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_107"></a>[107]</span> -café loungings, of little glasses, and martial -vanity that his downward career is traced out -almost on the page that introduces him, and the -poor fellow goes to the dogs, not from inherent -viciousness, but because the barracks has spoiled -him for farm-work, for steady labour.</p> - -<p>The lucky students destined for civil professions -when they leave the Polytechnique, the -École Centrale, the École Forestière, have only a -year’s service, and that under the most comfortable -circumstances. They are officers at once, -with £100 a year, a servant, and lodgings in -town. This cannot be said to be much of a -sacrifice upon the altar of patriotism compared -with that the ordinary citizen makes in shouldering -his gun and heavy knapsack, in undergoing -all the weary and repugnant experiences of barrack-life. -As Urbain Gohier says: “Under a -Democratic Republic there is only one way of -escaping from the terrible barracks—the wearing -of the epaulette; there is only one means of not -being a soldier—becoming an officer.” You will -find in France that it is precisely the people who -benefit by these means of escaping the worst -consequences of militarism, and women who -know nothing at all about it and could never endure -five minutes of the martyrdom, who are its -most violent eulogists. It is difficult to explain -military arrogance in France, for it certainly is -not based on the fact that officers alone go to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_108"></a>[108]</span> -the wars. When the battle-cry rings over the -land the whole nation arms itself and goes off to -fight, as well as the officers, and when the nation -stays at home, so do the officers. When I -asked a friend of General de Gallifet the motives -of his resignation, he replied haughtily: “How -could you expect Gallifet to tolerate the interference -in military affairs of a miserable pekin -like Waldeck-Rousseau?” In vain did I point -out that when an officer mixes himself up in -politics and tries, in a mischievous and underhand -fashion, to injure the Government, the -Prime Minister has every right to interfere, since, -in his quality of “miserable pekin,” politics is his -business and not a general’s. And the man who -was speaking to me was but a “pekin” himself, -who, like the Prime Minister, had served in the -army, and yet quite approved of martial contempt -for all who do not wear a sabre or a -plumed kepi. Watch these generals ride through -the streets of Paris, beribboned and befrogged, -and note the lofty, godlike way they gaze down -upon the adoring multitude. Are they back from -the wars? Do all these glorious and shining -medals mean battles won? Where has Zurlinden -fought with conspicuous glory? Where Mercier? -Billot? Gonse? And yet they all look as proud -and fatuous as the marshals of Bonaparte returning -from their successful raids across Europe.</p> - -<p>I have heard in France a great deal of fine talk,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_109"></a>[109]</span> -which would be admirable and noble if it were -true, about the soldier’s abnegation, his lack of -ambition, his disinterestedness, and modest pay. -A Frenchman who had just returned from a -tour through America once said to me: “It is -our army which maintains our superiority; -through it we keep intact a high ideal. I was -struck by this fact in America, where there is -no army and consequently no ideal. There -must be a generous part of the nation kept aside -for disinterested work.” We need only glance -through the military history of the world to -recognise the utter bombast and falseness of this -view. Officers are no more disinterested than -other men, and there are, in fact, no men so -splendidly paid for their services in all lands. -The general who wins a battle is a hero for ever, -though no better brains, no finer qualities may -go to the winning of that battle than go to the -making of a useful law, the winning of an election, -and less than goes to a scientific discovery -or the writing of a great book. He has, as well -as his pay, his prestige, his popularity; probably -a title and an estate. Jove himself could scarcely -ask for more. Take, then, the ordinary officer. -What does he work for if it is not for military -advancement? Is not the title of captain, of -major, of colonel, of general, dearer to him far -than the millions of the millionaire? And surely -our payment is measured by the price we put<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_110"></a>[110]</span> -upon it! The man who prefers millions nowadays -does not become a soldier, though in Napoleon’s -days, with the sacking of all Europe in -view, it was perhaps the swiftest road to fortune. -But he is paid for his services in the coin he -loves best; and what more can he require? -Why pose as the victim of his own virtues, and -prate of his disinterestedness? I was very much -struck by a tragic military novel written recently -by two French officers: <i>Au Tableau</i>, a tale of -army deceptions and bitternesses in preferment. -Here is the truth put nakedly, and here is a revelation -of military want of judgment, of justice. -The general is a dense brute and a snob, who -chooses his officers by their rank and fortune, -and not by their merit. The hero, of Irish extraction, -is a man of culture, of delicate sentiment, -of intensely active conscience and brains. -He is sacrificed all along the line to the base -intrigues of inferior men, comrades who spy -and tittle-tattle, idiot aristocrats who look down -on their untitled brother officers, and dazzle by -their expensive hospitality. Defeated and discouraged, -he leaves the army to find himself an -outcast, a <i>déclassé</i>, with nothing before him but -suicide. The moral of the tale, of course, is, -that even in the army it is better to stay there, -however hard things may go with an officer; -for outside there is nothing for him but suspicion, -averted glances, ill-will, and slander. But the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_111"></a>[111]</span> -picture it draws of the army from within is one -of unspeakable sadness. This vaunted French -school of abnegation is full of intrigues, perfidies, -injustices, petty persecutions, petty miseries. It -makes men glad to be outside it, breathing the -air of liberty and personal responsibility.</p> - -<p>An Englishman said to me one day, “There -was only one honest man in the French army, -and they turned him out.” This is naturally an -extravagant assertion, but it expresses in wild -fashion a secret feeling in the minority. “I -was bred in the worship of the army, and -brought up a fervent Catholic,” said an eminent -French writer lately; “well, it is with difficulty -now I keep myself from looking away when I -see an officer or a priest.” There can be no -denial that soldiers with a delicate conscience are -not approved of in the French army. They are -regarded as dangerous subjects, apt to create -“affairs.” When a colonel exposed a scandalous -abuse in a certain regiment, the President of the -day sent him word that “a due regard for the -honour of the army should prevent every officer -from making an accusation, however justified, or -creating any scandal that could diminish the prestige -of the army.” The army, we see, is the one -institution insusceptible to the rigours of justice, -wherein ill-doers enjoy immunity (if they are not -of Jewish persuasion) for the sake of that extraordinary -thing called the “honour of the army.”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_112"></a>[112]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/header7.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V<br /> -<span class="smaller">SECULAR AND RELIGIOUS EDUCATION</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>Education in France has neither the moral -nor social value it has in England. In the -first place, public-school life has nothing like the -importance it has with us, where a university -education almost suffices to make a gentleman -of a young man, for, whatever his origin may -be, the Oxonian is pretty sure to plume himself -on the prestige of his training. In France there -is no equivalent for this rank. Where a man has -been educated is of no consequence to him in -after life. While he is at school, his parents, if -they happen to be nobles, or snobs who desire -to pass for nobles, or as belonging to a set <i>bien -pensant</i>, like to be able to say that their son is at -the school of Vaugirard, Madrid, La Poste, or -at the Marists. This fact suffices to pose a family -with the hall-mark of indisputable correctness. -Neither the Jesuits nor the Marists offer -such solid advantages in the way of pretension -and reputation as the English universities do,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113"></a>[113]</span> -but they secure youth from the taint of Republicanism, -and Society knows that it can rely on -their support when the long and expected <i>coup -d’êtat</i> comes off. In certain circles, to be educated -Is not the main thing, but not to be mistaken -for one of the <i>canaille</i>.</p> - -<p>M. Demolins wrote a book, <i>A quoi tient la -supériorité des Anglo-Saxons</i>, which made a -considerable stir. The author maintains that the -violent contrast between the two races starts in -the schoolroom, and reveals to us already the -deep-seated causes of their differences. The -French boy is trained in the suppression of all independence, -the discouragement of all initiative. -Those brought up in the secular <i>lycées</i> have -nothing to remember but unqualified misery. -The system is less intolerable for the day-pupils. -These come at eight and leave at seven. Each -class lasts two hours, and if the boy’s way lies -through any of the big gardens, he can enjoy, -with other outdoor comrades, many an hour of -play. The indoor martyrs are less privileged, -for each moment of recreation is as severely -guarded as the hours of class. They have stated -intervals for play; in the earlier years they are -contented with running, but, by-and-by, they -crave for more violent and interesting exercise, -and when these are denied them, they give up -play. Until lately, all violent games were forbidden -in the <i>lycées</i> because they were regarded<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_114"></a>[114]</span> -as dangerous, and the college principals are responsible -for all accidents that happen in their -schools. Not long ago a <i>proviseur</i> was heavily -fined because one of the students, in flinging a -stone, had accidentally broken a window and -hurt another boy’s eye. It is easy enough, under -such extraordinary circumstances, to understand -the <i>proviseur’s</i> persistent discouragement of -rough games. Skating is not allowed, for this, -too, is dangerous; and, for the same reason, -gymnastics are permitted only once a week, -each student going in turn to the gymnasium -and staying there for about three minutes. And -so in French colleges these blustering years of -boyhood know no other variety of pleasure than -the treadmill of the courtyard. Backwards and -forwards they walk in recreation hours, talking -together; and need it be supposed that the -words of wisdom are ever on their lips? As I -have said, the day-students do not need much -pity. They can make the <i>lycée</i> merely a daily -accessory of life—a place they go to generally -with the intention of wasting their time. Should -they have the good-fortune to light upon a first-rate -teacher, which is rare, they will get some -profit from the hours spent at the <i>lycée</i>. But the -indoor student is wretched. He is a dejected -being, with none of the distractions of his age—unboyish, -unjoyous, watched and watching, -prematurely demoralised by his fellow unfortunates,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_115"></a>[115]</span> -and, like them, the slave of the very -worst possible system of education.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp53" id="illus05" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/illus05.jpg" alt="" /> - <p class="caption">CONSECRATED BREAD</p> - <p class="caption"><i>Dagnan-Bouveret</i></p> -</div> - -<p>M. Demolins complains that the French rely -too much on stiff examinations as a test of -knowledge, and a French youth writes me on -this subject: “We have a great many schools -in France; as many as there are professions, -since nobody who has not spent two or three -years in some sort of school, and undergone innumerable -examinations, can hope to do anything. -For instance, I have undergone nine -examinations, and it is not even over! Naturally, -I only refer to necessary examinations. They -begin at the age of fifteen or sixteen. Before -that period you must have been at a <i>lycée</i> or -college. A <i>lycée</i> is a government establishment, -and a college belongs to its township. The -training is identical, but the college professors -are less well paid. Their inferiority to the <i>lycée</i> -professors lies in the fact that they have not -undergone so many examinations as these, or, -perhaps, only have come out of them less successfully. -In the <i>lycées</i> and colleges there are -two methods—the literary or old method, and -the scientific or new one. The old method is -general: literature, geography, history, German -or English (never both), Latin, Greek, mathematics, -every year; in the first years only zoölogy, -botany, and geology, and in the last years -philosophy. But always the most important<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_116"></a>[116]</span> -thing is Latin. The youth who has gone through -the course of philosophy has learnt Latin for -seven years, Greek for five years and a half, but, -knowing that his Latin will be of no service to -him after he has passed his <i>baccalauréat</i>, as soon -as he thinks he knows enough for that examination—and -he thinks so at an early hour—he -flings his Latin books at the head of his professor -or recklessly goes to sleep upon them, if he be -working merely for place as a bureaucrat; and I, -for one, have not the heart to blame him. Unfortunately, -it is the same thing for German, and -English, and everything else. Amongst a hundred -young men in the philosophy class, not -more than two will understand or speak German, -and never more than one will speak -English. Amongst a hundred French youths -speaking German or English you will find that -ninety-nine have spent some years in Germany -or England; the hundredth is a phenomenon. -Besides, it is fashionable to-day in France not to -know a word of a foreign tongue. The scientific -method is less general than the literary -method. It comprises chiefly sciences and modern -languages—German, English, Spanish, and -Italian. It is certainly more serious than the -other. There is a <i>baccalauréat</i>, too, but unlike -the literary <i>baccalauréat</i>, which is an aim, the -scientific <i>baccalauréat</i> is only the means of arriving -at an aim. The literary <i>baccalauréat</i><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_117"></a>[117]</span> -leads to nothing, or to the law school, which is -almost the same thing, for, speaking generally, -the students have no other object than the avoidance -of the three years’ military service.” The -scientific <i>baccalauréat</i> leads to the Polytechnique -school, to St. Cyr, or to the school of medicine, -but those who wish to become officers or doctors -do not leave the <i>lycée</i> after the <i>baccalauréat</i>, -and some stay on three or four years longer. -The <i>externes</i>, that is, those who go to the -<i>lycées</i> only for the classes, are well off, for these -find their pleasures and moral training where -they should be found, at home and with comrades -of their own choosing. But the <i>demi-pensionnaires</i> -are nearly as unfortunate as the -<i>internes</i>, as these are condemned to most of -the prison tortures of one of the worst gifts the -genius of Napoleon gave to the land he so -basely used. “Everyone knows well enough -our dreadful college,” writes M. Demolins, -“with its much too long classes and studies, its -recreations far too short and without exercise, -its prison walks, a monotonous going and coming -between high, heart-breaking walls, and -then every Sunday and Thursday the military -promenade in rank, the exercise of aged men -and not of youth.”</p> - -<p>For this reason you will never hear a French -boy speak with any kindly sentiment of his -school-days. Napoleon, who invented the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_118"></a>[118]</span> -horrid system, was a creature absolutely destitute -of kindness or humanity. He wanted more -destructive machines, willing for the chance of -what is euphemistically called “glory.” Virile -independence in boyhood was just the very last -thing a man like Napoleon could be expected -to value. An English schoolboy will cheerfully -go to the wars by force of his own good-will, -but he will not be whipped thither by Government -whether he wills it or not. And you -would never find him submitting, as his French -brother does, with patience and resignation to a -scholastic system which atrophies his body and -unduly heats his brain. The instincts of his -race must be considered, and these make for -energy, action, and independence.</p> - -<p>From the <i>lycée</i> to French fiction is a big jump, -and at first blush neither seems to have any connection -with the other, yet I do not hesitate to -blame the unhealthy, enervating, and unmanly -training of the former for many of the lamentable -scandals of the latter. English boys are not -saintly, but they are certainly admitted, by those -who have had opportunities of judging both, -to be cleaner-minded, with a more vigorous and -healthy outlook, than French lads. The same -difference exists between French and English -girls. To begin with, the French are naturally less -frank and truthful; and where there is practised -dissimulation it is not easy to answer for the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119"></a>[119]</span> -moral and mental cleanliness of the young. -These young fellows, whose sole distraction -from excessive and futile mental labour has been -the daily promenade in the courtyard, who have -been the recipients of insidious confidences and -unhealthy talk, leave school blighted and perverted. -We need not ask ourselves what, in -nine cases out of ten, follows, the tenth being -the admirable youth who takes himself and his -future responsibilities seriously, who loves knowledge -with the disinterestedness and capacity for -sacrifice to it that a Frenchman of the best kind -is capable of. But these others, unsoundly bred, -without an outlet for the barbarous spirits of -the youthful male,—what will be their experiences? -Denied exercise, they cannot even fall -back upon innocent flirtation with girls of their -own age, for this is not possible in France. -And so these newly emancipated citizens straightway -wander off in search of romance into a -world that it would have been wise and right to -keep them out of, and whatever freshness the -<i>grisette</i> may leave them can speedily be lost in -the still more destructive hands of an unprincipled -married woman. It is the shabby and -monotonous love-affairs of this uninteresting -rake, his steady degradation, that procure renown -for the popular romances; to paint him and -his dreary deceptions and drearier outrages on -decent feeling a whole school of novelists exists<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_120"></a>[120]</span> -and thrives, and the great desire of the newly -married bride, never before permitted to read -the fiction of her own land, is to learn what life is -through his unmanly and ignoble adventures. -Had the boy been trained differently he would -have had another ideal, and there would have -been some place for noble aspirations and generous -sentiment in a heart not yet hardened by -squalid cynicism.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus06" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/illus06.jpg" alt="" /> - <p class="caption">THE REFECTORY</p> - <p class="caption"><i>A. Bouvin</i></p> -</div> - -<p>The great defect of the <i>lycée</i> system is its -impersonality. The Republican professors should -borrow a hint from their more successful ecclesiastical -rivals, the Marists and Jesuits, and hold -their pupils by the influence of personal relations, -win them by the direct exercise of moral guidance. -There are two courses to adopt in training -youth—that followed by the priesthood, -which is insidious, and which regards them not -as so many young men to be taught how to live -and conduct themselves as honourable men, but -as so many souls to be saved in a world to come. -The second is the British method, the object of -which is to make men of boys, to teach them to -think and act for themselves, to be self-sufficing, -self-supporting, to know how a gentleman -should act in all circumstances, and, should -nature have denied him intelligence, to prove -himself, in the depths of his stupidity, at least -a “gentlemanly” ass. I give my preference, -I will own, to the British system, like M. Demolins,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_121"></a>[121]</span> -but what I should prefer to it even -would be a third, not yet practised, by which -youth might profit by the best in the English -course of training and the best in the French; -that is to say, a combination of the superior -French intellectual education and the superior -English moral training. If there were nothing -between a well-brought-up fool and an intellectual -cad, then, in Heaven’s name, give us -nothing but the sympathetic fool; but how -much better if we could have the well-bred -“intellectual” too! Some years ago a Greek -minister, about to send his son to a public school -either in France or England, did me the honour -to take me for a wise and intelligent person,—which -I have no pretension to be,—and asked -my advice on the question of a choice of countries. -I told him he would have to decide between -knowledge and education. If he wished -his son to be brought up in a healthy, virile -fashion, taught to conduct himself on the lines -of the British ideal, which for all practical purposes -is about as fine a one as is to be found, -though it, too, has limitations it were well to -recognise and acknowledge—then let it be -England, and Oxford or Cambridge. If, on the -other hand, he wished to see his son a proficient -scholar, well grounded in the classics, intellectually -trained in the course of a couple of miserable -years, his brain overworked in the depressing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_122"></a>[122]</span> -atmosphere of a prison, then let the French <i>lycée</i> -be his choice. The minister decided for knowledge; -and I believe his son returned to Athens -a very brilliant young fellow, and all that a statesman -could desire his son to be. He would have -learnt less in England, but certainly he would -have had a pleasanter time; and to me it always -seems that our real education only begins when -we have left off compulsory learning; that what -we teach ourselves and not what others teach -us is of consequence. A duffer will always be -a duffer, however much you may stuff his -head; the main thing is that he should be an -honest duffer. The brilliant boy will never fail -to light upon food for his brains wherever he -may find himself.</p> - -<p>The misfortune is that everything in France -leads to politics, and hence we have had the disgraceful -sight of students in revolt against their -professor, hissing and pelting him because elsewhere -he had chosen to express political views -to which these wise and learned young gentlemen -objected, or because his politics were not -those of their parents. The class of an eminent -professor at Bordeaux was deserted, and stones -were flung at him in the street by his pupils, for -a graceful and manly reference to the cause of -the death of the dean of his university, whose -funeral oration he was called upon to pronounce. -Under such circumstances, it is difficult to acquire<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_123"></a>[123]</span> -a beneficial influence as a professor, for personal -prestige, the value of character—which is the -highest thing we can value in a teacher—are of -no account in a land where, generally speaking, a -man is loved or hated, not for the life he leads, -the acts he commits, the duties he leaves unfulfilled, -but solely for the political side he takes. -In modern France character is nothing; politics -everything. What students first demand is that -their professors shall be on the side approved of -by this immature class. After that they will -condescend to listen to them. But the notion of -being guided and influenced by the older mind, -the riper judgment, does not enter their heads. -The only professors who know how to grip -and mark for life these malleable natures are -the Jesuits. When Jesuit boys break away -from their keepers, the Jesuits have no bitterer -enemies. What intelligent Protestant has ever -given us arguments so powerful and damning -against Jesuit training as those two novels by their -old pupils, <i>Le Scorpion</i> of Marcel Prévost, and -<i>L’Empreinte</i> by Estaunié? <i>L’Empreinte</i> (The -Stamp) is much the greater study of Jesuitism -of the two. Here you see a young, pliable nature -for ever caught in its meshes, not brutalised -or overtly captured, but insidiously demoralised, -directed unconsciously into the path of dissimulation -and unsleeping watchfulness, out of which -the manliest efforts he makes afterwards, when<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_124"></a>[124]</span> -he has shaken off its vice-like grasp of his individuality, -never carry him. Here you understand, -as no melodramatic stories of Sue or -Dumas could make you understand, the shuddering -intensity of moral hold; the implacable, -mild pursuit; the potency and success of the -Jesuits all the world over. It is a mistake to associate -this self-rooted dislike of the Jesuits with -bigoted Protestantism or blatant atheism. Read -the exquisite stories of Ferdinand Fabre, studies -by a sincere Catholic of Catholic life, which bear -upon the underhand persecution of excellent, -well-meaning country priests by what are called -the Congregationalists, the Black Army, the Jesuits -chiefly. Read that delightful study of Cévennes -life under the Restoration, <i>Jacquou le Croquant</i>, -by Eugene Le Roy, and see how a good French -Catholic, who loves and reveres the saintly village -curate, can loathe his enemies, the Jesuits. -Here, too, as in Ferdinand Fabre’s <i>Mon Oncle -Celestin</i>, a beautiful soul, a kind of early Christian,—who -lives only to do good around him, -whose life is one long lesson of love, of sacrifice, -and abnegation,—is hounded out of the priesthood, -falsely accused, horribly slandered, and -excommunicated; and all by the secret manœuvres -of the Jesuits, because he accepted the -Republic, deeming it more the priest’s duty to -concern himself with the private interests and -sorrows and trials of his flock than to dabble in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_125"></a>[125]</span> -politics; more occupied in spreading the evangelical -precept, “Love one another,” than in -maintaining the power of the Church. I count -among my friends Jesuits whom I like and appreciate, -for whose private character I have the -highest possible esteem, whom I have found in -all respects amiable, educated gentlemen, full of -gaiety and charm, and of a sympathetic address -rarely to be met with in any other class of men. -But of the order and its principles, based upon -knowledge, I feel nothing but dislike. The Jesuits -in China, in South America, have, I understand, -and willingly believe, done good work. -We know that they are brave, and can sacrifice -their lives in the cause of their religion. I know -from personal experience that they can be the -most charming and sympathetic of men. But -can anyone point out the good they have done -in Europe? What are their charities? What -are their good deeds? What noble use do they -make of their extraordinary worldly influence? -For, wherever they establish themselves, it is the -world of fashion, and not the poor, they gather -round them. When they open schools, it is for -the rich, for the powerful, for the aristocrats of -the land. If you pass their doors, it is carriages -you will see there; well-dressed ladies and men -of fashion you will find on their steps, and not -the outcast, the abandoned wife and children, -miserable, poor, and withered humanity. The<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_126"></a>[126]</span> -order is essentially a political and not a Christian -order, established to work upon the wealthy, -and to obtain their suffrages.</p> - -<p>In proof of this statement I need only quote a -common phrase among middle-class Catholics, -“If you are not rich or clever, never go near the -Jesuits.” They appreciate brains as much as -money, for they can make good use of both, but -you will never hear their praises sung by the -poor, the “little” class, useful neither socially -nor politically, through whom they cannot hope -to advance their order and secure it prestige. -The order was founded by an aristocrat and a -soldier. Aristocratic it has ever since remained -in its sympathies; and the moral of the Dreyfus -affair has given us a good notion of the -military principles of honour, justice, and truth -which modern France owes to its training. For -assuredly it is the Jesuits who have exercised a -wider influence upon the educational forces of -France than any other society; it is they who -are the deadliest enemy of the Republic; and as -they hold all the forts of tradition, aristocratic, -fashionable, and military, France may be said to -be in their hands. It is to be hoped that when -posterity comes to judge the recent crisis through -which France has passed it will not spare a society -which deserves ill at the hands of humanity.</p> - -<p>One of the things for which the Jesuits are to -be praised or blamed, according as you may<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_127"></a>[127]</span> -view the proceeding, is the extraordinary way -they follow their pupil out into the world and -through the various phases of his career. If he -forsakes them, as the harassed hero of <i>L’Empreinte</i> -does, an invisible hand arrests his course -at every step. He is the victim of the implacable -pursuit of those who trained him, while he -can never throw off the habit of dissimulation -acquired in his impressionable youth. Let him -go where he will, let him be what he will, the -moral of M. Estaunié’s masterly study is that he -is stamped with the imperishable stamp of Jesuitism. -He cannot be frank and straightforward, -even with a violent effort, and he knows that, -whatever he does, he is being watched and followed. -<i>L’Empreinte</i> is a book that should be -given to every newly married pair, in the hope -of making them think twice when their son is -born, before deciding to have him brought up by -the Jesuits. Since France is, on the whole, a -Catholic country, it would be unfair to the large -majority of the race to attempt to suppress the -seminaries, and prevent French boys from being -trained by priests. If the professors are laymen, -with a tolerably free hand, there is no reason -why the principals should not be ecclesiastics. -A good priest can do no harm anywhere, if only -he will abstain from politics and sedition. Indeed, -if he thought a little more of rigid truthfulness, -and recognised the value of sports in a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_128"></a>[128]</span> -boy’s training, I should be disposed to regard -him as an excellent college principal, for we -may be sure that his influence will be directed -against vice of every kind. Unfortunately, the -ecclesiastical temperament tends to undue interference -and espionage, for which the habits -of the confessional are mainly responsible. In -these novels by Jesuit pupils in revolt, the abuses -of the confessional in the training of boys are -clearly indicated, and though these abuses are -considerably diminished in the case of secular -priests, I still have no faith in the discretion of -the good Fathers of Stanislas.</p> - -<p>When I was present at the distribution of -prizes at the Sorbonne, a very imposing spectacle, -the display of Stanislas was that of a charming, -well-bred group of French lads, but behind -each I saw the spectre of dissimulation, the insidious -suggestion of the “priestly Father,” and -the glory of the Church to the detriment of the -State, the significant, inalterable law of Catholicity, -that the triumph of good is the justification of -evil, and that the law of Christ is less important -than the maintenance of sacerdotal prestige and -power. I looked attentively at those boys, and -asked myself what the value of such training -could be for them. For the priests who have -educated them, they represent so many prized -instruments against the Republic, and possibly -so many future souls in paradise. But they<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_129"></a>[129]</span> -themselves? When the present fashionable -craze for mere “exterior” Catholicity—which is -nothing more than an exasperated revolt against -foreign influences, on a level, in the record of -modern civilisation, with the outbreak of the -Boxers of China—shall have exhausted itself, -many of the lads will be mediocre freethinkers; -the greater part will be what are euphemistically -called “non-practical Catholics,” that is, men -who are not expected to go to Mass of a Sunday -in the shooting season, because it interferes with -their sport; who regard confession as a distraction -for women; who allow neither God nor the -devil to stand between them and the most -shameless vices, but who are married and buried -by the ritual of Holy Mother, the Church, and -whose friends, after their death, piously contemplate -them aloft, wreathed and winged, playing -harps and chanting hymns, who in life never -listened with pleasure to any but ribald songs -and unedifying verse.</p> - -<p>I have read attentively a little <i>mémoire</i> of the -Stanislas College, relating all that is to be told -about its routine and order. A sadder pamphlet -in connection with boyhood could not be found -anywhere. Not a moment’s liberty, not an hour -of honest gaiety; under the eye of the overseer -from their up-rising to their down-lying. It is -bad enough to think of girls so trained in convents; -but as the world expects less initiative,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_130"></a>[130]</span> -less independence, from women, it matters less -for them, though it matters much more than -parents believe. But who can expect such an -unhealthy system as that of Stanislas to turn out -straightforward, manly youths? I will translate -some of the laws of the institution, and the -reader may judge for himself. If it makes him -wish to have been brought up at Stanislas, under -the care of the good Marists (priests devoted to -the service of Mary), I can only say that I do not -envy his taste. To begin with, the system of -emulation I regard as disastrous; it invariably -opens the door to cheating and lying, to jealousy -and ill-will. Pride, sense of duty, affection for -their masters, are much higher incentives to -study than marks, which imply too much espionage -on the part of the masters. Stanislas -teaches by the desire of reward and the fear of -punishment. Even in the case of very young -children I hold that this system is deplorable; -in that of youths, who are fencing, riding, -studying philosophy and the higher mathematics, -I can only qualify it as idiotic. Why should -a boy receive a prize for behaving himself decently? -The moment you put a premium on -good conduct you invite the hypocritical to perfect -themselves in the art of duplicity in order to -compete for it. What master can honestly pronounce -on a boy’s character, and swear that the -good boy is quite as good as he looks? The<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_131"></a>[131]</span> -moment you tell him that to appear good is to -merit a prize, his goodness ceases to be disinterested, -and, therefore, virtuous; and in order not -to lose his own prize, won by the assiduous -suppression of impulse, of temperamental revelation, -of all natural instinct, is he not apt to fall -into the approved vice of assisting in the discovery -of the faults of his rivals? The only prizes -we can accept without moral danger are those -awarded for actual work done. These have -their pitfalls for character too, but there is not -nearly such peril of demoralisation. The conduct -and work of pupils are appreciated every -week by the number of marks, and rewards and -punishments are allotted accordingly. A hundred -marks buys an outing. Is not this atrocious? -That bad conduct should keep a boy -indoors when he might be out with his parents -is a recognised form of punishment for ill-behaviour; -but that he should have to purchase by -marks the right to go out seems to me altogether -wrong. Even a boy should have his -rights, his heritage of free birth; and to be -forced to pay for these upon the judgment of -others is an iniquity. Forty-one long pages are -devoted to the explanation of this futile, shabby, -and spying system of emulation, a kind of artificial -moral respiration, in which all apertures for -simplicity, frankness, and spontaneity are hermetically -sealed.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus07" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/illus07.jpg" alt="" /> - <p class="caption">THE CHAMBER OF DEPUTIES</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_132"></a>[132]</span></p> - -<p>Here, now, are the rules of the establishment. -Silence is compulsory, except at recreation -hours, and then speech is strictly controlled by -the president, for, says the pamphlet, “One of -the first conditions of the college order is silence; -those who are unable to keep silence are running -the risk of utter ignorance and worthlessness.” -One of the attributes of piety, also -enjoined, is found to be “friendship for those -who are worthy of it.” I should like the Marists -to explain to me what they mean by such an -extraordinary assertion. In the first place, who -is to pronounce on the kind of person worthy of -friendship, least of all a schoolboy? Is the pious -boy himself worthy of inspiring the sentiment? -Many a pious person is incapable of feeling -friendship for anybody. This does not take from -his piety. It merely proves that he is charming, -or cordial, or good-natured, which many an impious -soul may be. And why seek to turn a -pleasing young animal into a hateful little prig, -asking himself, when he should be playing -games and flattening an enemy’s nose, if the -boy he projects bestowing his friendship on is -worthy or not of it? Let the other boy be a -black, a brute, or a beggar, his comrade should -be content if he likes him. Friendship can never -have a more solid, human, and wholesome basis. -When we read this sentence we feel that the -little Stanislas prig, with his eyes turned down,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_133"></a>[133]</span> -and his toes turned out, wants a good kicking. -If only one could hope to see his nose bleed! -but alas! these are the laws of the recreation -ground: “All violent and dangerous games are -forbidden, likewise all games that touch upon -gambling, and cries, and songs, and whistling, -and, in general, all that resembles disorder of -any kind. It is forbidden to fling stones, to -communicate with pupils of another division, to -lie on the ground, to drag one another about, -to fight. And the pupils can never leave the -recreation-ground without leave.”</p> - -<p>If, after that, the reader does not agree with me -that it is a fine thing to be a British lad, with his -cricket, his football, his occasional black eyes, -his surreptitious feeding, his long-drawn accounts -with the lemonade and ginger-wine merchant, -his chatter, and escapades, I can only advise that -misguided individual to send his son with all -haste to Stanislas, and let him be turned out in -its approved fashion, a first-rate, consummate -prig and humbug, a well-mannered, French-speaking -young hypocrite, perfected in the art -of duplicity and self-repression, who, on the -order of the Marist Fathers, only bestows his -friendship on those worthy of it—individuals, -it is to be hoped, of his own self-conscious, -sanctimonious way of thinking. He has been -bred to calculate the value of every action and -every word, for each leads to punishment or<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_134"></a>[134]</span> -reward. He has never, for five mortal minutes, -been permitted to show himself for the young -barbarian he is. He is a pious old diplomat, a -rascal in <i>posse</i>, a sage in <i>esse</i>, when he ought to -be a simple, high-spirited, or dreaming child. -Between his spiritual readings, his meditations, -his confessions, church services, retreats, and -rigid discipline, whose control of every minute -only ceases when the poor martyr enters the -lovely land of dreams,—where the Marists, if -they could, would follow him, to see that imagination -played no tricks on their training, and -that in that world of vagaries and topsyturvyism -he was still the pious, silent, and obedient lad -they had formed,—he is not a form of boyhood it -is pleasant to contemplate. He is allowed fifteen -minutes to dress of a morning, under watch, to -see “that he dresses promptly and decently beside -his bed,” and out of that there is not much -time for ablutions. Possibly, like the kings of -France, his washing consists of ten fingers dipped -into a basin no larger than a milk-bowl. In class -he must make no movement of foot or desk, -his mind must not wander, he may not open -any other book but the class-book in use, he must -not draw, or give himself up to any frivolous occupation—presumably -verse-making. If he has -need to open his desk, he must only lift the lid -half-way, and never lock it, as the prefect visits -it once a week. He washes his feet once a week<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135"></a>[135]</span> -and his body once a month, and in summer -bathes twice a week. In the parlour he can be -visited only by his parents, or persons duly -authorised by his parents, and when he goes -home of a Sunday he must be escorted from the -college and back by a “person of confidence,” -furnished with a signed and dated letter. This -person can under no circumstances be accepted -if a young man.</p> - -<p>Those who have the responsibility of the -Stanislas pupil on his outing must observe the -precautions exacted by the directors. On going -out he receives an entrance ticket, which his -parents or guardian must fill up with the details -of his day, and this account is verified and -stamped on his return to the college. The pupil -who returns without an escort is punished for a -month. Should he obtain leave on false pretences, -he is expelled. He can advance by a day -or prolong for a day his winter and Easter vacations, -by payment of three thousand marks. -His letters to his parents or guardian are not read, -but they must bear the signature of these on the -envelope to assure their privacy; all the rest of -his correspondence is under strict control, and -the introduction of a book, not a class one, a -pamphlet, or a newspaper, constitutes an infraction -of the rules so grave as to merit expulsion. -This system of education begins at childhood, -when he enters the eleventh class and graduates<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_136"></a>[136]</span> -into the preparatory classes for the Naval School -and St. Cyr, when his moustache is beginning -to bud and he is still supposed to bestow his -friendship on those who are worthy of it. Poor -youth! He has learnt everything—from the -Catechism to mathematics, from philosophy (of -a kind) to fencing, riding, and gymnastics (also -of a kind, and warranted never to last longer than -half an hour, twice a week)—except simple -manliness, independence, and the real philosophy, -which will help to carry him decently through the -surprises and snares of existence, and help him to -meet unaided an emergency. Toss him roughly -from his Stanislas bark upon the turbulent sea of -experience, and what may you expect from this -fatuous, trained young hypocrite? The wave -rolls over him, carries him to the bottom, and he -comes up all covered with mud. Of course he -abuses freedom, a stimulant he has never known, -and he speedily converts it into the intoxicant -of licence.</p> - -<p>It will be seen that the training of boys, -whether in French seminaries or in French <i>lycées</i>, -is not the most perfect of its kind. There is the -careful home-training, too, which is, of course, -the best. But here also the shadow of the -Church towers over childhood. The boy leaves -his nurse’s hands to toddle into those of his ecclesiastical -tutor, Monsieur l’Abbé. He attends -<i>cours</i> and studies at home, with the priest,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_137"></a>[137]</span> -and when he attends the classes of a <i>lycée</i> he -is duly escorted back and forth, with all imaginable -precautions to prevent from getting in -his mind what should not be there; and finally -he is sent to St. Cyr or Saumur, with the usual -results. Gyp has given us an amusing sketch -of the innocent little lad of this period in <i>Le -Petit Bob</i>, about as black a little rascal as ever -breathed, and of the model Jesuit boy, “Monsieur -Fred,” an accomplished rake, when he is not -supposed to look above the rim of his prayer-book.</p> - -<p>And now let us glance at the training of the -girls. This is, if possible, more deplorable than -that of the boys. But it is an admirable testimony -to the natural superiority of the Frenchwoman’s -character that even the long-persistent -effort to spoil her in early years does not prevent -her from turning her liberty, when it comes, to -excellent account. The little French girl in her -mother’s home is happier, I believe, than any -other little girl of the world. No child has such -tender, such watchful, such devoted, parents as -she. She is enveloped in love and care from -her cradle, and her privilege is to hear delightful -speech about her. A foreign <i>gouvernante</i> will -be engaged to teach her whatever language it is -intended she shall speak fluently—German or -English. If she is not to go to a convent (and -this will be, in her interest, the only intelligent<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_138"></a>[138]</span> -decision) she attends <i>cours</i> like her brother, and -the <i>gouvernante</i> is superseded by the certificated -governess. A good governess, that is, a cultured -and liberal-minded lady, is a priceless blessing, -but, unhappily, she is rare. I do not know -why the best class of women avoid the mission -of training the young, for, in the case of a -woman without children of her own to train, it -ought to be regarded as an exceptionally noble -undertaking. It is not, however; and more’s -the pity. Society is to blame, with its inane -traditions, and, along with it, the senseless passion -for inflicting slight and pain upon those in -an inferior position which besets so many women -in their own homes. And so, not wishing -to be treated as servants, without any proper -status or dignity, the superior women, who -would make the best governesses, seek more independent -and congenial occupation; and the -training of girls at home falls into the hands of -hopeless mediocrities, who have little knowledge -and less manners, whose point of view is squalid -and shabby and personal. I have listened to the -complaints of many an unhappy governess, and -I will own I have always been shocked and sickened -by the silly way these women allow their -lives to be poisoned by considerations they should -have the dignity to ignore. How are young -women to acquire a noble influence over their -pupils when they are busy lamenting the fact<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_139"></a>[139]</span> -that biscuits at lunch were not offered to them, -or other such material and vulgar slights which -they usually dwell upon as unendurable? If they -have heart enough to love, and brains enough to -teach and guide, their pupils, and sufficient independence -of character not to let themselves be -trampled upon, overworked, or snubbed, of what -would they have to complain? Let them raise -the tone of their position, and they will get all -the respect they need and have a right to. I -know Frenchwomen who are grandmothers, -who still love and admire the feeble and disabled -governesses of their girlhood who have helped -to train their children and their grandchildren. -But in France the superior woman, who might -have made an excellent governess, is apt to -enter one of the teaching orders, where, instead -of doing the good she was intended to do singly, -she helps in the crowd to work evil.</p> - -<p>The home education of girls will be referred to -in another chapter; here I wish to treat of the -other kind,—the conventual training. Speaking -from extensive knowledge of it, and of wide -personal experience, I do not hesitate to qualify -it as the very worst possible. It is bad everywhere, -but nowhere is it so bad as in France. Its -essential object is the destruction of independence -and candour. I do not say that a frank girl will -never be met with in a convent, but you will -never find her among the privileged ones; she<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_140"></a>[140]</span> -will be one of the black sheep, one of the -unpliable, one of those who cannot be utilised -to full advantage for the greater glory of God, -A. M. D. G.! There never was a more subtle -legend invented by man for the pursuit of his -own aims under the mantle of self-abnegation.</p> - -<p>The convent girl is the creature of her environment. -You will know her by the hall-mark -of her manners. These will be perfect -when she comes out of The Assumption, or any -other Parisian convent of fashionable renown. -Wealthy converted Jews, of rabid anti-Semitic -tendencies, send their daughters to these famous -establishments for the knotting of useful social -ties. I have known of the children of a great -foreign merchant being accepted in one of these -centres of aristocratic exclusiveness, on the condition -that they concealed the fact that they belonged -to the commercial classes, and the result -was that the unfortunate children, with the natural -ease of their imaginative years, drifted into -glorious bragging and lying. There was no objection -on the part of their trainers to any exercise -of imagination that served to ennoble them; -the objection would have been provoked by betrayal -of the truth. It will be said that this is -an exceptional example perhaps. Not so. The -last thing recognised by nuns is the virtue of -poverty, the value of the lowly born. This fact -is so widely recognised by women who visit<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_141"></a>[141]</span> -convents that they themselves will not conceal -from you the importance nuns attach to dress, -and their indifference to shabbily attired visitors. -I still vividly remember a rebuke addressed to a -girl in an Irish convent who had got into a scrape -with a companion of inferior social rank. “I -am surprised at your choice of companion,” said -the nun loftily. “Remember, should you and -she encounter outside these walls, you will be -in your carriage and she will be on foot, and she -may count herself honoured if you are permitted -to salute her.” There is no reason why there -should not be vulgar-minded women within convent -walls as well as within the walls of pomp -and fashion, for, alas! vulgarity and snobbishness -abound; but it is significant that nuns, of -whatever nationality you find them, have a -strong predilection for the wealthy and well-born. -So, it will be said, have the large majority -of people, regarding these as the elect of the -earth. Well, if so, let girls, when they come to -be women, find this out for themselves. But as -children and girls, let not their freedom, their -spontaneity, be hampered by such unlovely distinctions. -Teach them to love all that is good -and pleasant in humanity, and let the daughter -of a marchioness at school make friends with -the daughter of a grocer, without condescension -on one side, or undue humility or concealment -on the other. Why should not a school seek<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_142"></a>[142]</span> -rather to be a republic, based upon the lovable -and republican principles of Christ’s Christianity? -The children of both classes will be the gainers, -and each will leave school with a hearty esteem -for the other. Relations can terminate here, for -there is no reason why school girls should continue -to be friends if their parents see any cause -for objection to the intimacy; but there is every -reason that they should learn to appreciate the -good there is to be found in those of a different -social rank from theirs—inferior or superior. -This is the very last thing they may hope to -learn in a fashionable convent, since there are no -greater worshippers at the shrine of birth and -fortune than nuns. I am aware that the difficulties -in the way of maintaining such a free -mingling of the classes would assuredly come -from the parents. The nobles would be horrified -if assurance were withheld of perfect social -exclusiveness for their offspring, and still more -angry would be the sham nobles, the purse-proud -snobs, whose selection of a convent for -their daughters depends solely upon its fashionable -reputation. It may also be contended that -the society of the better classes unfits a girl of -the commercial class for her after surroundings. -But this fact also is based upon false prejudice. -Lift the girl’s moral tone, and she will find -something else in the acquirement of good manners -than contempt of her equals.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_143"></a>[143]</span></p> - -<p>My next and still greater charge against conventual -education is the elimination by strict -supervision of all sentiment of honour. In -France two girls are forbidden to talk in the -recreation-ground. When they are seen to do -so, instead of being separated in an open fashion, -a third is secretly ordered to go and join them -in a friendly way, and then return and report -the subject of their talk to the nun in charge. -Needless to say, only the girls regarded as -trustworthy and virtuous are told off for this -diplomatic duty. I myself, being a hopelessly -black sheep, and, in consequence, excellent material -for the exercise of this peculiar form of -virtue, was long enough its victim before I -grasped the fact, and could not understand how -reverend mothers and such exalted personages -came to be familiar with all my whispered revolutionary -chatter. It would be wonderful if -girls so trained should in after life scruple to -read letters, to steam them if necessary, to listen -at doors, and to betray confidences of every kind. -And girls who know no other form of distraction -and play than the dull walking up and -down the recreation-ground, the nightly trial of -round games, where you sit in a large circle on -benches, with a string and a button attached to -it, which one girl passes to the other through -her closed fist, all singing French <i>rondes</i>, such -as <i>J’ai perdu le cor de ma clarionette</i>, or<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_144"></a>[144]</span> -<i>Malbrouck s’en va-t-en guerre</i>, or the glories -of Cadet Roussel? And this, remember, for -girls of sixteen and seventeen—craving intelligent -and exciting pastimes!</p> - -<p>How fervently I used to bless the headache or -cold that permitted me to slip up to bed after -supper, and escape from the evening recreation -into the more peopled and interesting solitude -of my own thoughts. Things may be better -since my day. Tennis, bathing, golf, cricket, -and racing may now be admitted as feminine -pastimes in those holy establishments where I -spent so many miserable and profitless years. -I hear that even baths are introduced, and that it -is no longer deemed by French nuns an offence -against modesty to wash oneself. But I recall -a very different state of affairs—a state so curious -that my French friends do not like to credit -it when I assure them of it. I was fourteen -when I was sent to school in France to acquire -the tongue of courts and diplomacy. On the -first morning that I awoke in the long, white-curtained -dormitory, I proceeded to wash and -dress myself as I had been taught to wash and -dress in English convents. I had deposited my -dressing-gown on my bed, and was splashing -my neck with water, when, to my astonishment, -a nun approached me noiselessly, lifted -my dressing-gown from the bed, and holding -her shocked glance averted murmured, <i>La<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_145"></a>[145]</span> -pudeur, mon enfant, la pudeur</i>, as she covered -my dripping neck in the folds of my dressing-gown. -When I clamoured for an explanation, I -was told it was not considered decent in France -for a young girl to wash her neck. We were -worse off than the young gentlemen of Stanislas, -whose feet are washed once a week; ours were -washed only once a fortnight, and then a cloth -was kept over them, lest the sight of our naked -feet in the water should lead to the loss of our -souls. For the years I was there, nobody, to my -knowledge, ever had a bath of any kind. However, -this is all changed, I am happy to say. -French nuns have had to move with the times -and accept the modern institution of baths.</p> - -<p>I hope they have also grown to accept the institution -of men. When I was at school we -were strictly forbidden to lift our eyes to a -man’s face. When the old doctor of eighty -passed through the courtyard, if any of us happened -to be about there was an instant cry of -alarm, <i>Baissez les yeux, mesdemoiselles. Il y a -du monde.</i> <i>Du monde</i> always meant the wolf -in trousers and coat, and we were invited ever -to tremble, blush, and lower our eyes in the -dreadful creature’s presence. It was a garrison -town, and whenever we walked abroad and -found officers upon our path nuns would skurry -down our black-robed ranks, crying in terrified -undertones, <i>Baissez les yeux, mesdemoiselles.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_146"></a>[146]</span> -Messieurs les officiers vous regardent.</i> Will any -one explain to me the mental and moral value -of such training? Is it not shocking that innocent -girls should be bred in the notion that there -is any reason why they should not look men -frankly and simply in the face?</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 21.875em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/footer5.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_147"></a>[147]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/header8.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI<br /> -<span class="smaller">NATIONAL INSTITUTIONS</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>Among the national institutions of France, -the place of honour must undoubtedly be -given to the Académie Française; not because -of its utility, still less for the amount of respect -and admiration it deserves. My own opinion is, -that a more fantastic and ridiculous institution -was never invented; and to-day it has no connexion -between our democratic times and the -monstrous period in which it was founded. -Why forty respectable gentlemen who happen -to have written books more or less good (and -by no means always such as to justify their -election), composed tolerable operas, written -amusing or instructive plays, as the case may be, -should not have been content with the applause -and pence of their fellows, but must needs array -themselves in an absurd uniform, with triumphant -green palm-leaves embroidered over a -modern coat, and a toy sword at their side, -and play at immortality, is what I have never -been able to understand. As if the votes of his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_148"></a>[148]</span> -contemporaries can possibly decide the question -of a man’s immortality!</p> - -<p>Read over the lists of academicians since -Richelieu’s time, and see how many among all -those names you will ever have heard of. Intrigue -and prejudice frequently settle the question -of a day’s immortality. But in the case of a -century’s fame it requires solid merit of a higher -order than that which is often necessary to -secure the election of a candidate to an armchair -among the favoured Forty. Flaubert -and Maupassant assuredly hold very different -places in French literature from those occupied -by the mild André Theuriet and the dull Paul -Bourget; and it is as difficult to explain the absence -of Balzac from this literary club half a -century ago as it is to explain the presence there -to-day of M. Henri Lavedan. The mystified -foreigner notes that Balzac created the colossal -<i>Comédie Humaine</i>, and that M. Lavedan wrote -<i>Le Vieux Marcheur</i>, and is apt to tell himself -gleefully that the judgment of the elect in France -is no wiser, no more judicious, than that of the -common herd elsewhere. But of course the -institution, with its pretentious traditions, its -mock air of the <i>ancien régime</i>, is only a club, -whose members choose their society upon other -than intellectual grounds. There is a great deal -of wire-pulling, too, in the matter, chiefly done -by women. In fact, when the noble dames of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_149"></a>[149]</span> -the Faubourg decide to run a candidate, he is -pretty certain to be elected. Loti was run by -those ladies, and the first thing he did was to -scare the club by breaking with all its traditions -and making a mockery of academic urbanity. -Lavedan, as a reactionary candidate, was naturally -the protected of clericals, aristocrats, and -the flower of snobbery, and committed a still -greater breach of academic etiquette than Loti, -by a veiled and sneering attack upon the dead -he was deputed to belaud.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus08" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/illus08.jpg" alt="" /> - <p class="caption">THE FRENCH ACADEMY</p> -</div> - -<p>I was present at this extraordinary <i>séance</i>, -and, although the Marquis Costa de Beauregard -is an academician whom posterity may in all -safety be reckoned on to ignore, it was impossible -to withhold cordial recognition of the justice -and good taste of his sharp retort to the inexcusable -offender. Meilhac, whose empty chair -M. Lavedan was elected to fill, may or may not -have been as black as his appointed eulogist -painted him, but the Academy was not the place -to attack this character, and the occasion chosen -by M. Lavedan was as indelicate as if he had selected -a man’s open grave, with mourning relatives -and friends around, for disrespectful usage -of his name. Stupefied, as was everyone else -by this singular proceeding, I questioned a friend -whose privilege it is to wear the palm-embroidered -coat and mother-of-pearl sword, and was -told that this was M. Lavedan’s way of avenging<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_150"></a>[150]</span> -the disapproval of the Academy of his <i>Vieux -Marcheur</i>, played only after his election. These -nervous elderly gentlemen, unacquainted with -the literature of their new colleague, were desperately -alarmed when they were made aware -of the nature of this popular and shocking play. -The sensations of the hen affrighted on the edge -of a pool where her duckling is disporting were -nothing to theirs; and so the author, at bay, -took his revenge by endeavouring, with more -talent than taste, to prove to them that, if they -did not relish the <i>Vieux Marcheur</i> (something -in the style of “sad old rake”) out of their -doors, they could be extremely indulgent to the -same type of gentleman within those sacred precincts. -At a more recent election, that of M. -Paul Hervieu, M. Brunetière, reversing the order -of contumely, was nothing loath to poke blame -at the newly received Immortal because of his -social cynicism and the unkind pictures M. -Hervieu has drawn of the world of men and -women M. Brunetière delights to honour. But -we need not penetrate beneath the surface to -explain such an inhospitable fashion of receiving -a candidate into this classical club. M. Brunetière, -the discoverer of Bossuet, is a fervent reactionary. -The Church, the Army, Society,—behold -his gods!—with the result that, in the deadly conflict -waged for two years round an unfortunate -Jew, M. Brunetière went with the unjust majority,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_151"></a>[151]</span> -while M. Hervieu, the author of that dramatic -and brilliant thesis on Feminism, <i>La Loi -de l’Homme</i>, went with the just and liberal -minority. It needed nothing more to give him -over as a meal to the omnivorous editor of the -<i>Revue des deux Mondes</i>, whose virtuous indignation -against M. Hervieu’s generous cry for -justice to women knew no bounds.</p> - -<p>In the present divided state of France, with -anti-Semitism raging and disaffection rife in -all quarters, even a pacific academical reception -approaches the verbal war waged in the arena -of politics conducted with leisure and urbanity. -The ceremonial is imposing and of a supreme -dulness. If you have a centre seat, the wise -thing to do is to go early and amuse yourself by -watching the arrivals; or manage to arrive at the -last moment, and you will have the best seat of -all, in the very middle of the hall, literally at the -feet of the Immortals. If you know all Paris, -you will enjoy yourself, for you will see and be -seen of all Paris, and the dresses are usually worth -looking at. After that you have the mild excitement -of watching the Immortals enter, to your -surprise not in academical raiment, but in ordinary -coats, wearing the air of ordinary men. -Only the godfathers of the newly elected, the perpetual -secretary, the chancellor, always the latest -member, and the gentleman deputed to receive -the new Immortal wear the sword and palm-embroidered<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_152"></a>[152]</span> -coat. There are no arm-chairs, but -wooden benches ill adapted to the ease of age. -The classical hall is about as squalid and uncomfortable -a vestibule of posterity as one could -wish to see, and is so ill-ventilated that, when it -is full, as it always is, to excess, the spectators -are frequently threatened with apoplexy or syncope. -Whenever I get away sound and alive -from beneath the celebrated cupola, I always feel -that I have escaped unharmed from actual peril.</p> - -<p>Then the newly elected stands at a reading-desk -and reads out the eulogy of his predecessor, -which a committee has already been -convened to consider, and when he terminates -his “discourse,” his godfathers warmly shake -his hand, and he sits down. The academician -who receives him in the name of the august assembly -replies, and reads his discourse sitting, -placed between the chancellor and secretary, at -the centre table, on a high daïs. When the -speakers read their discourses as M. Brunetière -reads his, it is a pleasure, whether you agree -with them or not; but this is rare, for M. -Brunetière was meant by nature to be a preacher -or an actor. His elocution is magnificent, his -voice arresting; whereas the average man is hard -to follow and, in winter, is apt to have a cold in -his head. After the ceremony, greetings during -the exit, which is slow and precarious, and in -the big courtyard proclaim you a fashionable<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_153"></a>[153]</span> -person, and reveal to you the utter vanity of the -whole affair. Then you understand why it is -that women are supposed to be the pillars of -the institution. There is something essentially -wrong about fashionable women. They must, -perforce, worship false gods. When they admire -a writer, or a musician, or a dramatist, they -are not happy until they see him in a false position. -They must make a fool of him before -they can consent to worship him. He administers -to their vanity, and they administer to his. -And so they go in a body to crown him; and -not to be present at the crowning is a confession -of social inferiority. Being more intelligent -than the same class of women elsewhere, their -folly takes this form of rendering interesting -men ridiculous. If I thought them capable of -humour and irony (which they are not), I might -regard this as the supreme vengeance of their -sex, excluded by national prejudice from all -public honours. But, alas! no. They are in -deadly earnest, and take their great men with -rapture and gravity. They, at any rate, and -the Immortals themselves, really believe in the -Academy. They swallow each other, and piously -give thanks for the meal. The fashionable -woman hastens to invite the new Immortal -to dinner for the exquisite satisfaction of giving -him the place of honour and conferring distinction -upon herself.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_154"></a>[154]</span></p> - -<p>“However,” as Sainte-Beuve says, “we may -jeer at the French Academy, but it has not -ceased to be popular in Europe.” Foreigners -and Parisians are equally eager for tickets, and -French genius more eager than either for the -prizes and renown it confers. It is one of the -monarchical institutions restored by the Convention -after its suppression in the Terror. Only, -instead of the monarchical Institute it had been, -it became a national Institute, existing by grace -of the State and the people, and not by that of a -minister like Richelieu, or a monarch like Louis -XIV. It was thus composed of a hundred and -forty-four members in Paris, and an equal number -in the provinces, with power to associate -twenty-four learned men with its corps. It was -divided into three parts: Physical and Mathematical -Sciences, Moral and Political Sciences, -and Literature and the Fine Arts. This new national -Institute was opened on the 4th of April, -1796, when Daunou pronounced the inaugural -address. In those days there was no such thing -as a perpetual secretary. The excellent republican -spirit of the State was naturally modified -under the Consulate, and completely demoralised -under the Empire. Napoleon reinstituted the -perpetual secretary of the <i>ancien régime</i>, suppressed -the class of Political and Moral Sciences,—the -least to be expected of a political dictator -without any notion of morality,—and divided<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_155"></a>[155]</span> -the two other classes into three, and thus restored -the ancient Academy of Sciences, French -Academy, Academy of Inscriptions and Letters, -the Academies of Painting and Sculpture. -Hence grew the ambition to connect, in unbroken -continuity, the defunct institution of -a vanished monarchy and the new institution -of the Directory. In 1803, it began the reactionary -period, and posed as Royalist in sentiments -and opinions. Sainte-Beuve defines -the Academy as that of the reigning perpetual -secretary.</p> - -<p>What the Academy really remains is the home -of tradition. Here the main thing is not intellect, -but distinction; not genius, but the consummate -perfection of expression. Urbanity is -its hall-mark, and what it most dreads in originality -is the abuse of novelty. You may have -little to say; only see that your way of saying -it cannot be bettered. It has been blamed for -excluding from its ranks so much real genius; -and this blame would, of course, be earned by -it if its object were so much the recognition of -genius as the welcome to its midst of a congenial -spirit. Gautier, with his long hair and -red waistcoat, was not a congenial spirit, though -if finish of style, charm, urbanity, and exquisite -grace are accounted academical graces, there -never was a writer to whom the term “born -academician” was more applicable. But the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_156"></a>[156]</span> -Academy always sees that there is a bulldog on -the threshold to show his teeth to the “masters” -of to-morrow; a pedagogue to teach the aspirants -to academical honours how they should -write and think, and what small beer their -literary pretensions are regarded by the Forty -Immortals he speaks for so arrogantly. The -bulldog of the hour is M. Brunetière. This unamiable -pedant, the enemy of individualism and -youth, the enemy of all things not hall-marked -with his pontifical approval, has announced that -Zola can enter the Academy only across his dead -body. He has many hatreds to balance the immensity -of his single love and admiration, the -Eagle of Meaux, but none that can compare -with his implacable hostility to Zola. And yet -this academical pontiff, who disapproved of -Daudet, wiped out the Naturalists, shot bilious -blame at M. Jules Lemaître (that was before this -amiable individual sought ridicule in the famous -Ligue de la Patrie Française, a sentiment he, -MM. Coppée, and Barrès were the first Frenchmen -of their time to discover) and at Anatole -France, whose shoe-strings he is not fit to tie, -allows M. Henri Lavedan to sit beside him, and -does not repudiate <i>Le Vieux Marcheur</i>.</p> - -<p>While all France has been divided of late, it -would be demanding a superhuman effort of -urbanity and harmony from the Immortals to -expect a concord of sweet sounds to be heard<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_157"></a>[157]</span> -beneath the famed cupola. Politics have introduced -their consequent animosity and bitterness -here as elsewhere, and the academicians, -like the rest of their compatriots, are ranged -in two defiant and hostile camps. I am bound -to say that the <i>élite</i> is with the splendid and -disinterested minority. It is sad to witness -the extraordinary capers, the passion for popularity -in which an intelligent man like M. -Lemaître indulges, and to see him brandishing -a wild pen and shouting in every tone of -anger; so little dignity and common sense are -left a Frenchman when hate and rancour hold -him and when race-fury rolls over the land -like a tidal wave, <i>Vive l’armée!</i> This famous -critic has betaken himself to a sort of politics invented -for the hour—a feverish antagonism to -foreigners and all foreign influences, and a passion -for every form of sabred hero. He goes -from the Clotilde to Notre Dame, from Notre -Dame to the Madeleine, in the glorious attitude -and humour of the Irishman at Donnybrook Fair, -seeking for somebody in the crowd who will -tread upon the tail of his coat. This offence -may be committed by cheering the Republic or -its President; then there is instant competition -in pugilism. And so M. Lemaître, accompanied -and admirably assisted by his no less heroic and -patriotic fellow academician, M. Coppée, forgets -academical urbanity in wild and incoherent abuse<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_158"></a>[158]</span> -of living persons and respectable citizens who -happen not to think as he does.</p> - -<p>This state of affairs has given rise to countless -rumours and jokes over the compilation of the -eternal dictionary upon which the illustrious -company is engaged. How is it possible for -men who disagree upon the essentials of morality, -justice, honour, and truth to agree upon the -definition of a word? In olden days the occasional -antagonisms of this renowned salon were -rare or were revealed with a sympathetic vivacity -and wit. Sainte-Beuve could say: “The -Academy is the place where literature is the best -discussed and where all the amenities are most -rigorously observed.” Now all that is changed. -Happily, as an interlude in internecine warfare, -there is the yearly examination of books and -prizes to award. These are many. It is a -mistake to believe that a book crowned by the -Academy is necessarily good. Noting one year -that several absolutely bad, as well as many -mediocre, books had been crowned, and sums -of money awarded to the malefactors who had -perpetrated them, I asked an academician how -it was. His explanation was, that so much must -be spent on prizes every year, whether there are -books to crown or not, as it would excessively -complicate the affairs of such a rich body if these -sums were allowed to accumulate. Of course -there are certain large prizes, such as the Jean<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_159"></a>[159]</span> -Reynaud (£400), which are carefully and justly -disposed of, but the multiple insignificant ones -of £10, £20, and £40, are distributed as well -as they can be in days when there is not a -plethora of real talent in France. It is not -only literary works that merit academical prizes. -There is the Montyon prize, awarded to “the -poor French man or woman who has done the -most virtuous action during the year.” The sum -spent on prizes under this head is £800, and it is -divided between several poor persons whose -lives are looked into, and of whom usually a -touching and admirable picture is drawn. It -would not be in the nature of things if the distribution -of this prize did not provoke much humorous -comment in France. Some satirists maintain -that the candidates for the Montyon prize invariably -go to the dogs after they have been rewarded. -I was once present at the reading out of the numerous -actions so recompensed by M. Brunetière, -and I was never more deeply impressed by the -splendid record of virtue, of unparalleled abnegation -and generosity, among the French poor. -The second Montyon prize is destined to reward -the most useful moral book written during the -year. There are also prizes destined to alleviate -literary misfortunes, that is, unfortunate authors -or their widows and families in trouble.</p> - -<p>The old house of Molière is, like the Academy, -a permanent attraction of Paris. It stands in the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_160"></a>[160]</span> -Rue de Richelieu, on a Place of its own, a light, -animated, illuminated Place, dominated by the -columns of the Théâtre Français. This was established -here after the Revolution, and, thanks -to the famous Decree of Moscow, its name is -almost as eternally linked with that of Napoleon -as with those of the immortal Molière and of -Louis XIV., a more liberal but not less exacting -master of France than the Corsican adventurer.</p> - -<p>There is not a civilised land that has not -something to learn of other lands. While the -French may well envy the more stable and self-respecting -government of England, England -might just as well borrow something of France; -and one of the things it ought to envy is the -establishment, two centuries ago, of a national -theatre. The result for France has been the -most perfect dramatic school of the world. The -suppression of excessive individuality is a benefit -to the entire company, as it forbids any ambition -to “star.” We have seen what the star -system has done for the two great artists who -broke away from its traditions to amass fortunes -and fling their reputations to all the quarters -of the globe. South America has had the privilege -of hearing Sarah Bernhardt, but the artist -who left the Théâtre Français had genius of a -finer quality and theatrical cultivation of a higher -order than those displayed to-day by this extraordinary -woman in the various more or less<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_161"></a>[161]</span> -mediocre plays she acts in, often without a -single other actor or actress worth listening to. -The starring system is essentially the development -of all that is worst in the artist—vulgarity, -crude bids for personal popularity, blighting -vanity, and egotism; in a word, all the cheapest -characteristics of the charlatan. It is precisely -these ugly defects that such an institution as the -Comédie Française tends to suppress. There -the reputation of the company and not of the -individual is at stake. Minor parts are played -by eminent artists, and the excessive vanity and -pretension of the one become the plague of the -many. I will not advance the assertion that -everybody in the famous company of the Comédie -Française is equally admirable. Temperament -will, of course, prompt your criticism. -For instance, Mounet-Sully is the beloved of -many a nation as well as of thousands of his -own countrymen, and I can scarcely listen to -Mounet-Sully with patience. A greater bore I -cannot conceive. He belongs to the Byronic -school, the days of cloaked and sabred romance. -His sombre voice lifts itself on a volume of -sound, and is flung in mournful and passionate -reproach against the implacable walls of destiny. -But yet in your most exasperated mood, with -nerves on edge from his excess of clouded despair -and desperate anguish, you must admit -that the man is a perfect artist, and that such a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_162"></a>[162]</span> -temperament starring about the globe, without -the control of the company to which he belongs, -would drift into ineffable charlatanism. Poor -M. Claretie has much ado to keep him in order. -What would happen if he had a stage of his -own to rant and roar upon? A lesser Sarah -Bernhardt, without her inexpressible charm and -her undoubted genius, which in soft interludes -help us to bear with the shrieking, hysteric, high -moments. It would be a mistake to regard the -Français as a kind of happy family, living in -perfect amity and peace. The roar of domestic -war sometimes penetrates without, and all Paris -was excited lately by M. Le Bargy’s noisy menace -of resignation. Le Bargy, on his own boards, -in his own atmosphere, surrounded by his own -company, has made his mark as a well-cravatted, -fashionable young lover; but what will Le Bargy -do elsewhere, in a theatre where, with his prestige, -and coming from such a house, he will be -expected to fill the stage? I doubt if there is -the stuff of the star in him, and upon the Boulevards -there are many actors as good as and better -even than he. This is the triumph of the Français,—that -by means of inexorable tradition and -training, without individuality or genius, actors -acting harmoniously, guided by a common standard, -may attain an eminence in their profession -achieved in no other land. And though the -chances of fortune and popularity are much<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_163"></a>[163]</span> -greater outside its walls, popular actors are always -proud of the honour of election into its -illustrious company.</p> - -<p>The theatre was founded by Louis XIV., by -whom it was made a co-operative association, -and who established pensions for retiring members. -It has two classes of actors: <i>sociétaires</i>, -who have each an interest in the theatre, have a -voice in its government, a share of the profits, -assist at the choice of plays, and retire with a -pension. On retirement, they possess not only -their pension, but a little capital of their own, -the half of their share of the profits of the theatre -having been annually invested for them. The -second class is composed of <i>pensionnaires</i>, engaged -yearly at a fixed salary, and at the end of -a certain period of probation nominated <i>sociétaires</i>. -Napoleon chose the most astonishing -hour of his astonishing career for consideration -of the destiny of the Théâtre Français. At Moscow -he diverted his mind from colossal disaster -by framing the celebrated Decree of -Moscow. The theatre is a State institution, -subsidised by an annual vote of 240,000 francs, -in return for which it is bound to play the old -classical repertory twice or thrice a week. By -this means the memory of the masters of the -French drama, Racine, Corneille, and Molière, is -kept ever green in France, and is not less fresh -to-day than that of the modern dramatists.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_164"></a>[164]</span></p> - -<p>And so one understands how the entire world -was affected by the dreadful catastrophe not long -ago in the burning of this great old house. -Neither M. Claretie, with his eyes full of tears, -nor any of the distracted company was bemoaning -a personal loss, was thinking of private interests -in sight of the devastating flames; but all -were throbbing, as one heart, before a national -calamity. The civilised world felt it had lost a -precious and a unique thing. The new building -will contain most of the rescued works of art, -but the figures of Rachel, of Delaunay, of so -many shades of departed dramatic glory, have -gone. The new theatre will probably be handsomer -than the old one, and it could easily be -that; it will also be more modern, more comfortable; -it may even be fitted up with luxury, -and, Heaven permit it! that horrid national institution, -the <i>ouvreuse</i>, may be abolished. Blessed -changes! but we of our generation will ever be -grateful that it was on the old stage we saw Got -and Reichemberg, Worms, Barretta, and Bartet.</p> - -<p>L’École des Beaux Arts is another national institution. -In all things the French passion for -art is visible. Art is the one thing the entire race -takes seriously. The capital is laid out to please -the eye and captivate the senses like a work of -art. This School of Fine Arts itself is connected -with one of the most radiant bits of -Paris. The bridge, called after it, seizes<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_165"></a>[165]</span> -one of the loveliest views of the city. It spans -the river between the glorious Louvre and the -imposing dome of the Institute. Stand midway, -and here, in the heart of modern life, will -you find yourself in the midst of enchantment. -Let the vision be a morning vision, and the lights -about you will be pearly, the blue of the air -rose-tinged, the gold of the sun-rays, as it shimmers -over the water, broken and tossed against -its blithe, persistent grey. Or see it at the magical -hour of sunset. All the gilt of the Louvre -glistens like living light. Towers and fretted -spires are pencilled in the lovely glow, seemingly -enlarged by the large serenity of the atmosphere. -Below, the roll of the river curls into the deep -grey hollows of the mysterious isle whose gates -of romance are fittingly guarded by the high -towers of Notre Dame, the church that foreigners -will persist in regarding as the most beautiful of -Paris, and whose architectural value has been -absurdly overrated, I suppose because of Victor -Hugo; while Saint Étienne-du-Mont, with its -delightful <i>jubé</i>, Saint Germain l’Auxerrois, home -of poetry, and the exquisite Sainte Chapelle are -neglected for this second-rate edifice. On one -side Richelieu’s dome, fronted by its circling -space which breaks the winding, gracious line -of quay and bookstalls; on the other, Saint -Germain l’Auxerrois, bending its Gothic shadow -to the bright glory of the Louvre, and the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_166"></a>[166]</span> -upward view running past bridges and gardens, -past the grey temple of legislation, to sweep -upon a wide curve into the colonnaded heights -of the Trocadero. The picture is enhanced by -the bright verdure of the Tuileries gardens; by -the gay, swift passage of boats; by all the -sparkling diversities of Parisian life which fill the -streets with so much colour and charm. When -you have crossed the Pont des Beaux Arts, on -which I have kept you standing awhile, you will -enter the school by the busy, old-fashioned, almost -provincial Rue Bonaparte. What a pleasant -place it is to be sure, this modern school of -art! Here it is that the famous Prix de Rome is -given, which sends hopeful youths to the very -fount and cradle of art for its instruction and -gratification, but not infrequently for the careful -destruction of all individuality of sprouting -genius in thrall to academic rule. It is the rigidity -of this academic rule in France which produces -such explosions of anarchy in literature -and art. Precision and clarity are such essential -characteristics of the genius of the race that, -when turbulent youth in a tempest of revolt -against the discipline of the implacable academies -decides to fling its cap over the mill, and carve -out its own fresh road to the devil, we are -shocked by eccentricities that elsewhere would -leave us unmoved.</p> - -<p>If youth must occasionally go mad, at least we<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_167"></a>[167]</span> -demand that French youth shall go mad with -sanity of taste and judgment. His Anglo-Saxon -brother in a like predicament may be as imprecise, -as vague and obscure, as racial character and the -genius of his language permit, but we exact of -this raging Gaul that his insanity shall be beautifully -measured by the canons of art. And so his -excesses in anarchy appear to our judgment far -more grievous crimes against taste and tact than -those of less intellectually and artistically disciplined -races. When he falls away from the lines -of beauty his defection is more deplorable than -another’s. We are accustomed to count upon -him as a model of elegance in all the finer paths -of pleasure; and when he dips into crabbed -prose or rude verse, or paints us, as a symphony -of modern morals, a naked woman playing the -piano, with a fashionable hat on a vulgarly -dressed head, we resent the hideous joke as evidence -of unjustifiable lawlessness. The Prix de -Rome may have something to do with these -outbreaks. The best art of the world has been -spontaneous and not academic; and though we -may admit that training is a priceless advantage -in all paths, the individual influence of one master -of his craft is far above that of all the academies -ever formed. The French in all things depend -too exclusively on institutions. They tired of -the tyranny of Throne and Church, and overthrew -the one and shook the altars of the other.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_168"></a>[168]</span> -But the abiding tyranny of institutions they unmurmuringly -accept and submit to as their substitution. -Louis XIV. and Napoleon ruled the -people with a rod of iron; each combined in his -personal prestige and power all the resources of -the various institutions which, united, now represent -the authority of a single man. The traditions -of subservience that they left were not to -be shaken off, in spite of revolutions and occasional -canters down the wild road of anarchy. -There dwell permanently in the race a terror and -distrust of individualism and initiative. Since it -has shaken off the shackles of kings and dictators, -it must walk in willing servitude to the -countless smaller, and, it must be admitted, less -obnoxious, tyrannies it maintains for the clipping -of its own wings, and which form a kind of -stable throne for its prestige. For what would -France be in the eyes of the world without its -five Academies, without its École des Beaux Arts, -its Théâtre Français, the house of Molière, -without its high literary tradition, the distinction -and elegance of all that emanates from -its genius? The liberty of the gypsy is undoubtedly -the greatest blessing of life, freedom -to paint, to write, to act, to speak, to breathe, by -spontaneous and untrammelled effort, freedom -to ride upon the crests of inspiration unmindful -of the approval of the fogies of tradition, to tilt -against the windmills of discord in one’s own<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_169"></a>[169]</span> -manner without a thought for “conservatoire” or -national opera-house, to go a-sailing on the lake -of dreams, without calculating the benefit it may -be to your pocket, and dive for pearls of fancy -without reckoning their market value. But civilisation -sets too just a value upon the benefits of -tradition and discipline to tolerate this nomad -contempt of their advantages; and in no country -are these advantages more highly prized than in -France, the land of revolution and unrest. Even -the follies of the Latin Quarter, as long as they -lasted, were rigidly based upon the traditions of -that wild spot. <i>La Vie de Bohème</i>, for all its -apparent recklessness of rowdy students and -Mimi Pinsons and Lisettes, had its traditions in -vice and virtue, deviation from which was regarded -an infraction as intolerable as ever could -be deviation from those of the five Academies or -the Comédie Française. The student in the process -of going to the dogs was bound to go thither -in the way of the Quarter. He inherited from a -long line of genius his hat and his garments, the -cut of his hair and beard, his sins and attitudes. -The road of pleasure and pain, of wickedness -and repentance, of distraction and despair, was -cut out for him upon tradition as unswervable as -that of the most respectable institution, and to -act the proper part assigned him in the triumph -of disreputableness he should take Villon for his -model, or wring out the sombre folds of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_170"></a>[170]</span> -poet’s mantle in the gaiety and genial ruffianism -of the modern ideal of the Latin Quarter. But -here, happily, we alight upon an institution in -process of doom. The Quarter is in the pangs -of transformation, and soon the cheap and unsympathetic -heroes of Mürger will be but a -memory, and not a decent one at that. Along -the “Boul. Mich.” youths are beginning to pay -their way, for all the world like the common -“beastly burgess” across the river.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus09" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/illus09.jpg" alt="" /> - <p class="caption">THE FOYER OF THE OPERA-HOUSE</p> -</div> - -<p>The Conservatoire is another national institution. -Like the Academy and the Comédie Française, -it is a home of traditions. The airy foreigner -who wishes to assist at one of its concerts cannot -hope to open its doors with a golden key. Its seats -are subscribed for and constitute personal property. -Should the foreigner be fortunate enough -to possess a friend with one of these seats who -is willing to sacrifice a concert for his benefit, he -will hear a marvellous orchestra. For a short -time the scene of this unique harmony of sound -was shifted from the neighbourhood of the -Upper Boulevards to the boards of the Opera-house, -and the result was sheer disaster. The -orchestra of the Conservatoire is just suited to -its own select little hall, but it is too delicate, too -perfect, for transposition to a big theatre like the -Opera-house of Paris. There you need instrumentation -of a coarser quality, music less subtly -rendered. Where the polka may be fitly danced,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_171"></a>[171]</span> -the <i>pavane</i> would be out of place. M. Taffanel, -the able conductor of the Conservatoire orchestra, -cannot compare with the great German conductors; -he has not the genius of Mottl, nor the -magical temperament of Weingartner, nor the -individuality of the French conductor, the late -Lamoureux. But in his quiet, measured way he -is an incomparable artist, to judge him by the -results of his lead. When Weingartner and -Mottl conduct, the attention is continually drawn -to them. Indeed, in the case of Weingartner, -who is unreasonably affected, and, like every -other artist with a “temperament,” is apt to exaggerate -its privileges, the audience is ever more -conscious of him than of his instruments. He is -a superb master, but one wishes him less histrionic. -Now, M. Taffanel has not a suspicion -of affectation or histrionism. He is simplicity -itself, the very model of impersonality. He so -effaces himself that you are conscious of his -presence only by the perfection of his orchestra. -He is so easy and subdued that he hardly seems -necessary in this admirable triumph of art. Of -course, as his house is the home of tradition, -Wagner is excluded. Wagner dominates outside, -but in here it is the masters consecrated by -unmixed approval who rule the ear. Mounet-Sully -will read to you, in his inimitable, sombre -Byronic way, the ravings of Manfred, while -Schumann will roll your soul over the crests of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_172"></a>[172]</span> -musical passion. Beethoven will speak to your -heart and brain like a god, and Mozart will captivate -you with his joyous melody and sweetness, -but not a note of Wagner, the modern Colossus. -It is well that this exclusive home of music should -be kept up upon its aristocratic traditions—the -best orchestra of the world and the least accessible; -but the evil effect of exclusiveness is at -once visible in a glance around at the audience. -Daudet has written that the French do not in -their hearts really like classical music. I think it -is true. They delight too much in conversation -to delight in music as the duller, the denser, and -more sentimental Germans do. But to have a -seat at the Conservatoire denotes wealth, the -prestige of fashion; and so they go to each -concert more to see and be seen than to hear. -In doing so they are conscious of being part of -the <i>chic</i> world. In the <i>loges</i> around you, men -and women talk of every mortal thing except -the music heard; and the chief anxiety of both -sexes, if I may judge by the testimony of my ears -on repeated occasions, is to know what baron, -count, marquis, marchioness, or duchess is present, -with smart remarks upon their dress. The -Conservatoire is a traditional school of music -and of the drama; prizes are awarded upon the -test of examination, and reputations started here -which may end in celebrity.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_173"></a>[173]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/header9.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII<br /> -<span class="smaller">HOME-LIFE IN FRANCE</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>There is no race on the face of the earth -whose home-life is so enviable as that of -the French. Both men and women bring the -best of their qualities to the making and maintaining -of this admirable domestic institution. -It is, perhaps, too perfect, too wadded, for any -people which may hold the theory that domestic -happiness is an inferior ideal. It explains to us -why the French are bad colonists, why initiative -and enterprise are less developed here -than in the regions of rougher interiors. The -atmosphere of a French home is the most delightful -I know. I cannot see why men and -women should be expected willingly to tear -themselves away from it in search of dubious -prosperity and happiness among barbarians. -After all, it seems to me that human happiness is -as high an ideal as any of us can justly lay claim -to; and if we want our own happiness we are -pretty certain to want that of others, for the few -who find their happiness in the misery of those<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_174"></a>[174]</span> -around them are lower than the brutes. In England -and in Ireland I have seen men and women -of this sort, persons of diseased selfishness, who, -in their homes, surrounded by others, live only -for themselves, and whose sole mission in life apparently -is to render those same victims of their -proximity as wretched as possible.</p> - -<p>Frenchwomen are not perfect, we know, -since they are human. They have their meannesses, -their spites, their pettinesses, and jealousies, -like others; they are largely tainted with the -vice of avarice, and it cannot be said that they -are, in general, capable of climbing the heights -of disinterestedness. They love money, and -they save it. But, whatever their faults, I dare -to say that no race of women can show a smaller -percentage of shrews and reckless mischief-makers. -Their discretion is extraordinary, and -no less extraordinary is the equable, dignified -nature of their domestic rule. They have their -tantrums like other women, but they are surprisingly -free from the vice of scolding. The -word “termagant” was never invented for the -pleasing and tactful Frenchwoman. She will -blight your life by other means should she have -that fancy. Economy is her great and unlovable -virtue. If she clips the wings of romance so -ruthlessly, it is always in the interests of economy. -I do not give her ideal as the highest or -the noblest; it is even lower, perhaps, than that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_175"></a>[175]</span> -of many other classes of women, since it is exclusively -occupied with the state of her own and -her progeny’s purse. But the process by which -she attains this ideal is charming in itself. She -cheerfully makes every personal sacrifice needful, -and counts herself blest when she places the -hand of a son or daughter in that of a suitable -match, with fortune proportionate and prospects -of equal promise. She lives for her husband -and children; and if, as the fashionable novelists -assure us, she often deviates from the path of -virtue,—makes, as the boulevardiers say, a rent -in the marriage contract,—not even those romancers -dare affirm that she neglects, for such -caprices, the interests of either.</p> - -<p>She is in all things literally the better half of -her people. Observe her in all classes, and you -will have no further need of explanation of the -striking prosperity, strength, and self-sufficiency -of France itself. Cheerful, competent, thrifty -creature, how could the land that owns her go -to the dogs, whatever the decadents and politicians -may do? She is the force of the country, -its stable influence and salvation. The home -rests upon her, and she makes of it a delicious -nest for her children, who may exaggerate the -outward form of their love for her, but who can -never exaggerate the inward devotion they owe -her. She has taught them, it is true, to think -too much about money, to be too ready to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_176"></a>[176]</span> -dispute the wills of recalcitrant relatives who wish -to leave their fortunes to others than themselves; -she has left them too little liberty, and -trained them in ignorance of such a virtue as -disinterestedness; she is too apt to encourage -her son in the theory of the wild oats-sowing, -without even the saving grace of limiting that -period to pre-nuptial days, being trained herself -in the fixed conviction of her land, that man is a -tameless beast who cannot exist without fugitive -loves throughout his chequered career. Indeed, -I have heard a very pious old French lady assert -that a married man may have a hundred -mistresses and be a perfectly honest man whom -nobody should criticise. When I made respectful -mention of the wife’s injuries, she shrugged, -called me an unsophisticated fool, and said that -every sensible girl, on her wedding-morn, understood -what she was facing, and, if she were -well-bred, she was wise enough to keep her -eyes shut. No wife, she maintained, could expect -to learn anything to her advantage by prying -into her husband’s habits and distractions -outside the portals of home, and so her wisdom -lay in studied ignorance. The thing to prevent -in a husband or son was extravagance. So long -as the purse-strings remained unloosened, and -the health was uninjured, a judicious woman -should ask for nothing more from the men -around her. For this reason, the novelists show<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_177"></a>[177]</span> -us the French mother as charmed to discover -that her son has started romantic relations with -the wife of a wealthy friend. She is convinced -that he must have a mistress, and her only hope -is that he shall choose one who will not ruin -him in purse or in health. Of his heart and happiness -in these matters she seems to care not a -pin, possibly because of the talent for cynicism -possessed by the French, which declines to recognise -heart outside the family. If every poison -has its antidote, so has every quality its drawback. -This beautiful maternal devotion we so -admire is practised to the detriment of all outsiders. -The French mother would make a -holocaust of all humanity on the altar of her -offspring’s advancement and interest. She will -gladly toil for him or for her, save francs and -pence for either, deprive herself of what she -most loves, accomplish for her child every virtue -in the world but that of justice or generosity -toward outsiders. For the French <i>ménagère</i>, the -outsider is the enemy. Indeed, for all the French -family the outsider is a reptile to be crushed. -Let a wealthy Frenchwoman take a strong fancy -to an outsider, and the hostility awakened in the -breast of every member against this inoffensive -outsider will be found to be a sentiment to -which only Balzac could do justice. Sons and -daughters, cousins, nephews, and nieces, will -combine to slight or insult the reprobate.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_178"></a>[178]</span></p> - -<p>In the case of a widower, or an unmarried -uncle, marriage is the terror; in the case of the -wealthy woman I suspect the last will and -testament arouses the scare. Anyway, whatever -the unexpressed sentiment may be, the -French family of all classes joins in this unreasonable -hatred, suspicion, and jealousy of the -outsider. I remember when I first came to Paris -many years ago, having a letter of introduction -to Madame Blaze de Bury, a very singular and -clever old lady, who said to me: “You will find -the French as hard as a granite wall when you -come to knock against them. To the superficial -glance they are so easy, so accessible, so pleasant. -Well, I have lived long enough among -them to discover that they are just like the -Chinese. They hate foreigners, even when they -are delightful to them. And this hatred of the -foreigner is shown in family life, where the foreigner -is everyone who is not a direct relation.” -Subsequent experience did not prove Madame -Blaze de Bury altogether right as regards the foreigner, -for I, a foreigner, have found in France -kindness, sympathy, generosity, and affection, -and all from the French of the very French. In -criticising Frenchwomen, I am criticising the -part of humanity I like best, appreciate and admire -most on earth. Give Frenchwomen the -freedom, the liberal education of England, a dash -of Protestantism—that is, mental and moral<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_179"></a>[179]</span> -independence—and you will have womanhood in -its perfection. They have little of the snob, they -are naturally simple and unpretentious, and they -are competent, intelligent, and discreet.</p> - -<p>The two features that most strike the foreigner -in French home-life are the careful economy -practised everywhere, in city and country, among -the poor and the rich, and the pretty courtesies -and tendernesses which help to keep the wheels -of domestic machinery so admirably oiled. The -notion that relationship is merely the privilege -of making one’s self as disagreeable as possible, -and indulging in cruelties of speech and action, -does not exist in France, or exists in a very -diminished degree.</p> - -<p>A study of the economies practised in aristocratic -and prosperous bourgeois circles in France -leads us to strange facts. Taine quotes an incident -in his <i>Carnets de Voyage</i> that happened in -the neighbourhood of Poitiers. A Parisian was -hunting by invitation on a friend’s lands, and, -without knowing it, crossed the border-land of -those of a certain viscountess. He was not -shooting, but carried his gun under his arm; he -had lost his way. Up came a keeper and -stopped him. The Parisian explained the circumstances, -and insisted that he was not shooting. -His host and he decided to visit the -viscountess personally, and put the case before -her in order to avoid unjust proceedings. They<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_180"></a>[180]</span> -were received in a superb chamber hung with -tapestries. The viscountess listened to them, -and put her hand out: “Twenty francs each to -pay,” was all she said. I think I can tell a better -tale still, that of the interested hospitality of -a well-known Flemish countess, whose shooting -lands are among the best in France. The guests -of this lady who liked a liberal supply of sugar in -their morning coffee were obliged to provide -themselves with it before coming, for every -lump consumed in the castle was counted by -the thrifty châtelaine; and the servants were -bound, on penalty of dismissal, to give up to -her all the tips they received. These were -dropped into a cash-box, and at the proper time -were returned to them under the form of wages. -The good lady also makes a fine thing of her -invitations to shoot upon her land, and may -be said to merit a high place in the ranks of -economists.</p> - -<p>And yet there is much to be said in favour -of French thrift, not only for the good it brings -to the country, which is immense, but still more -for the inappreciable advantages it affords the -family, above all, the girls. Go to Ireland and -observe with lamentation and indignation the -havoc made of home-life, of family dignity, of -the lives of unfortunate girls, by the miserable -wastefulness of parents. On all sides you will -hear sad tales of girls, obliged to work hard for<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_181"></a>[181]</span> -shocking rates of payment, who were brought -up in foolish luxury, whose parents “entertained” -in that thriftless, splash, Irish fashion, -drank champagne, drove horses, when the -French of the same class would be leading the -existence of humdrum small burgesses, depriving -themselves of all that was not absolutely necessary -for their position, and teaching their children -the art of counting, of saving, and of -laudable privation. The Irish way is the jollier, -I admit, but it is a cowardly, selfish way, for it -is the children who always have to pay the -piper, and, more often than not, the unhappy -trades-folk who supply these gay and festive -spendthrifts.</p> - -<p>We laugh at the counted lumps of sugar in -France, forgetting that sugar here is sixpence a -pound, and becomes an item to be considered. -I remember once feeling some sympathy with -the French carefulness of sugar. An Irish girl, -whom I did not know, somewhere in the twenties, -and consequently supposed to conduct -herself like a reasonable being, thrust accidentally -upon me for hospitality for a single night,—which, -owing to unforeseen circumstances, was -prolonged to ten or twelve days,—did me the -honour to consume a pound of sugar a day at -my expense. In every cup of tea she melted -nearly a dozen large French lumps of sugar, and -she drank many cups in the day; also she ate<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_182"></a>[182]</span> -sugar continually as other women munch sweets, -and as she disliked cold red wine, she insisted -on heating it with quantities of sugar until it -was turned into a syrup. When my grocer sent -in his monthly account, with sugar at sixpence -a pound in enormous excess, I felt it would be a -singular advantage for Ireland if a little judicious -thrift were practised in Irish homes. The young -lady’s father went bankrupt shortly afterwards, -and I cannot say I was at all surprised. He was -an ordinary burgess, who worked hard to maintain -a large and extravagant family, and my -guest once told me that her sister frequently ran -up a bill at the florist’s for boutonnières to the sum -of thirty shillings a month, which her father had -to pay. French thrift, if it does so often touch -hands with meanness, at least implies the exercise -of a quality we all should admire, even -when we cannot practise it, thanks to taste, -training, or temperament—hardness to ourselves, -the capacity for voluntary self-suffering.</p> - -<p>The first thing that strikes you as you enter a -French beeswaxed flat in winter is the chill of it. -Few but the very rich know the delights of -generous fires, of well-carpeted houses, of warm, -comfortable, and luxurious interiors. Silver appointments -and splendid napery, which you will -find nowadays in the commonest Irish homes, -are here unknown, and people of the class who -in England dress for dinner here wear the clothes<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_183"></a>[183]</span> -they have lunched in, and are none the worse -off for it. They have, along with their thrift, -much less pretension, and are simpler and more -intelligent in their home-life than we of the British -Isles. In one way they live better, because -their food is better cooked and is more varied, -and for dinner you are sure to have brighter -conversation. In certain rich and snobbish circles, -above all in the shooting season, you risk -being bored to death, for here nothing is talked -of but titles, game, and fortunes. The wonder -to me is how women, who themselves do not -shoot, can sit placidly through a long afternoon -and evening and listen to men who talk incessantly -of their own bags or their neighbours’ -bags—of how the prince shot this snipe, the -count shot that partridge, and how many pheasants -the marquis bagged. I suppose it is to -keep the men in good-humour that these amiable -Frenchwomen—against whom I can bring no -other charge than vacuity and snobbishness, two -parasites of wealth—feign the intensest interest. -They are paid in the coin they desire, and if -they are bored nobody is a penny the wiser, -and they probably do not mind it.</p> - -<p>I have said the lack of material comfort and -plenty in middle-class French homes is striking. -I, of course, refer to people who are not rich, -where the husband is a state functionary on a -modest salary in Paris, to small professors, to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_184"></a>[184]</span> -the wives of military officials, the widows of -colonels and broken-down aristocrats. I have -had a glimpse of all these classes of homes, and -in winter found them unseasonably chill and -frugal. Thirty years ago, I am assured, it was -far worse, for then carpets were unknown, -and fires less used than to-day. Such economies -are practised here as in England would accompany -only harsh poverty, but they must -not be taken as the symbol of such. Your -grocer and his wife, who eat behind the shop -in a sanded and comfortless space walled off, -and on Sunday afternoon go out, neatly arrayed -in well-fitting but dowdy and serviceable garments, -have tidy fortunes stowed away, while -their flashy, splash-loving brethren of the British -Isles, with their dog-carts, bicycles, and up-to-date -attire turned out by fashionable tailors, -dressmakers, and milliners, are pulling the devil -by the tail and stupidly patronising their betters, -who are contented with less display.</p> - -<p>I retired lately to Ireland to write this little -book, and was struck, after long residence in -France, by the violent contrast between French -and Irish character in these respects. I was -used to the simple, courteous, willing, active -trades-people of Paris, who give themselves no -airs, dress dowdily, live modestly. I found the -same class in Ireland, even in a small village, -dressed daily as Solomon in all his glory never<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_185"></a>[185]</span> -was, with tailor-made gowns worth ten and -twelve guineas, and with haughty manners that -would bewilder a princess of the blood; the one -cutting the other, Heaven only knows on what -assumption of superiority, and all hastening from -their counters in smart turnouts, duly to subscribe -their loyal names to the list of the Queen’s visitors. -I felt like Rip Van Winkle—as if I had -waked in my native land and found everyone -gone mad with pride and pretension. When I -ventured into a shop to make an insignificant -purchase, a gorgeous dandy with a lisp condescended -to attend to me, or a lady looking like -a duchess, and most desirous that you should -take her for such, dropped from the height of -her grandeur to my humble person, and was -good enough in her superior way to look after -me. Everybody was seemingly so above trade -or business or bread-winning of any kind that I -was glad enough to pack up my papers and -things and come back to a race more simple -and less pretentious, where the people work -with good-will, and sell you a yard of tape or -a hat without insufferable condescension, and -where tradesmen and their wives do not think -it necessary to confer on crowned heads the -honour of their call. In pursuit of my investigations -on this subject I was taken to the house -of a very small trades-person, who lived over -her shop. The owner wore a twelve-guinea<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_186"></a>[186]</span> -silk-lined gown trimmed with Irish point. I -could well imagine what sort of residence hers -would be in France. For Ireland it was a sort -of Aladdin surprise. Majesty indeed might have -sat in that sitting-room. It was furnished with -faultless taste: beautiful old Sèvres, proof engravings -exquisitely framed, buhl cabinets; -everything—curtains, chairs, sixteenth-century -benches and couches, quaint ornaments, the -spoils of frequent auctions of gentlemen’s houses—was -chosen with the best of judgment by -an ignorant peasant woman, whose bringing -up, surroundings, and life had been of the most -sordid kind. I was shown the bedroom, and -found it a no less pleasing and surprising vision, -a nest of modern luxury and beauty, such a bedroom -as in Paris you would see only along the -handsome and expensive avenues.</p> - -<p>Another time I obtained a glimpse of the home -of a bankrupt widow of a “little burgess” who -had had to vacate a house with grounds to take -up her residence in a more modest dwelling. -Such a woman in France would be content to -live and die a very plain and simple person, and, -having had to compound with her creditors, -would have considered herself bound to lay out -her new existence upon lines of the most rigid -economy, above all, as there was a large family -of sons and daughters not yet of an age, nor -having the requisite education, to provide for<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_187"></a>[187]</span> -themselves. The house I visited was one of a -row, a poor, mean quarter, where no sane person -would look for any appearance of affluence. -Over the fan-light the house rejoiced in an imposing -Celtic name in three words in raised -white letters, not the cheapest form of house -nomenclature. A gardener was engaged trimming -the infinitesimal garden front; the youngest -girl, of twelve, was mounting her bicycle to -career off with a companion; in the hall were -three other bicycles belonging to different members -of the family. The furniture of the drawing-room -was new and expensive, and a young lady -was playing up-to-date waltzes on the piano, -without a trace of concern or anxiety; no sign -anywhere of economy, of sacrifice, of worry. -Yet I knew I was entering a house where there -was practically nothing to live upon, and where -the proceeds of a sale that should have gone to -the woman’s creditors had been squandered on -unnecessary things. One may criticise the -meannesses to which thrift drives the frugal -French, but I never felt more near to falling in -love with what is to me an uncongenial vice than -I did on leaving my native land after this visit, -to have commercial dealings once more with -people not above their business, instead of trading -with the spurious descendants of kings, whose -sole anxiety is to make you feel their social -superiority and extraordinary condescension,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_188"></a>[188]</span> -to find these excellent French “little people” -all that Lever told us the Irish were but have -ceased to be—cordial, delightful, intelligent, -and simple. For that is the great, the abiding -charm of the French middle class—the absence -of vulgar pretension. Every man to his trade, -and an artist at that—such is the wise French -motto. I begin to suspect the late Felix Faure, -the tanner of France, must have had some Irish -blood in his veins, for he was well worthy to -play the sovereign to that mock prince of the -blood, the Irish tradesman.</p> - -<p>The home of the French middle classes, I have -already said, is not, in the Anglo-Saxon conception -of the word, an abode of comfort. Small -economies are too rigidly practised therein. The -<i>salon</i>, or sitting-room, is apt to be shut up all -the week in the interest of the furniture, and -only opened on the single afternoon the lady of -the house is supposed to be at home to her -friends. Then in winter, just before the hour -of reception, the meagre wood-fire is set ablaze, -and sometimes tea is prepared, along with biscuits -far from fresh. You may be thankful—if -tea is to be offered you, a rare occurrence—should -the tea be no staler than the biscuits, -I have known a Frenchwoman, the sister of a -professor at Stanislas College, who admitted to -me naïvely that she changed the leaves of her -tea every four or five days. She informed me<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_189"></a>[189]</span> -that this economical hint was given her by a -Scotchwoman, who assured her that in Scotland -nobody was extravagant enough to make fresh -tea every day. I hope this Scotchwoman was -an invention of the Frenchwoman. It would -be terrible to believe that all the families of -Scotland drink their daily dose of slow poison. -In winter also are the two meals of noon and -evening consumed in a frigid atmosphere, for -such a thing as a dining-room fire is unheard of -in the class I refer to. The napery will be of -the coarsest quality, and oftener coloured than -white.</p> - -<p>The house is generally run with a single maid-of-all-work, -who receives a monthly wage of -from thirty to forty francs, and her life is not an -easy one. The lady already referred to had her -<i>bonne</i> from the country, where existence is still -harsher than in Paris, and paid her thirty francs -a month. The unfortunate <i>bonne</i> for this sum -had to wash, clean, scour, cook, market, make -beds, and sew. The lady was pious, and a -philanthropist, but pious and philanthropic persons -are sometimes harsh taskmasters, and not -infrequently dishonest. The <i>bonne</i> was obliged, -out of her scant wages, to pay a hundred francs -a year for her bedroom, which was merely a box -under the roof, without ventilation or fireplace, -so that in winter she froze, and in summer she -was baked. She also had to buy her own wine<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_190"></a>[190]</span> -and coffee, if she needed either, and never, from -week’s end to week’s end, tasted of dessert or -sweets, or knew what it was to dine off fowl, -when by rare chance fowl was served at table. -I was this lady’s “paying guest” for four or five -months; and if my lot was a hard one, I could -console myself with the reflection that the servant’s -was infinitely harder. True, the servant -did not, as I did, pay an exorbitant price for -those discomforts, but we could both say that -we had to deal with a singularly pleasant, affable, -well-spoken, and agreeable woman, surprisingly -intelligent, who kept her house in -admirable order. She was secretary for several -Catholic philanthropic works, and taught catechism, -for a consideration, to poor children in -some disreputable quarter of Paris. I thought -of her, as I have thought of many another Christian -philanthropist, Catholic and Protestant, how -much more in keeping with the doctrine of -Christ it would be to stay unpretentiously at -home and practise the modest virtue of honesty, -doing unto others as one would be done unto. -On her way to her catechism class she would -drop in to the woodman’s to order wood for me, -as a favour for which it was my duty to thank -her, pay the woodman three francs, and virtuously -charge me five in the bill. I was ill, and -in the same spirit of benevolence she ordered -everything needful for me—<i>for a consideration</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_191"></a>[191]</span> -For all that, she was the nicest, the cheerfulest, -and most pleasing robber and humbug I have -ever known. I defy any Anglo-Saxon to give -the fleeced as much value in the way of agreeable -speech and cordiality and beaming smiles as -this religious Norman lady gave me. She broke -the heart of a trusting friend, and, having gracefully -beggared her, drove her to America ruined -and embittered, yet went on her own confident -way along the path of virtue, assured of nothing -more than her indisputable right to a seat in -Paradise.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus10" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/illus10.jpg" alt="" /> - <p class="caption">A SEASIDE SERVICE</p> - <p class="caption"><i>Edelfelt</i></p> -</div> - -<p>But she was not the first to initiate me into the -economical mysteries of the French home. Before -this I had been the “paying guest” of a native -of Burgundy with an Alsatian title as long as an -Alexandrian verse. She professed to have known -Lamartine in her youth, and when I spoke of the -poet by his name, she corrected me with a grand -and reproving air: “Mademoiselle, we of Macon -say <i>Monsieur de Lamartine</i>.” Here the same -mysteries of locked <i>salon</i> all the week round, -open only for a few hours on the famous reception -day of Madame la Baronne; the same -absence of plenty at the board—lunch for three -persons invariably three boiled eggs, three tiny -cutlets and three boiled potatoes, three little rolls -and three small apples. Never a fourth of anything, -should one of the three happen to be a little -hungrier than the other two. Only, as I had to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_192"></a>[192]</span> -do with a broken-down aristocrat, there reigned, -instead of the beaming cordiality of the bourgeoise, -an awful, desperate, glacial reserve. -The baroness’ attitude to life may be described -fitly as resembling her attitude to the late -lamented poet, whom she apostrophised stiffly -as <i>Monsieur de Lamartine</i>. She was frightfully -dignified, even in starving her unfortunate paying -guest on twelve pounds a month. It is true, -paying guests are not infrequently regarded by -ladies as creatures predestined to starvation and -prompt payment in their hands, and in business -matters I can safely say, from singularly sharp -experience, that there are no more heartless and -rapacious landladies on the face of the earth than -needy and educated women. The greed of the -common woman runs to pence, while that of the -lady runs to shillings; and whereas the former, -when she is dishonest, has a lingering consciousness -of it, and flies into a wholesome rage on -detection, the latter is armoured in the brass of -breeding, and looks cool and surprised that you -should object to being fleeced by her. Upon any -approach to complaint, instead of excuses, she -shows you cynically that she took you in in -order to fleece you. A French “woman of -letters,” in the lowest acceptance of that unpleasing -term, the old, semi-extinguished type of -bluestocking, once told me that she always calculated -on making a clear profit of two hundred<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_193"></a>[193]</span> -francs a month on the board of her “paying -guest,” otherwise she did not regard herself as -having made a good thing out of it. As she -charged a hundred francs a month for a bedroom, -twelve pounds a month was the sum she counted -upon as legitimate profit. Her terms were sixteen -pounds a month—light, fire, afternoon tea, -and wine extras—so that the unfortunate fleeced -one had exactly the value of four pounds for the -sixteen disbursed. Needless to say, this literary -hostess only found stray fools from perfidious -Albion, recommended by amiable folk over-seas, -who guilelessly believed the young ladies despatched -to her would enjoy the benefit of exalted -social relations, since titles were never out of her -mouth, and upon her own description of herself -she entertained daily the highest of the land. -She traded upon the British weakness for titles, -but took care to conceal from these gulled ones -the fact that French doors, whether of nobles or -of commoners, are not easily opened to foreigners, -and never to “paying guests,” whom the -careful French fear as possible adventurers.</p> - -<p>I have heard English people criticise the parsimony -of the first French breakfast, because -you generally find a couple of lumps of sugar on -the side of your saucer instead of a sugar-bowl, -and a pat of butter and a single small roll instead -of the domestic loaf and a butter-basin. I -own I give my preference altogether to the dear,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_194"></a>[194]</span> -neat little French tray. When I go on visits to -friends in France, I find nothing so charming as -to be wakened every morning by a beaming -Frenchwoman of the people, whose manners -are always so perfect, who is a human being, -and not, like the well-trained English servant, a -machine; who opens the shutters and lets in -light with her fresh, soft “Good-morning,” and -approaches the bed with a small, dainty tray, -exquisitely laid; such coffee or chocolate as you -will get nowhere else, and everything so trim -and minute—the two lumps of sugar, the tiny -pat of butter, the hot roll—what ogre could demand -more on returning from the land of -dreams? Naturally, the English fashion calls for -a more liberal supply, because there you are -cleansed, combed, and buckled in the shackles -of civilisation downstairs, perhaps after a morning -run—and the scent of bacon and eggs is refreshing -to the keen nostril. But more than this -neat little French tray contains would be too -much in a bedroom, and nobody but that Irish -girl I referred to, with morbid taste, could clamour -for a sugar-bowl to sweeten a single cup of -coffee.</p> - -<p>Then mid-day, when the sun is high in the -heavens, gathers the family round the second -breakfast-table. Amongst the well-to-do this -is a meal to shame the frugal British luncheon. -It consists of an <i>entrée</i>, a roast dish, vegetables,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_195"></a>[195]</span> -a cold dish, a sweet, dessert, and cheese. No -need to mention the cooking. That is sure -everywhere to be excellent, though even among -French cooks there are grades. Here you will -of a surety not be struck by the pervasion of -economy, but that of plenty. You will understand -why the comfortably-off French, when -they lunch at British tables, lament that they are -starved. Indeed, when you have the good luck -to partake of French hospitality, you will find it -the best in the world. At no tables will you eat -so well and so plentifully as at the tables of your -French friends, and in no land on earth will you -enjoy such delightful conversation as theirs, -where they know how to speak and have something -to say. In England people are always on -their guard, are often afraid to talk their best, -lest they shall prove bores or eccentrics. In -France the bore is the person who has nothing -to say, and the eccentric is thanked for frankly -revealing himself as such. Only be intelligent, -be individual and interesting, and then you may -rattle on to your liking, and provided you tumble -with glory, you may choose between the -devil and the deep sea with equal unconcern. -The people around you, the most susceptible -and sympathetic to individual value, will be far -too busy listening to what you have to say—provided -it is worth the saying—to give a -thought to picking you to pieces.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_196"></a>[196]</span></p> - -<p>In spite of the romancers and all the twaddle -they talk in the interest of the psychological -novel, there are no women capable of warmer and -more generous friendships than Frenchwomen, -none capable of a deeper, discreeter, more abiding -loyalty. They are astonishingly indulgent, too, -which is part of their great sense, and even their -intolerance, where it exists, they have the grace -to clothe in the suavity of tact. If they talk, as -they too often do, a great deal of nonsense -about the English, and cherish vast illusions -about their own nation, this is only in the nature -of things, seeing that there is no race in the -world brought up in more astonishing ignorance -of every other race, and more trained to cherish -denser prejudices. At school they learn only -French geography, French history, French grammar. -The rest of Europe comprises mere congested -districts round France; and while it takes -several volumes to learn the history of France, -the history of other peoples may be told in a few -paragraphs. Boys may fare differently, but in -my time this is how French girls were taught. -England, as the traditional enemy, must necessarily -expect rough treatment at the hands of -the French; and in a country where the Press -is a blatant monument of misrepresentation, the -women cannot be wiser than their country, led -by such a disastrous influence. French prejudices -against England are as substantial and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_197"></a>[197]</span> -impenetrable as the walls of Pekin; you may -ride round them, marvel at them, but never -hope to demolish them. But the French mind -that manages to keep outside these walls becomes -surprisingly enlarged, and then you need -ask for no finer or more generous judgment. It -needs this finish of magnanimity to so sympathetic -a character, rare though it be in France,—for -magnanimity is the last quality we may allow -the race in general,—to show us how delightful -the French can become. For this you must look -among the cultured workers of France, the -thinkers, the teachers, and men of science. -These alone—and they are not loved for it—can -recognise and tell the truth about even the -mediæval enemy, perfidious Albion.</p> - -<p>Frenchwomen of all classes live much more -in their bedrooms than Englishwomen do. Of -a morning they study, read, work there, give -orders to their servants, write letters. These -bedrooms are generally very pleasant places, -with dressing-rooms off, and clothes closets, -so that intimate friends of either sex may pass in -and out without indiscretion or awkwardness. -The bed itself is a handsome piece of furniture, -with curtains to match the big bed-cover, which -hides every atom of white, and sometimes, with -the pillows in the middle and silk or satin-covered -bolster at either end under this covering, -it resembles those imposing mediæval<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_198"></a>[198]</span> -couches we see in the Cluny Museum. On the -other hand, the sexes in family life are more -apart than in England. They meet at table, but -their amusements, interests, and work are accepted -as widely different. The relations of -husband and wife are based upon a more intelligent -understanding than elsewhere; and those -of parent and child are the nearest approach to -perfection with which I am acquainted, if only -a higher moral training were added to the tenderness -and incessant care, for the French wife and -mother is undoubtedly the best of her kind; and -if her mate is less worthy, at least he is a kinder, -more considerate, and courteous mate than his -Anglo-Saxon brother. His sins, when he is -volatile and bad, run to the <i>cabinet particulier</i> -or the <i>foyer</i> of fast theatres, while the other -flies to perdition on the fumes of alcohol, and -sins against home in public bars, upon race-courses, -in the hostels of fugitive dalliance. The -Frenchman will tell you that he is the better man -of the two, for he brings a little sentiment into -his infidelities, while the Anglo-Saxon, when -he turns his back upon home and the domestic -virtues, is brutal and gross.</p> - -<p>I think there is something to be said for the -erring Frenchman in his frailty. Lisette, while -her reign lasts, is somebody for him whom he -must study and consider, to whom he is bound -to be kind, until he makes up his mind to leave<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_199"></a>[199]</span> -her, or until she leaves him. But this is not a -point I need dwell on. In the matter of virtue, -the Britishers make themselves out to be such -honest, invulnerable fellows, unlike the chattering, -bragging sinners on the other side of the -Channel, that it is only the state of the public -streets of Great Britain at nightfall that fronts us -with the universal charge against them of Pharisaism. -And so I come back to my contention, -that since infidelity to the marriage vow does -exist, the light-headed sons of France choose -the more open way of sinning. Their view of -the case, as expressed in their fiction, is frankly -odious, and, on his own showing, there is something -essentially unclean in the Frenchman’s -mind, though I have always found his conversation -fastidiously correct and inoffensive, and it -is sad to think of such a fine and splendid race -of women playing the unsavoury <i>rôle</i> they are -made to play by the dramatists and novelists of -their land. The women, of course, must be -greatly to blame for the misesteem expressed in -their regard by their fashionable and popular -writers. Too fearful of displeasing, and too -sensitive to Gallic ridicule, they do not understand -that it rests with them to claim and obtain -the respect due to them. They applaud and -admire the writers who most persistently degrade -them under the flattering guise of a passionate -interest and concern. They, who so<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_200"></a>[200]</span> -wisely dominate at home, have seemingly little -or no objection to play the animal on paper. -Of course there is a cultured and distinguished -class who detest the modern fiction and plays -of their country, who protest against them at -home and in the Press, who will tell you they -read only foreign novels, to avoid being dragged -through the mire of their own.</p> - -<p>This brings me to the consideration of woman’s -<i>rôle</i> in France. The foreigner who only -judges that <i>rôle</i> from the novels he reads, mostly -pornographic, and from the drama, increasingly -gross and immoral, will be all at sea as regards the -part woman plays in French life. He will conceive -her first playing the hypocrite up to the time -of marriage, and then living without restraint -ever afterwards. He will wonder what time is -left her for domestic duties, and judge her social -duties merely as convenient stages along the -downward path. If he enjoys that sort of thing, -she will amuse and interest him, but he will -underestimate her position in reality. For no one -plays a more important <i>rôle</i> in the ranks of humanity -than the Frenchwoman. She it is who -rules the home, and in what an admirable way -she rules it can never be sufficiently extolled. -She it is who trains, fashions, guides man in every -step of his career, from his boyhood into his first -love-affair, and makes of him the courteous and -indulgent creature he proves in matrimony. As<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_201"></a>[201]</span> -mother, aunt, sister, wife, and daughter, the -Frenchman relies on his womankind throughout -his whole career. She is, in the best and -fullest sense of the word, his helpmeet; assists -him in his business, enjoys his entire confidence, -because he knows so well that she is the better -part of the institution, bears more than half of -his troubles. As a mother, she knows how to -efface herself, and in acting to her sons as their -best friend and confidant, keeps her sovereignty -stable. It is because she is such a sensible and -dignified ruler, indulgent where indulgence is -needful, that the men around her rarely feel the -impulse to break from her sway. She moulds -the politicians, takes the poets and novelists by -the hand, holds the social sceptre with ease and -charm, pulls the academical wire-strings, aids -youth to success and triumph, names the fashion -in literature,—and here she does less wisely and -less well,—makes and mars reputations, is responsible -for more of the commercial prosperity -of the land than her mate, and brought, of her -own thrift and labour, a bigger share to the -millions that went to Germany than he. An -England without her women could be conceived -as still standing, so effaced is their <i>rôle</i>; but -France may almost be said to exist by hers. If -the women would only consent to go to the -colonies, the French would, I am convinced, -turn out capital colonists.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_202"></a>[202]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/header2.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII<br /> -<span class="smaller">PEASANT AND ARTISAN</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>From earliest youth I had been accustomed -to the trim and pleasing aspect of the -French peasant, but lived long in Paris without -ever having had occasion to examine this class -more closely than a walk in the country permits. -I chanced to summer one year in the Saintonge, -and friends made me acquainted there with an -excellent miller and his wife who dwelt upon -their lands. I published in the <i>Speaker</i> something -about these delightful people afterwards, -and I cannot do better than quote from that forgotten -source:</p> - -<p>“In the Saintonge, as elsewhere, the local -mood is ruled by politics, and private friendship -gives way to public rivalry. I learnt all -about these feuds from my friend the miller -of La Pellouaille. Intellect was not his strong -point, but there was a cheerful cynicism about -him to lend flavour to his commonplaces. While -others affected the heroic or patriotic, he was -content to accommodate himself to circumstances.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_203"></a>[203]</span> -In reply to my query—to which party -he belonged—he said, with a humorous smile, -‘<i>Dame</i>, I go with the strongest, naturally,’ -which did not prevent him from giving his own -sly hit at the Government. I give his views for -what they are worth—neither brilliant nor original, -but expressed with a certain geniality of -tone and temper that kept him from bucolic -dulness. If the Republic kept France out of -mischief for the next twenty years, and carried -her into fair prosperity, he believed, by that time, -neither Bonapartist nor Legitimist would be remembered. -For the moment the land was in a -state of ferment, and he thought it a pity such -excessive use should be made of those big -words, Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity. These -three republican assurances be qualified as mere -<i>blagues</i>; and told me of a jocose tobacconist -who wrote them on the sign-board of his shop, -with an empty tobacco-pouch suspended from -each, the pouches in France being called <i>blagues</i>. -But the miller’s wife was certainly his pleasanter -half. It was a delight to look upon a creature so -human and wholesome and resourceful. She -was a large, handsome woman, with a smile as -fresh as new milk, and hazel eyes as clear as -daylight, beaming with good-will, with vitality, -and interest in her fellows. The kine browsing -in the fields were not more mild. Such a woman -has you right at nature’s heart—big and broad<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_204"></a>[204]</span> -and bountiful. She is peasant in the best sense, -proud of her spotless cap and apron, free and -independent in her carriage, with shoulders that -know no cringing stoop and voice that cannot -whine.”</p> - -<p>This good creature took me rambling through -the woods, she picking the nuts, and I devouring -them; and I found her talk ever sensible -and entertaining. Thanks to the natural good -manners and intelligence of the French people, -there is far less difference than in England between -the uneducated and educated classes. My -friends of the mill honoured me once with an -invitation to dinner. The sky was menacing, -and, as I entered the long park avenue whence -the mill was visible, I saw the miller and his son -anxiously scanning the heavens and the green-roofed -aisle of walnut and sycamore by which I -came. They hailed me with vigorous welcome, -and, as I rested in their beautifully clean kitchen, -with broad and generous fireplace, where the -wood crackled pleasantly, and shone upon polished -brass dogs and gleaming bronze pots, -with the high French bed in the deep recess, -the miller’s wife mixed me some <i>cassis</i> and -water. A more excellent dinner I have never -eaten than that cooked, without fuss, or haste, -or delay, by the miller’s wife. In a twinkling, -as it seemed to me, she had savoury tomato-soup -on the table; and while she laid the cloth, the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_205"></a>[205]</span> -miller sat in front of the capacious mouth of -flames, and saw that the browning chicken was -kept moist with grease. I told them the story -of Alfred and the cakes, and the miller’s wife -cried, “She struck a king—a peasant just like -myself!” “<i>Dame</i>,” laughed the miller, “it doesn’t -make much difference, when it is a woman, -whether she be queen or peasant!” And I -thought the remark one that an English peasant -would have been incapable of making. He would -have been incapable of such a point of view.</p> - -<p>The French peasant has not the charm of the -Irish peasant—the women, above all, lack the -lovely complexion and beautiful eyes of the Irish—and -he has less of the grand air. He is much -more the son of the soil and less of the gentleman. -The writer, wishing to be true to life, -could never make such enchanting “copy” out -of him as Jane Barlow made of the Irish peasant -in her delightful <i>Idylls</i>. There is too little -poetry about him, and he is too evenly balanced -and cool-headed to offer us many of the adorable -surprises of humour. I have heard it said, by -French persons who live in the country, that -Zola comes nearer to truth and reality in his presentment -of the peasant than George Sand in -her exquisite pastorals, or M. René Bazin in such -a tender and lovely story as <i>La Terre qui Meurt</i>. -But Balzac himself did not weave us tales of -romance and delicate feeling when he touched<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_206"></a>[206]</span> -upon the theme; and so it is very likely that the -fellow is more of a brute than he seems to be in -casual intercourse, without, however, sinking to -the loathsome depths of the realism of <i>La Terre</i>. -I, when I recall him to mind, own that I ever -see him a dignified, well-mannered figure in blue -blouse, generally clean, sometimes incredibly -patched by his thrifty wife, frugal, sober, hard-worked, -not too garrulous, and yet not resentful -of easy speech, nor suspicious of the stranger -who accosts him with courtesy. I find him in -all things, as he presents himself to the eye and -offers himself for observation, the superior of his -British brother Hodge, neither so gross nor so -unintelligent, with a look in his eye much resembling -humour. He has his demands upon -life, too, which are not those of the clownish -brute, the inarticulate rustic. Not for nothing -was the Revolution made, since by it has he -learnt that he has his own share in the joys of -civilisation, and that if he work hard enough -his sons may aspire to such a measure of education -as a harsher lot denied him. When business -brings him into a little town or a great city, -his eye alights on beautiful objects, placed there -as much for him as for the owners of seigneurial -dwellings. Flowers, trim parks, legends in -stone, splendid cathedrals, every gracious blending -of line and colour, combine to train his eye -in beauty and refine his nature. He need thread<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_207"></a>[207]</span> -these quaint and lovely streets with no slouching -step, for he, and such as he, are too conscious -of their stable efforts in the general work -of order and national prosperity. He need -touch his forelock to no great lord for permission -to breathe the free air of heaven, for does not he, -too, possess his bit of land, his little dwelling, -from which none can oust him? And, on feast-days -and Sundays, are there not always public -museums at hand for his instruction and entertainment? -No country in the world takes such -care to provide museums for the people throughout -all the provinces as France. Every year the -State purchases pictures at the annual exhibitions -of Paris to add to these provincial collections; -and in every little town you pass through you -are personally urged by some native to visit the -Musée. This fact may have something to do -with the astonishing intellectual superiority of -the French peasant over Hodge beyond the -Channel. For the fact remains that you can talk -to the blue-bloused son of the soil and hope to -learn something from him, when the absence of -loquacity and ideas and manners in Hodge will -leave you discouraged and in despair. The -French peasant loves so many things that educate -and refine—flowers and pictures and -military bands, spectacles of all kinds, and independence.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus11" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/illus11.jpg" alt="" /> - <p class="caption">AN OUTDOOR MEAL</p> - <p class="caption"><i>Zimenez</i></p> -</div> - -<p>His standard is by no means an exalted one.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_208"></a>[208]</span> -His frugality is practised in the interest of his old -age. His honesty is chiefly, I suspect, a shrewd -protection against the probable dishonesty of -others, for the simple law of comradeship demands -that you shall treat fairly the man who -treats you fairly. And his religion does not -go down as deep as his soul, or whatever may -serve him as such. It is with him merely a -material influence, since it furnishes a serviceable -plank for getting safely across the perilous -abyss into a better world, and enables him to be -decently baptised, married, and buried as a member -of a Christian community. All other phases -of religion—its emotions, exactions, penalties, and -devices—he leaves to the foolish women-folk. -Indeed, this seems to be the conviction of the -average male Catholic the world over, if I may -except Ireland, the one Catholic country in -which I have found men to take their religion -seriously, and the little Celtic corner of France, -where the blue-eyed Bretons so closely resemble -them. When I have visited at a French country-house -in the shooting season, I have never -known a male guest to attend mass, the explanation -given being that <i>la chasse</i> had begun before -the hour of mass. But if a woman stayed -away from mass she would create a scandal. In -Spain I have seen acquaintances of mine, while -their women-folk knelt and prayed with fervour, -stand throughout the Sunday service with a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_209"></a>[209]</span> -bored and perfunctory air, only looking towards -the altar and the priest at the moment of the -elevation of the Host in a casually respectful -way, as an officer might salute the passage of a -military chief, and seemingly relieved to be able -to examine again the faces and dresses of the -women about them. Children barely in their -teens, young lads going to school, carefully imitate -this attitude of merely tolerant recognition -of religious form, and their elders never dream -of encouraging them to use a prayer-book, or -kneel, or show any sign that the weekly mass is -to them more than the bored attendance at an -official ceremony.</p> - -<p>What is a moral influence with them? High -above religion is their sturdy passion for independence. -It is this passion that enables them -to scrape, and serve, and suffer privation with -dignity and patience. However meagre their resources -may be, they are content with their lot, -provided the roof they sleep beneath is their -own, the land they till their own, the goat, the -pig, the poultry, theirs to do with what they -will. This is no mean standard, and it works -miracles in France. Would they were by nature -and instinct kinder to their beasts! but this, too, -is not a Catholic characteristic. I am assured -that the Bretons and Provençals are the worst -offenders. However, they do not sink so low -in cruelty to animals as the purely Latin races,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_210"></a>[210]</span> -like the callous Spaniards and the Italians; and -even in France the condition of animals is considerably -ameliorated, though horses and donkeys -are still often maltreated, and geese are -killed in the cruelest fashion, their prolonged -agonies, in peasant esteem, lending flavour to the -cooked flesh.</p> - -<p>What should, however, be a source of perennial -admiration is the extraordinary absence in -this class of anything approaching snobbishness. -The eternal simplicity and unpretentiousness of -the race are my constant wonder and delight. -You will see a man in blue blouse, his wife in -spotless cap and coloured kerchief, the man in -appearance and fashion of speech and manners a -gentleman, the woman educated, with her <i>brevet -supérieur</i>, not destitute of music or art, working -and living like peasants because they are working -their own land, and receiving on lines of -perfect equality their humbler neighbours, without -any thought of giving themselves the vulgar -airs so common in my own land and in England. -When they take their well-earned holiday at the -seaside or among mountain waters, you will -rarely find them seeking to pass for other than -they are, or talking loudly of their advantages of -fortune or station. Their natural dignity is such -that they are content to abide by it and be -judged accordingly. This class of the French -race may be described as the least vulgar, the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_211"></a>[211]</span> -least boastful of the world. With these cleanly -and self-respecting toilers there is no insane -aping of the idler, no cheap imitation of the -<i>bourgeoise</i> in dress, no awful spectacle of girls -with hideous feathers and hats the grossest assertion -of ill-placed ambition. Finery of any -kind is recognised as the advertisement of something -worse than bad taste,—of the bonnet gone -clean over the mill and morals gone after it. -The peasant woman’s vanity is to dress as her -mother dressed before her, her pride is to belong -to her land and her people. And it is because -of this wholesome vanity and this noble pride -that France is France, and the land is such a -pleasant one to travel over.</p> - -<p>This hard-working race is not without its -amusements. It must, as I have said, have its -share of the joys of life. They are never too -tired after a day’s work to dance to the music -and measure of song, which they love; and -whenever you chance upon them congregated -for diversion, whether at a fair, on a moonlit -sward, over a hilarious meal, you will always -find their behaviour seemly and their gaiety attractive -and measured. If the feathers and hats -of holiday trim of Great Britain are lacking -here, so also are the repulsive giggles and the -hateful love-making of those latitudes. The -French, we know, are not patterns of virtue, -but they certainly are patterns of deportment<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_212"></a>[212]</span> -abroad. In that clever little book, <i>The Island</i>, -Mr. Whiteing depicts the love-making of this -class in England as certainly the worst enemy -of the French could never write with any semblance -of truth of the same portion of the race -in France. “Like their North-American sisters, -fond of feathers and bright hues. No gaudier -thing in nature than the coster-girl in her holiday -dress of mauve, with the cruel plume that seems -to have been dyed in blood. Relation of female -to male, singular survival of primitive state. -Love-making always, in form at least, an abduction -of the virgin. A meeting at the street -corner in the dusk for the beginning of the ceremony; -then a chase round the houses, the heavy -boots after the light ones, with joyous shrieks to -mark the line of flight; after that the seizure, -the fight, with sounding slaps for dalliance that -might knock the wind out of a farrier of the -Blues. In the final clutch skirts part in screeching -rents, feathers strew the ground. Then the -panting pair return hand in hand to the street -corner, to begin again.” Of the meeting of -these dreadful lovers later in the public-house -Mr. Whiteing adds—and here, too, he paints a -picture exclusively British, that never could be -seen in France: “Nightfall brings them together -at the universal rendezvous from every -near or distant scene; men and those that were -once maidens, mumbling age and swearing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_213"></a>[213]</span> -infancy, stand six deep before the slimy bar, till -the ever-flowing liquor damps down their fiercest -fires, and the great city is once more at rest. -The imagination of him that saw hell could -hardly picture the final scene.” And yet you -will read such things printed of the French not -immediately under your inspection that make -you ask yourself if the rowdy love-making and -public-house bars constitute the worst possible -degradation of humanity. The most obvious, -the most offensive assuredly, but not the least -innocent. M. Octave Mirbeau has recently done -me the honour to send me his latest book, <i>Le -Journal d’une Femme de Chambre</i>. Not even -Zola could conceive a more terrible indictment -against his own race. All classes are therein -depicted as equally corrupt, shameless, brutalised -by irrepressed and irrepressible vice,—nobles, -<i>bourgeoisie</i>, servants of both sexes, city and -country folk, artisans and peasants. The book -has an air of sincerity, of being the truthful -record of a lady’s-maid’s career in Paris and in the -country, so that one cannot discuss it as mere -vicious raving, and every character introduced is -worse than the one that went before. I question -if humanity has ever been dragged into such -infamous depths with such a singular display of -enjoyment in its degradation. I read such -charges, and I am stupefied with their divergence -from my own personal experience. The French<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_214"></a>[214]</span> -servants I have known have all been excellent -creatures, devoted to their mistresses, grateful -for any kindness or interest shown them, surprisingly -intelligent, honest, sober, of lives of -conspicuous virtue. They have the national -failing, which is a tendency to insolence on -slight provocation—for you cannot reason with -French people. They fire up angrily at the least -hint of an opinion that displeases them, and their -very independence of character makes them sin -on the other side of servility. But those monsters -of their fiction—where are they to be met -with? How do they manage to hide themselves -so cleverly from daily scrutiny, if they are, -as we are assured, so persistently around us? -Have any of the sweet-mannered Eugénies, the -Irmas, the Marguerites, the Louises, I meet at the -different houses of my friends, who greet me -with such cheerful welcome, who take my umbrella -or cloak with such suggested sympathy, -and put fresh flowers in my room with such -graceful pleasure, anything in common with M. -Mirbeau’s unspeakable wretch, Mlle. Celestine?</p> - -<p>The same admiration I am compelled to entertain -for the French peasant, I feel for the French -artisan, whether in town or country. Yet he, -too, has been depicted as a creature of loathsome -perversity; but I can only speak of him as -I have found him. Some years ago, going from -Cognac to Angoulême, I decided to abandon<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_215"></a>[215]</span> -the dull, incommunicative travellers of the second -class and try my chances among the loquacious -third-class voyagers. Here I fell into the -very midst of good-humoured, general conversation, -and learnt more about the stirring local -events of Cognac and Angoulême than I should -have known after a week’s residence in either -town. A young girl with a round, baby face -addressed me in excellent English, so evidently -beaming with the joy of being able to do so -that I lavished my congratulations instantly, and -learnt that she had been for two years a nurse in -Warwickshire, where she had picked up fluent -English and met with so much kindness and -innocent pleasures of all sorts that she adored -the name of England ever afterwards. Certainly -not a sister of M. Mirbeau’s ineffable Mlle. -Celestine, this dear, sentimental little maid of -Angoulême. It was a case of attraction at first -sight, for she begged of me to use her room instead -of going to a hotel, and be her guest at her -father’s, a little watchmaker, during the three -days I projected staying at Angoulême. I accepted, -enchanted at a proposal that offered me -such an out-of-the-way and original glimpse of a -French town. “Sweetness and light” are words -that best describe this delicious little creature. -She was like a round, innocent kitten, all gaiety -and brightness, and sparkled and danced along -the streets beside me, crazy with the delight of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_216"></a>[216]</span> -talking English again. Girls, she moaned dejectedly, -were most unhappy creatures in France; -they had no pleasures, no freedom. She could -not take her beautiful big dog Tom, given her -as a puppy in Warwickshire, out for a walk -because it is not proper in France for a young -girl to be seen out-of-doors with a dog. Poor -little martyr, she did not look much of a -victim, and missing and yearning for the larger -ways of England had not thinned or paled her -rosy, vivacious, round visage. Here she was, as -happy as a queen because she was going to -sleep on her grandmother’s sofa that a stranger -from whom she would take no money might -sleep comfortably in her bed. She insisted on -carrying my bag, too, as if that were another -beaming source of satisfaction; and as we -trudged blithely up from the valley of the station -to the quaint street in which a quaint, dim-eyed -old man lived and made and mended watches in -an altitude rivalling the stars, I saw that Jeanne -was a popular personage. Not this the timid -French girl who slips in and out of life unnoticed, -and says, <i>Oui, monsieur; Non, monsieur</i>, to -the trousered wolves. The station-master cast -her a cordial nod; the doctor, climbing into his -gig, heard her speak English, and turned with a -big, gruff laugh as he waved his hand to her. -“There’s Mlle. Jeanne, happy at last. She is -able to calumniate us all in good English to an<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_217"></a>[217]</span> -insolent foreigner. <i>Pauvres de nous!</i>” and -wherever we went together those three days, I -saw that the townspeople in shops, down by -the river the boatmen and boys, the women who -showed us over the museum and over the town-hall, -the Alsatian manager of Laroche Joubert’s -huge paper factory, whither Jeanne and I drove -next day, the servants at the Duc de la Rochefoucauld’s -castle, all knew, admired, and respected -Jeanne, the artisan’s daughter and -Warwickshire nurse. She was not pretty nor -distinguished, she dressed like a dowdy nurse, -and wore cotton mittens, but I would I knew -anybody in her position who could attain such -popularity in a town like Angoulême out of France. -And all with the utterest simplicity, and an excellent -breeding. A heart-broken shoemaker, a -melancholy widower, who wanted her for wife, -came to me and begged me to use my influence in -his behalf. He confided to me the tale of his love, -and felt sure that if Jeanne were urged to marry -him in the language of Shakespeare she would -consent. She brought in to be introduced to me a -soldier to whom she was teaching English, a -nice, mild young fellow, who told me with -gravity that in order to keep himself abreast of -English literature he had subscribed to <i>Pick Me -Up</i> for himself and Jeanne, getting this luminous -organ from Bordeaux. The doctor and -his wife invited Jeanne to take her foreign lion<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_218"></a>[218]</span> -over one evening, and we were made much of, -and given syrup and water to drink. We stayed -out shockingly late of nights, for there was a -splendid moon and I could not be torn from the -river. But when we entered on our upward toil -along the dark and silent streets, Jeanne would -say: “Talk English very loud. It is a woman’s -best safeguard in France.” She called the English -tongue “a <i>coup de pistolet</i> in French ears.” -So whenever she saw a silhouette in uniform, she -fired off an aggressive shot of British vocables, -and when midnight, or later, found us under the -watchmaker’s roof the old man lifted his hands -in horrified astonishment at our staying abroad -so late. It was another evidence of English -eccentricity.</p> - -<p>When I bade Jeanne good-bye at the station, I -with difficulty prevailed upon her to name a -sum at least for my excellent board, if not for -the pretty bedroom I had used for three delightful -days. Judge of my amazement when at length -she said, to put me at ease, and quite reluctantly, -that she would accept three francs for my three -days’ board. This I regarded as so ludicrous that -I laughingly told her I would rather discharge my -debt from Paris, for I preferred to be remembered -by a present than take out of my purse three -miserable francs in return for all I had enjoyed. -I declare there were tears in the child’s eyes, -and she sorrowfully assured me her holiday was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_219"></a>[219]</span> -over. She had never had such a time at Angoulême -since her birth: rows on the river by sunset -and moonlight, she steering, I rowing, and all -the boatmen looking on and cheering lustily; -walks here, drives there, and Tom, the glorious -Tom, in honour of my nationality, permitted to -walk with her, free beneath the free heavens.</p> - -<p>I saw many artisans at Jeanne’s, and never in -one of either sex a hint of grossness, of boorishness, -of stupidity. Jeanne, I admit, was the -pearl of her set, speaking with polished diction, -of manners gentle and urbane, only a nurse, and -yet a perfect lady in everything. Her bedroom -denoted her own charming refinement, with its -blue and white curtains, its spotless prettiness, -the flower vases, and little bookcase not ignobly -filled. She spoke continuously of herself, of her -wishes and dreams. Well, never once did I get -a suspicion of a flirtation in her life. She spoke -of men with dignity and simplicity, without -simper or giggle, and made no effort to lead me -to believe that she was pursued by lovers. -When she referred to the shoemaker’s addresses, -it was simply to express her judicious fear of -the immense responsibility of the post of stepmother. -Her dreams were not sordid or vulgar. -She wanted more liberty as a young girl, freedom -to walk about with Tom, and not be -hampered with so many unwise and unwritten -laws. For the rest, she seemed content with the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_220"></a>[220]</span> -modest place she had in the world; and I have -known many a wealthier woman who might -with reason have envied this bright little French -nurse,—an honour to her country, her sphere, -and her sex. I have seldom parted with a roadside -friend with keener regret.</p> - -<p>My next friend of the working class, and she, -I am proud to say, is a friend of several years’ -standing, is my Parisian washerwoman. But -here, I am bound to confess, I am fronted with -an exceptional character,—witty, brilliant, of a -liberal and bountiful nature, and original almost -to the point of genius. My washerwoman -comes every Tuesday, and brings gaiety and -delightful wit along with her. She is all sorts -of odd things together: a fierce Nationalist, a -hard politician, a violent atheist, a hater of Jesuits -and freemasons, inclined to Protestantism, -if, unfortunately, the English were not Protestants -already; intelligent enough not to have been -dazzled by the Russian alliance, even when all -France went mad on the Czar’s visit. “He -wants our money, mademoiselle,” she said to -me in those mad times, “and we are fools -enough to believe in his friendship.” Whenever -you mention the Russian alliance to her, she -promptly asks who has seen that alliance written -out on paper, stamped, and signed. And at the -time of the Dreyfus Affair she could tell me to a -centime the sum the Jews and the English had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_221"></a>[221]</span> -paid the Czar, the Pope, and the Emperor of -Germany. I was used to an excellent, witty, -and extravagant lecture on the intricacies of the -Affair every Tuesday which delighted me, as -she always had some ineffable monstrosity on -the part of the Jews, the English, the Germans, -or the crowned heads of Europe to impart; and -took my joking with such delicious good humour -that I did not know how to fill up the gap -after the verdict of Rennes, for she is a very -seemly, dignified little woman, my Parisian -washerwoman. She stands upon her manners, -and says nothing more than “Good morning, -mademoiselle,” if you give her eloquence no -opening. And what an eloquence it is! What -a flow of admirably chosen words, so expressively -enunciated, with fitting gesticulations and -the most wonderful grimaces of the wittiest and -ugliest face I have ever seen! Then came the -Transvaal War, and here she shone. Indeed, I -have repeatedly begged her to abandon the obscure -calling of a washerwoman, and betake -herself to public speaking. I have never known -a woman more astonishingly fitted for the part.</p> - -<p>With her, too, as with the peasant, the distinctive -characteristic is an indomitable spirit of -independence. I have never seen her anything -else but gay and charming, but two Englishwomen -to whom I recommended her complained -of her insolence, because, being the soul of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_222"></a>[222]</span> -honesty and an excellent washerwoman, she -will stand no “observations” either about her -washing or her prices; nor will she tolerate -anything like airs. She maintains that she is -quite as good as the Czarina, quite as useful, and -probably more intelligent, as, if they changed -places, she is convinced she would make -a better hand at sitting on the throne than -the Czarina would make with her washtub. -The Englishwoman, I suppose, made some remarks -that wounded this susceptible pride, and -the fiery little washerwoman neatly tied up her -bundle of soiled linen, and with a magnificent -and haughty gesture laid it at her feet. “Madame -can wash her own linen or look elsewhere -for a laundress; I decline madame’s custom,” -and walked out. The race have an eye, an unerring -instinct, for the drama, and know how -to render even the rejection of soiled linen -picturesque and effective. They will cheerfully -wash your linen for you and black your boots; -but, as well as payment in coin, they demand -that you shall recognise their right to consideration -and courtesy as human beings. With the -<i>ancien régime</i>, servility was swept away, and -when your boots are blacked you are expected -to give thanks for the service instead of lifting -the toe of contempt in your servant’s direction. -A Scottish woman who married a Frenchman -used to convey her opinions and wishes to her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_223"></a>[223]</span> -servants by means of a horsewhip, and, though -some years dead, is still a legend in Paris for her -domestic difficulties and interior wars. She belonged -to the earlier period, now happily ended, -when a kick was administered for a pair of -clean boots, and servants were supposed to -swallow strong language with a grin. Slave-driving, -too, is restricted here, for I have never -caught a glimpse of the poor London “slavey,” -overworked almost to disease and insanity. -This may be due to the system of flats, -which saves labour, and does away with the -necessity for carrying cans of water up several -flights of stairs, but I am inclined to think -that French character goes for much in the -suppression.</p> - -<p>Domestic service is despised by the average -peasant, the girls looking forward to marriage, -the men to peasant proprietorship, which works -so admirably in France. And in many provinces -very young children of both sexes go out as -servants. At the different houses and châteaux -I visited in the Saintonge it was always little -girls and boys between seven and ten who -served at table, answered bells, and helped in -the house-cleaning. I cannot say I found the -houses particularly clean, which may be a consequence, -but it was interesting and amusing -to see a tiny lad enveloped in a blue working -bib sweeping the stairs, and little creatures at<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_224"></a>[224]</span> -table removing the plates with not an excessive -clatter. One of the good results of this infant -service was the indulgent and maternal attitude -of master and mistress. Such wee, willing -creatures could not be scolded seriously when -they broke plates or glasses, and you could not -take in their regard the high, impersonal air of -England, where servants are mere instruments, -not accepted as flesh-and-blood humanity. Here -you must, if human yourself, smile and thank -and pat a curly head or diminutive shoulder as -the quaint creature offers you a course, with, -oh! such a stern determination to hold it steady -and not accomplish disaster in the neighbourhood -of your garments.</p> - -<p>The standard of comfort, especially in the -matter of sanitary appliances, has in France -made an enormous progress during the last ten -years. Ten years ago in the country even the -better classes were little, if at all, in advance -of Spain. I have seen such things in châteaux -as would not bear description, and could not be -credited except upon personal experience. So I -ask myself what must be the state of peasant -homes and of artisans’ dwellings. With, however, -the advance in schooling, comes an appreciation -of domestic improvements, and the -kitchen is rapidly ceasing to be the best bedroom. -Under the Third Republic, so much maligned, -public schools for peasant girls have increased,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_225"></a>[225]</span> -which are considerably an advance on the old -convent system of education. Nuns are the -worst teachers in the world and the least conscientious. -We have the exposure by the -Archbishop of Nancy of the method of the -nuns of the Bon Pasteur, who train orphans, and -instead of teaching them, merely exploit them, -and keep up a flourishing institution on the hard -labour of children and girls, and, when the time -for leaving the convent arrives, cast them out -without an outfit or a farthing of all the immense -sums they have earned for the convent when -they ought to have been learning lessons. Of -course, these republican schools are thwarted and -vexed by every kind of petty persecution on the -part of the clerical party. The French Catholics -detest the lay teachers, whom they regard as the -rivals of the Christian Brothers and the nuns, and -make them suffer accordingly. Their writers of -predilection make a point of holding them up -for public scorn and ridicule, and so M. Henri -Lavedan shows us, in that detestable play, <i>Le -Vieux Marcheur</i>, a country teacher, Mademoiselle -Léontine Falempin, all that she ought not to be; -and M. de Vogüé, to be true to the modern traditions -of the French aristocrat, when he makes -the base heroine of his dull novel, <i>Les Morts qui -Parlent</i>, go wrong, jeeringly says, “So acted the -pupil of the good M. Pécaut.” M. Pécaut, a -respected and popular citizen who died lately,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_226"></a>[226]</span> -established an excellent lay institution for girls at -Fontenay-aux-Roses, and M. de Vogüé’s cowardly -attack upon a dead man of whom the -world knew nothing but good, by implying that -a woman is impure because she has been brought -up in his college, aroused the just indignation -of every fair-minded Frenchman. If the theme -were not too unsavoury M. de Vogüé would deserve -that I should retort by revealing the tales -of scandal and vice I have learned of a fashionable -convent near Paris,—and these stories do not -reach me from outsiders, but from four women -who were educated therein.</p> - -<p>It is a source of astonishment to me how inventive -the French “little people” are in the matter -of domestic stores. In Ireland, certainly, you -will see nothing like it, but perhaps it may be -different in England. Here all sorts of things -are made at home: wines, spirits, liqueurs, and -essences; jams, jellies, oil, vinegar, linen, bread, -and honey. Everything in nature is turned to -useful account, and the housewives are never -idle. They have fruit and vegetables in abundance, -and live, on the whole, well, if frugally. -Their lands produce flax, hemp, cloves, colza, -wheat, maize, every kind of flower, according -to season and soil; and such is the elasticity -of their temperament and their unsleeping industry, -that they have been able to float above -that tidal wave, the phyloxera, as great as any<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_227"></a>[227]</span> -of the Egyptian plagues, as they floated above -the national disaster of “’70.”</p> - -<p>The hero of M. René Bazin’s most charming -novel <i>La Terre qui Meurt</i>, is a <i>métayer</i>; and <i>métayage</i> -is land worked on the half-profit system, -a midway position between labourer and freeholder. -The sermon preached by this mournful -little story is that the French land is dying for want -of cultivation, as the peasants are swarming into -the big towns, where they are not wanted, and -leaving to waste the land that needs them. Each -name in France is selected with a regard for the -dignity of mankind. The cook and the barber -call themselves “artists,” and thereby efface any -menial touch from their calling. The retired servant -calls himself a <i>rentier</i>, and the retired labourer -decks himself in the gentlemanly title of -<i>cultivateur</i>. You may be a <i>cultivateur</i> with -“lands and proud dwellings,” like the earl in -the song, or you may modestly cultivate a single -acre.</p> - -<p>With such a fine name in prospect, I wonder -any peasant lad is lured from the country to the -big, unsatisfactory towns, as M. Bazin laments -in his tale of the <i>métayer</i> and his sons. In the -<i>métairie</i> system the partnership between landlord -and <i>métayer</i> is worked in this wise. The landlord -supplies stock, land, and implements; the -<i>métayer</i> brings the labour, and the profits are -equally divided. The <i>métayer</i> boards his labourers,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_228"></a>[228]</span> -and their wages vary, according to season, -from seventy-five centimes to two and a half -francs per day. The agent, on this system, is -done away with, and the landlord and his partner -stand as man to man. The artisan, too, in -the country enjoys a pleasant independence. He -builds his own house, he makes and maintains -his own home with thrift and ambition. The standard -of honesty is high. There is little beggary -or drunkenness, and early marriages are frequent.</p> - -<p>Of course the peasant is grasping,—it were -idle to hide this, even in praising his frugality. -He is close-fisted and hard-headed, and would -rather part with his blood than with a franc; -but he and his brother, the artisan, have made, -and help to keep, France where she is. However -deplorable the pictures of their land which -French novelists and story-tellers may offer us, -we may believe, without fear of error, that it is not -<i>La Terre</i> which represents the French peasantry, -so human and so lovable, despite its lack of disinterestedness -and generosity; and it is not M. -Octave Mirbeau’s appalling heroine who represents -the great hard-working, honest, and intelligent -artisan class. Both of them have -qualities above and beyond any to be looked -for in the same classes elsewhere; and if there -were nothing else to admire, surely we must -find admirable their rectitude and their love of -independence.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_229"></a>[229]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/header6.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX<br /> -<span class="smaller">THE PRESS AND THE PEOPLE’S COLLEGES</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>The French bring an artistic instinct into the -manufacturing of all things, and so it follows -that they could not be content to compose -newspapers on the lines of British journalism, -which accepts the propagation of mere news as -the aim and object for which journalism was instituted. -It is not necessarily what is true, but -what will amuse and please his subscribers that -the editor thinks of. If these want fiction, then -give them fiction, by all means, but mix it up in -a literary ragout. And so, when you have -turned from the political article of your paper, -which is frequently written in questionable taste, -you will find little paragraphs, half-columns -about the nothings of the hour, written with a -delicate wit, an infinite grace and humour. Most -of the contributors to the <i>Figaro</i> are remarkable -writers. Of M. Anatole France there is nothing -to be said here, once we salute him as the living -master of French literature. Every Wednesday -he offers the fortunate readers of the <i>Figaro</i> a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_230"></a>[230]</span> -scene of contemporary history which constitutes -a morning delight. This front column is reserved -for the elect. Since the split in the -French nation over an unhappy Jewish officer, -many of the old contributors have been replaced -by writers more in accord with the present line -of the <i>Figaro</i> in politics. M. Cornély, the practical -editor to-day, used to be a frantic Monarchist, -the pillar of the <i>Gaulois</i>. Now the Government -has no more firm upholder than this Conservative -Catholic. His brilliant leaderettes each -morning in the <i>Figaro</i> are a daily joy, so full of -sense, of logic, of humour, and of wit are they.</p> - -<p>Then the brief and delicious dialogues of M. -Capus, who would miss them? To see the -name of Capus to a half-column of dialogue on a -topic of the hour is to be glad you have lived -another day. It was by sheer imperturbable -good-humour that the <i>Figaro</i> so splendidly -fought the governmental campaign during the -severe crisis it passed through after the verdict -of Rennes, and out of which it came so -triumphantly. Since the Revolution no French -Government has had such an hour of triumph as -that which the brave and excellent old man, M. -Emile Loubet, and his brave and able Minister, -M. Waldeck-Rousseau, enjoyed on the 22nd of -September, 1899, at the unforgetable banquet of -twenty-two thousand mayors of France, come -from all parts of the country to gather enthusiastically<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_231"></a>[231]</span> -round the head of the State in a loyal -protest against all the base and scandalous -machinations of his enemies. It is not often -one can congratulate a French editor on the -political conduct of his paper, and M. Cornély -deserves hearty congratulations for his skilful -management of the governmental campaign in -the columns of the <i>Figaro</i>. It is true he was -magnificently supported by M. France, a host in -himself, whose witching satires on Nationalism -will remain among the most delicate and dainty -of contributions to political literature of this or -any country. It was a battle worthily won, the -weapons, used with a surprising dexterity, being -wit, charm, grace, and humour. The <i>Figaro</i> -has also an old contributor, Le Passant, who out -of nothing will fabricate you a half-hour of delicious -hilarity, and for articles of a more serious -and intellectual quality, the distinguished woman -of letters who writes under the pseudonym of -Arvède Barine.</p> - -<p>Add to these intellectual features the bright -interspersion of graceful little Parisian notes on -anything, from a cabmen’s or washerwomen’s -strike to the fraternity of European soldiers in -China, from the weather to the circulation of -false silver, the literary and theatrical chronicle -at the end of such papers as the <i>Temps</i> and the -<i>Débats</i>, always intrusted to writers of wide renown. -For the criticism of books in Paris is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_232"></a>[232]</span> -done by competent critics, who sign their articles, -or is not done at all. Unsigned reviews in -Paris are regarded merely as publishers’ advertisements; -and as well-known and responsible -critics are few, it wisely follows that few books -are ever seriously noticed. This is as it should -be. If the London Press would adopt this manner, -and suppress the daily trivial reviews of -trivial books, less time would be wasted on -mediocrities, and more time devoted to the few -makers of literature. It is, thanks to this indifference -to the large majority of incompetent and -unoriginal scribblers in France, that here there -are far less spurious reputations than across the -Channel, where popularity and frantic eulogies -in the columns of the newspapers seem to be -based on the possession of no conceivable literary -quality.</p> - -<p>“We publish more than our own share of -worthless trash,” once said a French writer to -me, “but it is always better written than your -trash, for our bad writers must have some knowledge -of grammar, which it appears yours lack, -and they must write with what looks like a certain -measure of style, whereas your bad writers -shine by absence of the smallest pretension to -style of any kind”; which means, of course, that -illiterate French men and women know their -language better than illiterate English men and -women know theirs. They have been better<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_233"></a>[233]</span> -trained and disciplined in the maintenance of -grammatical laws. And while English journalism -would, I am confident, never descend into -the gross personalities and insults of the low -French Press,—that kind of journalism presided -over by MM. Drumont of <i>La Libre Parole</i>, Millevoye -of <i>La Patrie</i>, Judet of <i>Le Petit Journal</i>, -and Rochefort of <i>L’Intransigeant</i>, the unspeakable -<i>Intransigeant</i>,—more intellect, education, -and style are expended in the columns of an -ordinary French paper than would be needed to -carry on a dozen successful London papers. No -London journalist would think it worth his while -to spend an entire morning over the “confection” -of a bright leaderette, read to-day and -forgotten to-morrow, or be content to cast real -brilliance on the ambient air in the reckless fashion -of the polished French journalist. The thousand -exquisite things Daudet in this fashion -flung into the bottomless abyss of journalism -without a thought—Provençal spendthrift that -he was!—that he was wasting his intellectual -capital!</p> - -<p>The <i>Temps</i>, a Protestant organ, is the most -serious, the best informed, and the most respectable -of Parisian newspapers. It has not the -dash, the astonishing verve, the invincible courage -of the <i>Figaro</i>, but it is always well written, -moderate, and interesting. The dramatic and -literary columns are special features. The day<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_234"></a>[234]</span> -of the <i>Débats</i> is over. It once held the first -place as an intellectual and political paper, but it -has lost all vitality, and it has become that unacceptable -thing in such an atmosphere as Paris, -<i>démodé</i>. Few of its subscribers have remained -faithful to it, and only one or two of its distinguished -contributors.</p> - -<p>The <i>Débats</i>, like the <i>Temps</i>, is eminently respectable, -and never uses that recognised weapon -of French journalism, calumny, which makes -the loss of its prestige on political grounds to be -deplored. For, in its method of fighting its -political campaigns, the French Press to-day has -descended to strange depths of dishevelled freedom. -Under the Second Empire the Press had -hardly more liberty than that which it enjoyed -under the iron heel of Napoleon, and the supervision -exercised by the censor in songs, plays, -pamphlets, and literature was assuredly of greater -benefit to the nation, even when making allowances -for errors of judgment, than the coarse -and outrageous licence permitted under the Third -Republic. It was nothing but an act of stupid -prudery to have taken proceedings against a -grave masterpiece like <i>Madame Bovary</i>, but the -Public Prosecutor, M. Bulot, should certainly -have taken measures to summon before a court -of justice M. Octave Mirbeau for writing such an -irredeemable study as <i>Le Journal d’une Femme -de Chambre</i>. The working-man, the artisan,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_235"></a>[235]</span> -those whom the conditions of existence have -excluded from the privileges of education, who -can pay only a sou for their daily supply of -political information, cannot be too deeply pitied -for having to rely upon such sources of news as -<i>La Patrie</i> and <i>L’Intransigeant</i>. They go into -the wine-shop then, primed with the awful -lesson in civilisation they daily receive, their -minds poisoned against all those in public office -by the ferocious hate, the slander, the ignoble -lies they have read and discussed in their newspaper. -How are these to distinguish between -truth and falsehood? No critical faculties in -them have been cultivated by training or education. -They accept as educated the men who -write these pernicious articles, and if the writers -solemnly assure their readers that every public -man in France is a thief and traitor, the latter suppose -these men must know, and, being by nature -suspicious of those who rule and tax them, they -are only too ready to believe all they read. And -so they credit M. Loubet with a capacity for -every dark crime.</p> - -<p>The unpretentious dignity and courage, above -all, the <i>bourgeois</i> simplicity of M. Loubet’s presidentship -of the Republic should bid us hope for -France in our worst hour of despondency. There -is a fine sense of duty in the race, for which -this simple civilian stands without brag, assumption, -or a trace of French <i>panache</i>. Honour<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_236"></a>[236]</span> -came to seek him uncourted, and he has not -wavered or been bullied into resignation by the -most appalling insults, outrages, calumnies, and -actual assaults that have ever been showered on -one mortal man. As a figure of civic integrity -and of unassuming merit, I know none worthier -of admiration in France to-day. For the terrible -price paid in Paris for public office is not only -abuse of person and principles, but the digging -into every private corner of family history with -a deliberate intent to injure and wound by attacks -upon the dead. It is this extraordinary -Nationalist Press that has so brutalised the -imagination of the great reading public, that its -readers do not even exact logic or a shadow of -consistency from those who cater their politics -for them. A little while ago two French officers -killed their superior officer sent to arrest them -on their way into the heart of Africa. Those -two officers were then despatched by their own -men, and the <i>Patrie Française</i> made a great -splash in the way of a patriotic funeral for the -assassinated colonel. Had the colonel been -murdered by two civilians all would have been -well. But the assassins were officers, and officers, -when they are not Jews, must always be -respected, admired, and adored. So when the -patriots had done weeping over Colonel Klobb, -since he had been interred with national and -military honours, MM. Coppée and Lemaître, in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_237"></a>[237]</span> -the name of the nation, acting as chief mourners, -they decided to forget him and wax exceedingly -and patriotically wroth over the fate of his glorious -assassins. Why were Voulet and Chanoine -killed? Who had dared to kill so sacred a thing -as a French officer? It must be the Government, -the wicked, infamous, Jew-paid Government. -M. Loubet, of course, gave the order, -and M. Waldeck-Rousseau transmitted it, and -then, lest anyone should live to tell the tale, -Waldeck-Rousseau wired instructions to kill off -anyone else belonging to the mission. My -Catholic friends are ever lamenting the lack of -freedom under the Third Republic. I wonder -if any Catholic Government has ever tolerated -its enemies in the very heart of its rule writing -daily in a hostile Press that it traffics in assassination. -And nobody seems to find the charge -in this case laughable. Nationalism is certainly -in direct hostility to all sense of humour.</p> - -<p>But France is too sound and honest and sober -a race to live contented with no other public -influence than that of her untrustworthy Press. -The Catholics have always understood that religious -ideas are most happily and lastingly -spread by direct personal influences, hence the -prestige of their clergy. Catholic clubs and -societies abound, but the want of liberal education -in the working-man was deeply felt in the -revelations of the <i>Affaire</i>. To write of France<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_238"></a>[238]</span> -to-day is to hark back perpetually to the Dreyfus -Affair. Everything seems to date from it, everything -to touch it, everything to be explained by -it. The misfortunes of no single man in all -history have ever left such abiding and momentous -consequences as those of the Alsatian Jewish -officer, whose return to his native land -all Europe stood still to watch with thrilled -pulses. And so it was felt, as infamy after -infamy practised against him was discovered, -that the people should be educated to think -for themselves, to know and understand what -is being done in their name. It was felt, too, -that they should have their share of the intellectual -ideas, the moral and mental beauty that -brightens life and gives it zest, hitherto appropriated -by the rich and leisured classes. What -M. Deherme calls the co-operation in idea, the -basis of the people’s colleges of Paris, is really -the popularisation of culture. Anything is good -that will help to keep the workmen out of the -wineshops, where they are poisoned with inferior -and inflammable alcohol, and guard them -from the political garbage of their inferior and -inflammable newspapers. If you cannot give -the workman space, privacy, wealth, and luxurious -home-life, at least make him free in his -heritage of the thoughts that move the ages, -put him in contact with the current of ideas -in the ambient air. And so M. Deherme’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_239"></a>[239]</span> -notion “caught on,” and from it sprang the -“Universités Populaires” opened in several of -the populous working-quarters of the capital, -where every evening, during certain periods, -every different kind of distinguished citizen gives -some of his leisure and some of his brains to -the poor.</p> - -<p>A subscription of fivepence a week, afterwards -reduced to sevenpence halfpenny a month, -from the numerous members was thought sufficient -to pay for rent and light, while the rich -should lend their pictures, give their books, and -under the form of lectures impart their knowledge—this -was the practical form of co-operation -of ideas. Then it was decided that a doctor should -have his free consultation-room, and working-men’s -families be able to come on Sundays and -enjoy reading and plays or amusements of divers -kinds. In winter, as well as books and papers, -light was at their service, which was a small -economy that balanced the small charge for -these privileges. At its worst, it was always -better and cheaper than the wineshop. M. Deherme -hired a small lecture-room in the Rue -Paul Bert, and for two years, even in the summer -months of holiday, arranged for commercial -lectures, debates, entertainments provided by -the disinterested professional class—always the -readiest to assist the poor. The wealthy sometimes -give of their superfluous income—and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_240"></a>[240]</span> -how little! Contrast with it the much that -doctors, lawyers, professors, men of science, -give of their less as regards actual income! -When men like Zola and Léon Daudet sneer at -surgeons and fashionable doctors, I ask myself -if, for a moment, they realise all that these -surgeons and doctors do for the needy for nothing. -You give a subscription for some charitable -object duly recorded in the newspapers. You -have the benefit of your charitable reputation, -and your self-advertisement; you have earned -both without any actual sacrifice.</p> - -<p>How many doctors and surgeons have their -hours set aside regularly for free consultations, -and add to these gifts of money for medicine -and wine! If I were to try to enumerate all the -kindnesses and liberal charities done by big doctors -and surgeons, and by small doctors, and never -a word of it recorded, I should have to embark -in several volumes. I know no class of men -so disinterested and generous, except perhaps, -barristers and professors. In France we need -seek no more splendid examples in this class -of men than the present French Prime Minister, -M. Waldeck-Rousseau, who gave up a lucrative -profession, being the most brilliant and best paid -advocate of France, to become an ill-paid Minister, -sacrificing in the hour of a great national -crisis something like fifteen thousand a year; -and Maître Labori, who, in order to defend an<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_241"></a>[241]</span> -unpopular cause, not only risked his life but -fell from the height of professional wealth to -something nearly approaching professional poverty. -The Université Populaire, a liberal institution, -with, in consequence, Church, Army, -aristocracy and snobbish upper-middle class -against it, was supported by such professors -and writers, the glory of hard-working, thoughtful -and intelligent France: M. Gabriel Séailles, -philosopher; M. Ferdinand Buisson, educationalist; -M. Emile Duclaux, director of the Pasteur -Institute; the Pasteur Wagner, M. Paul Desjardins; -M. Daniel Halévy, the brilliant young son -of the illustrious writer, Ludovic Halévy, one of -the simplest and most charming of Frenchmen -it is my privilege to know; M. Anatole France, -whom I do not hesitate to call the greatest of -living French writers; M. Paul Hervieu, a kind -of French George Meredith, with all the qualities -and defects, the generosity and passion for justice -of his great English brother, and others less -known across the Channel.</p> - -<p>Now the mother-house of the Université -Populaire is in the Faubourg St. Antoine, the -big nerve of labouring Paris. Here, in the heart -of the Socialist movement, serious and honourable -men strive nobly to combat the current of -anarchy by fraternity in ideas and intellect with -those who work by their hands and the sweat -of their brow to keep France where she is, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_242"></a>[242]</span> -where she will ever remain as long as her children -so strive, the centre of civilisation. The -new building has a spacious lecture-hall, a museum, -billiard-room, theatre, and library. The -fame of its brilliant lectures has drawn such -a large gathering from the centres of fashion -and idleness that many a time the workman, -the real “lord of the soil,” has been turned away -from his own door, having arrived late, when -all the places were taken by the well-dressed -usurpers from the boulevards and wealthy -avenues.</p> - -<p>Branch colleges have happily been established -on the same lines at Montmartre, Grenelle, Belleville, -the Boulevard Barbés, the Barrière d’Italie, -the Rue Mouffetard, and, without the city wall, -where the idea first started under the personal -superintendence of its noble founder, M. Deherme, -at Montreuil sous Bois. Alas, it cannot -be said that the impetus that formed these -admirable institutions has continued with the -same force. Some of the people’s colleges are -temporarily closed, because the workmen have -not shown ardour of late in attending them. It -may only mean the defection that accompanies -all strong reactions. Nobody but Don Quixote -could for ever live and die at the fever-point of -chivalry. Humanity traverses passionate crises, -which reveal in a transient flash all that is best -and worst in it, and then calms down to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_243"></a>[243]</span> -ordinary level of contentment, which has neither -best nor worst, but which denotes merely the -humdrum desire to live as easily as possible. -The historical social crisis France has gone -through has done this good, that a freer current -was established between the intellectual and the -manual workers of France, the guiding soul and -hand of the race; and though for the moment -the great emotions which served as intermediary -between them are forgotten, something of their -union will remain. Neither the Church nor militarism, -neither the worst influences of caste nor -of the clerical party, can undo the good done by -this late union. Let us hope the Université Populaire -will pull up in the coming crisis of the -Liberal Government, against which every base -engine and infamy will be used, and that such -an excellent institution as one which provides -the teaching of the best intellects of France for -the working-classes, libraries (from which are -excluded any novels that respectable women and -girls could not read), concerts, public reading-rooms -well lighted and heated in winter, free consultations -of brilliant lawyers and doctors on -stated days, for the modest subscription of sevenpence -halfpenny a month for an entire family, -will not perish for want of general encouragement.</p> - -<p>The French Liberals are making giant efforts -to spread enlightenment, comfort, and fraternity<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_244"></a>[244]</span> -among their poorer brethren, and under the -name of solidarity, are founding cheap restaurants, -bath-houses, workmen’s dwellings, and a -nursing institute. Their efforts have inspired -a Conservative rivalry, most excellent for the -good of the country, as all rivalries are which -strive for the improvement of the condition of -the artisan class and the poor. The difference -between them lies in the fact that the Catholic -party is opposed to education. They wish to -give as charity the Republic’s offer as a right -earned by labour.</p> - -<p>There are two other influences at work upon -the artisans of France; one exclusively masculine, -and the other an influence equally strong -with each sex—the wineshop and the public -ball. Statistics assure us that France leads the -list for the consumption of alcohol—and statistics -are weighty and respectable matter. But -can it be true? one asks one’s self in amazement, -remembering the evil sights of London and the -astonishing absence here of drunken men in the -streets. Now and then you will meet such a -thing as a drunken man, but the sight is unusual -enough to attract notice. Tippling is the -general form of drinking to excess here. The -men go into the wineshop to have a drink, and -to talk things over. There is always something -to be talked about, and the public bar is -the best place to have it out with your neighbour,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_245"></a>[245]</span> -and the <i>marchand de vin</i>, sly rogue, is -accused of supplying queer, unwholesome drinks -that provoke thirst, so that one drink follows -another.</p> - -<p>The <i>marchand de vin</i> sells more than liquors. -He is the local post-office keeper, sells stamps, -postcards, tobacco, and usually has a rude little -dining-saloon where workmen and coachmen -gather. So it stands to reason that there is a great -deal of coming and going, of movement and life; -there is always something to be learnt in the -way of rumour, and someone to listen to you -in the hour of revolt. Thus many private and -personal revolutions are planned here and it is -decided here whether, on the occasion of public -functions, the cry shall be, <i>Vive l’Armée</i> or <i>Vive -la République</i>. As a different decision will -probably be taken at the next wineshop, when -these valiant heroes meet in the streets we are -threatened with a renewal of the barricades. -After the first or second shudder at these menaces, -the citizens come to take them very quietly. I -remember the afternoon the Chamber of Deputies -met under the protection of the troops, when -the whole large Place de la Concorde was laid -out in bivouacs, mounted police and cavalry -gathered in knots around groups of resting -horses, both sides of the bridges guarded by -lines of <i>sergeants de ville</i> through which a needle -could not pass, except by wily and clever entreaties;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_246"></a>[246]</span> -egress to the avenues, Rue de Rivoli, -Rue Royale, all severely barred. You rubbed -your eyes, and wondered if the city were besieged. -Well, not a soul sought to cross the -Place de la Concorde, except some curious, inoffensive -spectator like myself. So quiet, so still -and silent, was everything that it was impossible -to account for all these regiments and this look -of a besieged city. Visiting a friend who lives -near the Pont des Invalides, she informed me -that two young English girls had just left her in -a state of acute disappointment. “We came to -Paris to see the great French Revolution, and -there was nothing.” That has been the true -state of affairs in Paris for the past two or three -years. We were constantly sallying forth into -the streets, and there never was anything much -to be seen. What little there was in the way of -civic uproar was centred round the reactionary -and anti-semitic beershop Maxeville on the -Boulevard. It rarely led to anything but a few -arrests of a few hours’ duration, and then we -quieted down to await with fortitude and patience -the next explosion.</p> - -<p>The public ball is, if less revolutionary in its consequences, -more morally disastrous. The French -love dancing; when they dance together in the -open or in big kitchens, as the peasants dance, -there is nothing for us to do but cheer and envy -them. Here we recognise in the dancing of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_247"></a>[247]</span> -tired workers a legitimate outlet for compressed -activities, the eternal measure of joy which children -of nature must ever tread. If it lead to love -and marriage, or, maybe, only through the dalliance -of flirtation, that, too, is in the fitness of -things, since men and women must flirt, make -love, marry or jilt; and the only thing we have to -ask of humanity is that it shall do these things -with decorum and taste. It is just this sense of -decorum, of taste, which is so conspicuous in the -French of all classes, and so absent in the British -Isles. And the only place where this decorum -and taste fail them is at the public ball. Here -they literally go off their heads, and become -vulgar, gross, and indecent. Modest little <i>grisettes</i> -come to these vile rendezvous for the first time, -well-mannered, timid, perhaps with some of the -bloom of youth about them still, a reserve which -might be interpreted as a kind of virtue,—such a -pretty, engaging dignity does it give them,—and -this they leave behind in the empty bowl of hot -blue wine, with the slices of lemon or orange -floating in it. They breathe the air of obscenity, -and grow vain and audacious, believing this is -life, and that they have learnt it. Inept and stupid -rascals think it a grand thing to dye their -souls in purple-black, and make a foolish mockery -of all things sacred. Tenth-rate, vulgar-minded -scribblers haunt these halls of horror, and pretend -to prefer the popularity earned by their<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_248"></a>[248]</span> -brutish impurities, couched in coarse verse, in -such abodes of vice to that of the reading public. -And when, by chance, you see printed, or -hear one of those hymns of Montmartre of the -glories of Bullier or the Moulin Rouge, it seems -to you a proof of infallible justice on the part of -contemporary judgment that these mediocre -scoundrels should have failed.</p> - -<p>Yet the Parisian <i>grisette</i>, even when she is far -from being a model of virtue, if she has not been -vitiated by the <i>bal public</i> is a very well-behaved -and gracious little creature. Her standard of life -is not high, but such as it is, it is attained with -surprising dignity, and it is thanks to the lover -who leads her to the public ball, that she becomes -acquainted with the ignoble, the profane, -and the outrageous. Left to herself, she would -ask for nothing better than a quiet and refined -interior, a little money to spend capriciously, as -many pretty, inoffensive fineries to wear as are -necessary to make her always pleasant to be -looked at, an occasional cheerful outing, with a -picnic at Robinson or in the woods of Vincennes, -or safe water-excursions at Bougival, with the -certainty of replacing the present lover on the -same discreet and advantageous lines. She takes -no heed of the morrow, and it is this improvidence -and the public ball that inevitably accomplish -her ruin when she does not find—and it -must be admitted she more frequently than<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_249"></a>[249]</span> -not does find—an honest workman willing to -overlook her past and to start married life with -her. Made for the stability of home, neat and -competent, she soon settles down, and proves -herself a good housewife.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 21.875em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/footer6.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_250"></a>[250]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/header3.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X<br /> -<span class="smaller">THE PARISIAN LECTURE AND SALON</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>In no city in the world is the public lecturer so -popular as in Paris. The <i>Conférence</i> is almost -a national institution, like the <i>salon</i> and -the <i>foyer</i>. I will frankly confess that I find -the average Parisian lecturer overrated, and the -whole thing sadly overdone. In the winter -and spring there are a great deal too many lectures, -on too many subjects, but that is the way -the Parisian, above all, Parisian woman, likes -to take a dose of culture. When the season -opens in January, you will generally find that -your friends have subscribed somewhere or -other for a course of lectures—six or twelve. -Sometimes they take place in the lecture-hall of -the Rue Caumartin, or in a lecture-hall in the -Rue Boissy d’Anglas, or at the Société Géographique -on the Boulevard St. Germain. Then -there are the lectures of the Sorbonne, or the -Collége de France, where the salaried professors -of the State lecture, and a host of stray lectures<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_251"></a>[251]</span> -on every subject under the sun, in various -private dwellings or hired rooms. In spite of -the competition between the well-known French -lecturers, professors, men of letters and of science, -foreigners are given courteous hearing, and -if they have anything novel and interesting to -say, are heartily thanked as well as generously -paid for saying it. This I know, for I have had -the honour of giving several lectures in Paris on -modern English literature, and had reason to -congratulate myself on my sympathetic and -appreciative audience of intelligent and cultivated -Frenchwomen. They dress so well, these -pleasant-looking Frenchwomen, and listen with -such speaking, sparkling visages, that no wonder -there is so much competition between the male -lecturers. Even a morose man of science, when -he casts his eye over his audience, must be gladdened -and freshened by their presence. He may -prefer communion with the masculine intellect; -but he must find his countrywoman’s alert and -agreeable face, under its ever-becoming bonnet, -a welcome vision.</p> - -<p>Distinguished foreign writers, if they know -enough French, are generally invited to lecture -by some society. Fogazzarro was asked to -lecture here on his recent visit, and a very pleasant -little lecture it was, delivered in the best and -easiest manner possible; and after him came -Madame Pardo Bazán, the Spanish writer, with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_252"></a>[252]</span> -a few commonplaces about Spain. The fashionable -resort for the lecture fanatic has been, for -some years past, the Bodinière, in the Rue St. -Lazare. This is an old theatre, a concert hall, -a kind of fast musical chamber, where ballets, -songs, and lectures all mingle strangely, and the -lecturer, when the curtain rises, is revealed -seated before a table, with ballet-girls heel-and-toe-tipped -on the walls around him. The first -time I attended a fashionable lecture at the -Bodinière, it was to hear the Abbé Charbonnel -talk to us on Lamennais. I am not easily -shocked, but I found both incongruous and indecorous -the picture made by an abbé in his -uniform of religion, between two ballet-girls, -with images everywhere of public dance and -light morals. The lecture was an impressive -one, far above the average Parisian lecture, eloquent, -original, solemnly grave, polished as only -a Frenchman’s prose is polished, with a note of -burning revolt running through it. This, too, -surprised me. When all London gathered to -hear why an eminent clergyman of the Church -of England left the faith of his fathers, they congregated -in a church, and listened with a sense -of solemnity to a solemn avowal. Here was a -French abbé talking to us with a just indignation -of the tyranny of Rome; talking with passion -and admiration of Lamennais’s revolt and -the injustice of Rome, talking as only a man<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_253"></a>[253]</span> -who felt and shared the moral sufferings of his -hero could talk. It was undoubtedly beautiful -and thrilling. It was like hearing a heart beat, -like watching a brain throb, feeling one’s self -face to face with a naked soul in one of its great -crises. But was a fashionable lecture-hall the -place for such a public confession? Were frivolous, -fluttering women of society a fitting audience -in such an hour? Were these ladies of the -ballet painted on the walls, this theatrical curtain, -seemly environment? And was it in his -abbé’s robe that Victor Charbonnel should have -denounced the tyranny of Rome in public? -Shortly afterwards the Abbé Charbonnel was excommunicated, -which was no more than everybody -expected; and though there was not a -word he uttered in that remarkable lecture on a -remarkable subject with which I did not sympathise, -I should have preferred to hear it delivered -elsewhere,—in other and more solemn -surroundings.</p> - -<p>There is one thing that I have always noticed -in the Parisian lecturer,—his complete lack of -timidity, of want of self-confidence. However -dull he may be, however mediocre, however -uneloquent,—and he is often one, or all three,—no -matter, he is sure of himself. He has -chosen to shine as a lecturer, and as a lecturer -he will under no circumstance be induced to -recognise himself as a failure. This stupendous<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_254"></a>[254]</span> -self-conceit is a masculine characteristic, I -know, but the Parisian lecturer carries it off -with art. He is an artist in his genius for believing -in himself. How many great men have -I gone forth to hear talk of their art or of -themselves, and come away amazed by the -string of admirably delivered commonplaces -they have uttered!</p> - -<p>M. Gustave Larroumet is a lecturer all Paris -was wild about some years ago. I was told -that for love or money you could not get a place -at one of his lectures, unless you subscribed beforehand -for the whole course, and even then -that he was bombarded with declarations, like a -popular tenor, and that young girls died of undeclared -love for him. Never was such a popular -lecturer as M. Larroumet! I went in dread and -awe. Should I, too, succumb, and add one more -to the daily thousand and one declarations of a -hopeless passion? The vast hall was thronged, -the dresses were exquisite, the bonnets dazzling. -All the young girls of fashionable Paris were -there, with note-books and scented pocket-handkerchiefs -for the expected great emotions. -He came, the popular lecturer, and never was I -more grievously disillusioned. He spoke well, -his gesticulation and enunciation were equally -delightful to hear and behold. He was, what -one might expect him to be after such a course -of public worship, the <i>blasé</i> fine gentleman of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_255"></a>[255]</span> -the lecture-hall, good-looking, youngish, the very -tenor of lecturers. But to what hopeless mediocrities -he treated us, what <i>lieux-communs</i> he imperturbably -walked us through! It was one of -Gresset’s plays he analysed. The gist of it all -was that our grandmothers were better bred than -we are, because they indulged in <i>persiflage</i> and -we in <i>blagues</i>. And this was the great lecturer -of the hour!</p> - -<p>Everybody knows the initial story of the French -<i>salon</i>, and the fortunate influence on manners -and literature of the prestige of the Hôtel de -Rambouillet; Molière, who laughed at everything, -even at his own desperate sufferings, -laughed at it in his <i>Les Précieuses Ridicules</i>, for -nothing on earth is sacred to a Frenchman. -Whatever his name, in whatever century he was -born, he must, in consistency with his nationality, -prove himself a scoffer; and as he has the art of -mocking admirably, it is always very difficult to -know when he is serious or when he is laughing -in his sleeve. A Frenchman will work night and -day with frenzy for a purpose dearer to him than -anything on earth, and all the while will deliberately -make a mockery of his labour and his -devotion. Writing to me on this subject, the -eternal passion of the French for <i>blagues</i> (my -correspondent defines in lucid English the word -<i>blaguer</i>, “To say about somebody or something -one admires or respects, jokes of which one does<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_256"></a>[256]</span> -not believe the first word,” and I leave the definition -with its pleasing French savour of composition -and sentiment), a Frenchman says: -“There is not a man in the whole of France -about whom we have more joked than about M. -Brisson, the ancient minister, the only political -man to whom nothing could ever be reproached, -but the epithet ‘austere’ deprived him of three-fourths -of his authority, though Frenchmen are, -after all, as sensible as other people to the virtue -of honesty.” And so may be said of Molière. -He was as well aware as anyone could be of the -immense benefit to his race and to his language -of the establishment of the <i>salon</i>, even when he -laughed at it.</p> - -<p>Though the century of the <i>salon</i> has passed -away, and carried along with it some of the glory -of French literature, some of its traditions still -linger, and will never be lost as long as the race -delights in good conversation. English people -visit to kill time, to fulfil a social obligation, and -consider that their duty to themselves and their -neighbours is done if they happen to remark that -it is a fine day. Now, the French visit to talk. -A pretty and well-dressed woman will, perhaps, -have other more private and personal preoccupations, -and wish to distract masculine attention to -an adorable gown or a bewitching bonnet; this -was one of the reasons why that model keeper of -a <i>salon</i>, Madame Geoffrin, excluded women from<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_257"></a>[257]</span> -hers. She found they interfered with serious -conversation. I advisedly call Madame Geoffrin -the “keeper” of a <i>salon</i>, because she -made a business of it, and ruled and tamed -her literary menagerie by a discreet and liberal -use of her purse. I have often wondered -if her great men in their hearts did not sometimes -revolt against the thraldom in which they lived -from the moment they became celebrated. To -be bound to be brilliant and witty, in return for -a good dinner and a consideration every evening -of one’s life! And to be condemned to meet -none but brilliant and witty persons, and listen -to their splendid talk when not talking splendidly -oneself! There is matter for reflection here to -make dull and obscure persons occasionally -thank their stars. If good talk is not spontaneous, -I own it has no charm for me, but then I -have never aspired to hold a <i>salon</i>, and if you -hold a <i>salon</i> and wish it to be a success, talk -cannot be spontaneous.</p> - -<p>Quite recently Madame Aubernon died, and -Paris lost a literary <i>salon</i>, modelled, at a long distance, -on that of Madame Geoffrin. Madame -Aubernon was a rich <i>bourgeoise</i>, with no pretensions -on the score of age, good looks, or dress. -Her only ambition was to form a menagerie of -celebrities. She gave them every evening dinners -by no means as good as those of Madame Geoffrin, -and checked, controlled, made them march<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_258"></a>[258]</span> -to her liking. She, too, professed mistrust of -pretty women, whom she invited only to lunches -and teas and such entertainments, because she -feared that their pretty frocks, their arms and -shoulders, would divert the attention of her great -men from their duty to her and her <i>salon</i>. She -kept a little bell beside her, and only allowed the -great men to talk in turn. “Now, M. Renan,” -and Renan poured forth to order. “If you -please, M. Dumas,” and behold M. Dumas acquitting -himself with docility and force. The famous -story of the <i>petits pois</i> is told of every distinguished -guest of Madame Aubernon. Sometimes -you hear it with Dumas’s name, or Renan’s, -or Pailleron’s. It does not matter, but the incident -remains a delightful illustration of the -inconveniences of eating your dinner on the understanding -that you are to pay for it in wit. -The great man opened his lips out of turn, when -the hostess stormily rang the bell, and ordered -him to shut them again. Somebody else was -speaking with permission. When he ceased, -Madame Aubernon turned graciously to her tame -lion, and said: “Now you may speak. What -was it you wanted to say?” “Oh, nothing, -madame. I only wanted to ask for another helping -of peas.” Musical celebrities are not so easily -trained. When, after dining at some Parisian -countess’s, Chopin was asked to play, he quietly -retorted: <i>Madame, j’ai si peu mangé</i>. But if<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_259"></a>[259]</span> -the great men of letters had been such bears as -Chopin there would never have been the <i>salon</i>, and -the story of Parisian life would be the poorer. -And, after all, it is an excellent discipline. Men acquire -the art of listening as well as that of talking, -and it is a virtue of national importance to teach -people not to be dull. For if you are dull you -have no possible place in a salon. Your hostess -has no desire to crowd her rooms with inanimate -or bored figure-heads. You come on a distinct -treaty, the conditions of which are accepted by -your appearance,—to amuse and be amused. If -you speak, either you must have something to -say, or you must say whatever you wish to -utter well.</p> - -<p>Since the Faubourg has been sulking, and the -aristocracy is no longer a power in the land, the -aristocratic <i>salon</i> has dwindled into a tradition. -The young men are so desperately taken up -with sport, with automobiles, that they have -not the leisure their elders had for the arts -and graces of life. The <i>rosse</i> literature has -spoiled the traditions of the Faubourg for us. -The French aristocracy has come to mean Gyp -and Lavedan for us, and a course of those -writers may be warranted to drive any intelligent -reader into the society of washerwomen -and tramps as a pleasing change. The absence -from all these heraldic pages, in which everybody -is more or less titled, of such a thing as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_260"></a>[260]</span> -a gentleman, or even an ordinarily honest man, -is what stupefies me. What their admirers can -imagine would be the benefit to France in upsetting -the Republic in order to place in power -a party, upon its own testimony, so scantily -furnished with brains or honour, is what I am -unable to grasp. And if their women-folk had -their way, we should have back the “White -Terror,” and science and liberal thought would -receive an emphatic blow. But happily there is -no immediate fear of their triumph. The Duc -d’Aumale and the Prince de Joinville took with -them to the grave all the prestige that was left -the House of France, and not even his followers -take the Duke of Orleans seriously.</p> - -<p>Political intrigue is, of course, worked in the -<i>salon</i>, as Academy elections are helped. The -Frenchwoman’s influence is too great not to find -an opening in every question of the hour. If she -has no vote, she inhabits a land where the sorcery -of her sex exercises a wider and deeper, -a more permanent power than any political -rights could ever give her, though, for many -reasons, I am inclined to believe that it would be -better for her and for her race if the significance -of this power were other than it is. In a country -where the courtesan plays a triumphant part, -where newspapers solemnly recount her doings, -describe her toilettes at Longchamps, at Auteuil, -and interview her, we can scarcely expect<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_261"></a>[261]</span> -women not to misuse their sovereignty. They -know that the day it bores them to be chaste, -they need not cloak sin in the mantle of night. -They may wear their lovers on their sleeves in -broad daylight, and lose not a pennyweight of -consideration. The <i>salon</i> of the woman who is -known to have had (or to have) sentimental adventures -will be thronged, and people will only -smile and say of her that she “distracts” herself. -I remember hearing an extraordinary story once -of a beautiful woman, the admired and courted -holder of a famous <i>salon</i>. The cousin of the -friend who told me the story fell a victim to -her charms, and was staying with his mother at -some Mediterranean resort, when he learnt of -the siren’s arrival at a neighbouring town. He -forsook his mother to rush after her, and remained -with her during the greater part of the -long summer vacation. When their holiday had -drawn to a close, the lady took the train, and -called on her lover’s mother, and in the highest -<i>ancien régime</i> manner, said: “Madame, I come -to return your dear son to you.” His little <i>fugue</i>, -she said, was at an end. The two ladies parted -on the best of terms, the one to welcome back -the erring sheep (not that a French mother regards -her son under these circumstances as an erring -sheep), and the other to open the doors of -her closed <i>salon</i> in Paris to all the notabilities she -had left sighing for her brilliant and hospitable<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_262"></a>[262]</span> -roof. What will you? When a woman is not -his own wife, a Parisian does not put any price -upon her honour. True, he makes up for this -laxity in regard to his neighbour’s wife by -arrogating to himself the right to murder his -own faithless wife with impunity. By this legal -ferocity he buys back the privilege of considering -himself at times a model of Roman virtue.</p> - -<p>The <i>salon</i> is all very well, so are the songs -of Montmartre, the Théâtre Rosse, but there -is just one little point, a solitary point, on which -the Frenchman is in no mood to <i>blaguer</i>, not -being Molière, and that is <i>his</i> wife’s fidelity -to the marriage vow, which vow, if we are -to believe him (I confess I do not) he spends -his own life in breaking. He laughs at most -other things, but here he displays a desperate -and unhumorous gravity. The law considerately -assists him, by telling him that killing is -no murder. But if he doesn’t laugh, his neighbours -round him laugh joyously for him. The -infidelity of another man’s wife is the best of -all jokes in France, and public sympathy always -goes with the wife.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus12" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/illus12.jpg" alt="" /> - <p class="caption">GLEANERS</p> - <p class="caption"><i>J. A. Breton</i></p> -</div> - -<p>And yet, while laughing at himself, and at all -things round him, the Frenchman offers us the -ideal of an indefatigable worker in whatever -road he has elected to run his career. If he can -talk well, he can work hard, and no race seeks -so strenuously as his to achieve perfection in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_263"></a>[263]</span> -every path. The alacrity and precision of his -speech he brings into all he does, and I know -no men who have won renown able to wear -it so simply, with such a delightful absence -of pompousness, as distinguished Frenchmen. -Victor Hugo was, of course, the big exception -indispensable for the proof of the rule, for Victor -Hugo sat in pontifical state on his Throne of -Letters, and posed as a sort of Napoleon. But -that was a part of his flamboyant genius, which -had to make a life apart for itself. Renan, with -his delicate scepticism, his good-humoured tolerance, -was a much more convincing figure of -French genius; he was more in keeping with -the urbane, gentle traditions of his race. The -French language lends itself to such a daily dignity -of existence, that this may partly be the -reason there always seems to me something -peculiarly and indescribably harmonious about -intimate life in France, as well as in its larger -social phases. Everybody about you, beginning -with your servant, speaks so well, that -long intercourse with them unfits you for latitudes -where speech is less admirable and less -choice.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 21.875em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/footer7.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_264"></a>[264]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/header3.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI<br /> -<span class="smaller">THE “LITTLE PEOPLE” OF PARIS</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>The “little people” of Paris are not confined -to any particular quarter of the city. They -are to be found everywhere, in spacious avenues, -in streets of heraldic renown, in the sinister -neighbourhood of La Roquette, through the noisy -length of St. Denis. Opposite the palace of the -Duke of La Rochefoucauld in the Rue de Varennes -will you see an old curiosity shop, and close -by work a mild-eyed cobbler and his wife, a -little sempstress. Excellent types, both of these -indefatigable little people of Paris, living in two -tidy attics of this aristocratic street, with an air -of quiet independence. The little people are of -all sorts: beginning with the “little” <i>bourgeoise</i> -and ending with the rag-picker and the <i>marchand -de quatre saisons</i>. The little <i>bourgeoise</i> -is a curious study, and to penetrate into the -precincts where she breathes and thrives, the -foreigner must be her boarder. Else will he -obtain none but a superficial view of her; and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_265"></a>[265]</span> -as her aspect is generally cheerful, her manners -pleasing, he will be disposed to think better of -her than she altogether deserves. The thrift -of the little <i>bourgeoise</i> must be given its real -and ugly name, avarice, for it is nothing else. -It has turned its back upon the virtue of economy, -and has assumed the coarseness of a vice. -And so when she furnishes a spare room, it is -that she shall exploit mercilessly the stranger -at her gates. The traveller in search of experience -may drop in upon her, but those not -supplied with patience, with fortitude in the -endurance of cynical imposition and lucre to -meet complacently exorbitant demands upon -their purse, should avoid this interesting creature, -and go to a hotel. In the first place, the opening -of private doors to the traveller or over-seas -student is so foreign to the habits and instincts -of her race, that once she has allowed the brilliant -idea of “taking in” a foreign boarder to -enter her narrow mind, she starts immediately -by magnifying her legitimate profits, and in her -ardour to amass francs on ground where she is -practically free from all commercial or professional -restrictions, she is not beset by any paltry -fear of overstepping the limits of honesty. Her -sole conception of that homely virtue lies in its -rigid application in her own regard, in an austere -resolution to see that nobody on earth shall cheat -her of the value of a single farthing. I know<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_266"></a>[266]</span> -not which is the more astounding: her inflexible -insistence on the honesty of her <i>bonne</i>, -or the flexibility of her conscience when she -comes in contact with alien claims upon her own -honesty.</p> - -<p>Her favourite boarder is the young American -or English art student. Young women she -naturally prefers, because it is easier to fleece -them, and they are shyer of monetary disputes -than men or experienced women. She will not -scruple to demand for the poorest table imaginable -and the perfunctory service of a single maid-of-all-work, -the terms of a first-rate <i>pension</i> or -a comfortable hotel, where there are servants in -plenty and the table is varied and excellent. -Her excuse is that, not being a boarding-house -keeper or a hotel keeper (“Would that she were -either!” dejectedly moan her victims), she is -entitled to relatively higher prices for the privilege -of a seat at a private table. In the region -of bills she is altogether her own mistress, for -she has no commercial reputation at stake to -balance her notions on the subject of profits, -which are colossal, and so she enters every extra -she can think of with gaiety of heart, and a -smiling conviction that all is fair that puts cash -into the big pocket of the rapacious little <i>bourgeoise</i>. -Not that she will risk frightening off -a possible boarder by a revelation of this view -beforehand, and no mention of those formidable<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_267"></a>[267]</span> -trifles called “extras” will be made in the preliminary -treaty. Then it will be all beguilement -and blandishment, allurement and promise, with -a hint of paradise through the open door of her -modest establishment. Within there, seems to -say this cheering creature, will you find the -warmth of home, maternal care and tenderness -when you are ill, and intelligent sympathy in all -hours. Ten pounds a month seems a small sum -to pay for this, and you enter gratefully, not -disposed to criticise, on the contrary, eager to -see everything through the rose hue of satisfaction, -to find another fifty or seventy francs -added to your bill at the end of the month for -wine, light, coffee, service, linen, and baths. -When fire comes to be included, you discover -that you might have boarded, with comfort, -independence, and good living, for the same -price in one of the hotels of the Rue de Rivoli. -For independence is the very last thing the -little <i>bourgeoise</i> is disposed to allow her “paying -guest.” It needs a quality of brain of which -she is destitute, to recognise a single woman’s -right to liberty.</p> - -<p>The foreign boarder’s days under her roof constitute -a march through surprises. Here no -gleaming glass and shining damask at table; no -flowers, no silver, no tasteful arrangement of -desert; for tablecloth a coarse sheet and cloths -to match for napkins, sometimes patched, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_268"></a>[268]</span> -invariably sewn down the middle. There is -nothing to please the eye or the palate, but the -disappointed boarder must stoically hold her -tongue if she would maintain agreeable relations. -The hostess is an arbitrary as well as a parsimonious -and dishonest housekeeper. The exactions, -the arrogance, must be allowed to remain -all on her side and the malcontent has nothing -to do but pay a month’s board and lodging in -advance and pack up her things. If she stays, -a hushed civility is expected from her, and all -payments rigidly in advance. Why, the little -<i>bourgeoise</i> should have instituted this singular -law, that a month’s food should be paid for before -it has been consumed, I have never been able -to understand: but I confess I have never been -able to master the complicated ethics of this interesting -woman. She is a fervent Catholic, -attends church regularly morning and evening, -confesses, teaches Catholicism and morality to -the outcast infant, and never seems to suspect -that honesty is one of the virtues incorporated in -the Christian doctrine. When she orders anything -for you she will pay one price in the shop -and charge you another; yet, good, consistent -creature, she goes to market on market days -after Mass to take note of the prices, in order to -calculate to a farthing what the day’s purchases -will cost, so that the <i>bonne</i> shall not cheat her of -the value of a sou. This is hard on the <i>bonne</i>,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_269"></a>[269]</span> -whom she pays as little as she can, and underfeeds, -and overworks, and who is thus defrauded -of one of the acknowledged perquisites of the -servant in France,—<i>le sou du franc</i>. When a -Parisian servant makes a purchase over a franc, -each tradesman returns her a sou on every franc -paid in cash. The avid “little <i>bourgeoise</i>” usually -insists on having this sou back, and if the -<i>bonne</i> is meek and afraid she gives up the sou, -for her mistress understands the question of perquisites -only in her own right. She watches -her servant closely, though there is nothing of a -shrew or a Sally Brass about her. She victimises -her through the attendant vice of avaricious, -unsleeping suspicion. And so she visits the -kitchen when the girl has left, to see if a lump -of sugar or a piece of bread, or anything else, -should be secreted anywhere. Perhaps once a -week she will give the domestic martyr a half-dozen -rotten strawberries or cherries when these -can be had for next to nothing, or the last spoonful -of rice or stewed prunes when the enraged -boarders have turned their eyes from nauseous -remains of these choice dishes three or four days -old.</p> - -<p>Her cuisine is a thing to gape at. You forget -you are in France, the land of good, inexpensive -living, and pronounce it frankly execrable. -The dinner usually consists of vegetable water -or greasy water with pieces of bread floating<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_270"></a>[270]</span> -about, of ragged <i>bouilli</i> (the meat used in the -boiling of this insipid liquid), a tasteless dish of -sorrel and of stewed prunes that will be served -no less than four or five times successively until -the very last of the dish has been consumed, or -a dish of rice which will also in its half-finished -condition make its successive appearance until -the last grain has vanished, and the dish, presumably -on the score of economy, on which -these luxuries are served will not even be -changed. In the same quaint spirit the remains -of cold vegetables are reheated and served again, -with such result for eye and palate as no pen can -describe. Whatever you find at her table you -may know beforehand will be of the worst and -cheapest of its kind, and there will be as little as -possible of it. When fruit outside, in the markets, -along the streets in barrows, in the shops, -is plentiful, excellent, and absurdly cheap, she will -assure you it is far too expensive for her table, -and treat three art students, each paying, exclusive -of extras, ten pounds a month, to musty -biscuits and dried figs that taste like caked sawdust. -As for sweet dishes, creams, sauces, -varieties of well-cooked vegetables, all the thousand -little kickshaws we associate with the -dainty French term cuisine, these you are as -likely to find at her table as ice-cream or champagne.</p> - -<p>The home life of the little <i>bourgeoise</i> is a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_271"></a>[271]</span> -strange and a dull one. She possesses a house, -one wonders why, when a bedroom seems to -be all that she requires. She lives in her bedroom -as Englishwomen of the same class live in -their parlours. That a <i>salon</i> was made for use, -to be sat in and worked in and talked in, never -enters her head. She uses her dining-room only -for meals, and thus never has any fire in it during -the winter, does not dream of lighting the stove -which every French <i>salle à manger</i> has, however -small. She puts on a shawl to go into lunch -and dinner. The <i>salon</i> is hermetically sealed all -the week, and opened gingerly should she have -an at-home day; if not, it is opened only -when some very important visitors call. I -have known a little <i>bourgeoise</i>, whose “paying -guest” I, for my misfortune, happened to be, -who allowed the inmates of her establishment -to pass into the <i>salon</i> after dinner for exactly an -hour. At nine o’clock she rose and graciously -dismissed us from the sacred precincts, bidding -us disperse to our chambers, while she locked -up the holy of holies. Here, as elsewhere, I -discovered that such a thing as a comfortable -chair or sofa is unknown, undreamed of by -the little <i>bourgeoise</i>. To do her justice, she -never lounges herself, and consequently does -not understand the need. This is the admirable -side of her character,—the complete absence of -self-indulgence. She swindles you, not for her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_272"></a>[272]</span> -comfort, but for the security of her old age. -She is circumspect and formal in all her attitudes, -absolutely self-respecting, of a cordial coldness, -and there is something impersonal, something -claustral in her selfishness. I have remarked -that nuns resemble her astonishingly in all their -material relations with the world: the same implacable -hardness, the same smiling austerity, -the same lack of honesty or of consideration for -others, the same resolute determination to get -the best of outsiders in the matter of labour or -bargains, to give as little and obtain as much as -possible in all transactions, to underfeed, underpay, -and overwork,—and all with the same high -air of self-approval and righteousness.</p> - -<p>Religious communities will cheerfully, singing, -as it were, hymns of thanks, do for the glory of -God things modest pagans would shrink from -in honour of the devil, and the little French -<i>bourgeoise</i> has much of this inexplicable complacency -in dishonesty. Like the nuns, she is -active and virtuous, and she is most pleasant as -long as you are pliant and uncomplaining,—the -ideal art student! But she is essentially a -despot, the unyielding mistress of her own -house; and she is cynically indifferent to your -dissatisfaction should you think fit to make it -visible. She has no hesitation whatever in letting -you understand, with a sincerity that does her -honour, that she did not take you as a boarder<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_273"></a>[273]</span> -with the naïve intention of rendering you comfortable -or giving you an adequate return for -your money, but with the simpler design of -making a considerable profit on you. She will -say to you, with that French independence I -ever admire, that it is not your purse but hers -that is in question; and I judge her to regard as -idiots such saints as Martin of Tours and Francis -of Assisi. Truth is no more conspicuous than -charity and honesty among her virtues, for she -will lie with a courage befitting a nobler cause -in the interests of her pocket. The minute and -persevering genius of Balzac alone could follow -her through the maze of economical twists she -has devised wherewith to save or make a sou. -She is impaled in my memory over her sugar-bowl -like the king of nursery legend counting out -his money. If avarice be an impediment to reception -within the gates of Paradise I fear my -arrogant, self-approving little friend has small -chance in the next world. Yet far be it from -me to deny her good qualities and her charm. -She is so well-mannered, so pleasant, so intelligent, -such a plausible villain when off the field -of her illegitimate profits, that fain would I see -her flourish and triumph. After all, money -matters are not the sole test of virtue. I have -known persons of the most unimpeachable -honesty and delicacy on this ground, utterly insupportable -in all things else, with horrid tempers<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_274"></a>[274]</span> -and tongues, an utter lack of heart, which is -not the little <i>bourgeoise’s</i> failing, for if you are -ill she will overwhelm you with kindness and -attentions, accompanied ever with her equable, -smiling cordiality; and if your bill is the heavier, -well, at least you have had the pleasure of the -attentions; and her presence, when you are not -considering its consequences in your bill, is more -often than not a tonic and a ray of sympathy -and gaiety. Of so priceless a quality is gaiety, -that good-humoured roguery is better any day -than sour, ill-natured honesty.</p> - -<p>The small dressmaker is another pleasing -picture of the humbler walks of Paris. The -<i>grisette</i> I deem to be as extinct as the dodo, -while the class of work-girl I have in view may -be supposed to step out of her rank. But the -novelist who would try to turn her into copy for -Musset or Mürger would be all abroad. She -earns her bread honestly and diligently in the -skilful exercise of her art, with a band of juvenile -needle-women round her who ought to be playing -in the fields, but who, instead, are content to -sit in a tiny workroom and sew and snip all day. -Nothing more dignified, more modest, more self-respecting -than all this young world, seemingly -unaware of any reasons for dissatisfaction. The -youthful mistress exercises her authority with -good-humour and gentleness, and her willing -little workers appear really fond of her. It is in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_275"></a>[275]</span> -Paris that I have become converted to Tolstoi’s -belief that the humble class is the <i>vrai grand -monde</i>, a thousand times more interesting and -instructive, worthier of our admiration, than the -wealthy and educated classes. The deeper you -penetrate into these obscure lives, the deeper -you feel a sense of humiliation by confrontation -with the futility of education, breeding, blood,—the -accepted adjuncts of superiority. The poor -and humble of the world are inarticulate, and -they live and die unconscious of the heroism of -their existence. But the average woman of the -people gathers more virtue into a single day than -the educated woman, who enjoys the priceless -benefits of leisure, space, and ease, spreads over -a week. Mark the gaiety and content with -which she will toil for inadequate pay, rising -early, resting late, with few pleasures, fewer -distractions, maintaining through all her never-ending -trials a dignity of bearing, an ideal of -honesty, an incomparable altitude of disinterestedness -that should shame us for the idle price -we put upon birth and education. Let us pick -out of the crowd one figure of the small dressmaker -Dickens or Daudet might have made a -charming study of. I have been observing her -life now for some years with friendly interest, -and have not found a flaw in it. She is good to -look upon, a supple French figure, clear skin, -pretty features, reddish soft eyes, and red hair a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_276"></a>[276]</span> -painter would delight to paint. Young, too, -with winning manners, she would not have far -to look for assistance in her difficulties with -term-day, work-girls, and other expenses. Her -father, an invalid, and her mother live in a suburb, -and she dwells alone all the week in a somewhat -squalid flat near the Bon Marché, her own protector, -and needing none other; such is her indestructible -purity. No well-born girl could -show a more delicate reserve towards men than -this pretty French dressmaker, no nun could reveal -herself less of a flirt. Her sole desire is to -please her customers and extend her connexion, -to work early and late, sometimes into the small -hours of the morning; and her sole distraction, -after a week’s hard labour, is to go out to her -parents in a dusty suburb beyond Sant-Ouen, -from Saturday evening to Monday morning. -She never grumbles, she is never unhappy; and -though I give her books and encourage her to -talk to me about them, I have never detected -in her remarks a particle of envy or discontent -with her humble lot. Her mind is clear -and fresh, essentially a lady’s mind, and her -notions on the score of honesty are as primitive -as those of the poet who taught us in our -infancy that it was a sin to steal a pin. Quite -as good and graceful pictures may be drawn -from the lower class of sempstresses who -come to the house and work by the day.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_277"></a>[277]</span> -These, too, have their ideal of conduct, which -owes nothing to education, and which a lady -need not disown.</p> - -<p>The <i>concierge</i> belongs to a more complex order -of being. These often run down to desperate -depths of degradation, and, in the wealthy quarters -especially, constitute one of the curses of -Parisian life. I suspect it is the tips and the -endless sources of gossip that demoralise them. -And yet I can remember a delightful old lady, -who looked as if she had stepped out of a perfumed -page of the last century, with her lovely -white hair fluffy and soft under a black mantilla; -tiny, elegant, wrinkled hands; gentle glance -and exquisite smile, with the manners as well as -the appearance of a French marquise. She was -my <i>concierge</i>, and a sweeter, more disinterested -little creature I have never known. I lived on -the fifth floor, and had no servant, contenting -myself with the services of a <i>femme de ménage</i> -in the morning. I was seriously ill for months; -and had this dear, gentle old lady been a relative -or a friend she could not have nursed me more -devotedly, and never a farthing in coin would -she accept. She overwhelmed me with thousands -of charming attentions, and the only payment -she would take gratefully was the assurance -that they gave me pleasure.</p> - -<p>So, though I constantly hear terrible tales of -the wicked doings of the Paris <i>concierge</i>, I have<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_278"></a>[278]</span> -to pass them over lightly for the sake of my -white-haired little marquise. Whenever I want -to show an English friend what an enchanting -creature a Frenchwoman of the people can be, I -make a point of passing through her street, for -the pleasure of looking in on her, and saying, -“Good-day” to my old friend. The <i>concierge</i>, -should he or she happen to be disagreeable, can -do a singular lot of mischief, and make the -lodger’s life a burden to him. If you are out, -friends who call can be sent up several flights of -stairs for nothing; if you are in, your callers -will be assured you are out. Letters can be held -over, mislaid, or forgotten; your servants can be -set by the ears in the <i>concierge</i>’s parlour; evil -reports can be spread of you in the neighbourhood; -hints given to trades-people against your -solvency. All these things I have known to -happen to persons in discordant relations with -their <i>concierge</i>; so that it is recognised in Paris -that if the <i>concierge</i> does not like you, the best -thing you can do is to pack up your things, pay -a term in advance, and go.</p> - -<p>The rag-picker of Paris is a familiar figure. -To him belongs, I know not why, some of the -glory of romance. Everybody feels a sneaking -tenderness for the rag-picker. When, some -years ago, M. Poubelle, the Prefect of Police, -decided that the rubbish of Paris was no longer -to be left outside along the pavements, but that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_279"></a>[279]</span> -each house should have its big refuse-box, called -ever since by his name, there was a general uproar -in the Press. What! disturb the amiable -customs of the interesting rag-picker! Diminish -the income of these delicious Parisians!</p> - -<p>Little by little their favourite and most famous -citadels have been demolished, their oddly -named groups dispersed. There used to be the -<i>Cité des Singes</i> and the <i>Cité des Mousquetaires</i>, -now no longer in existence. The rag-pickers -are everywhere, and live just like other citizens. -I visited the rag-pickers of my quarter the other -day. I found them in an airy quarter of Grenelle, -like a quiet little town of the provinces on the -edge of a wide river. Who would dream it -was Paris, and that broad splash of dull grey, -the lively brilliant Seine that flows past the -Louvre? When I reached the rag-picker’s dwelling, -she was out, and two neighbours from -different doors appeared to assist me. If they -had known me all their lives they could not -have given me a more friendly greeting. One -went off in search of the rag-picker, the other -pressed me to take a seat in her room. The -rag-picker came, one of the jolliest and pleasantest-looking -women I ever saw. She spoke -admirably, with perfect gesticulation, with -inflection of voice, management of eyebrows -that would have won her distinction in a <i>salon</i>. -Her expressive face was clean, but her hands<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_280"></a>[280]</span> -were the hue of soot, and her hair was the grey -of dust. Her little room, kitchen and sleeping-chamber, -was freshly washed and in perfect -order. Outside the window clothes hung drying, -and below in the courtyard a pile of rubbish -lay for sorting. It would be impossible to find -anywhere a healthier-looking or a happier -creature. Yet this has been her life from the age -of twelve: she gets up at four <span class="allsmcap">A.M.</span> winter and -summer, hail or snow; she heats some milk -for her dog, boils coffee for herself and her -husband, leaves coffee simmering for her three -children, who, when she and her husband, with -their cart and dog, have gone off on their rag-gathering -mission, get up, dress, and go off to -school. She paid fifty francs to her fellow-rag-pickers -for the whole of the Avenue de Breteuil, -which was then only half built upon, and to-day -her practice is worth three hundred francs. -I imagined the tax was paid to the town; but -no, it is paid to a sort of guild of rag-pickers, -who thereby assure her and her husband that -they only have the right to the refuse of the -avenue. When they have picked up all the -refuse, they return and sort it out in the yard. -She told me the prices of each thing, and hair is -the most valuable,—above all, white hair. The -honesty of the Parisian rag-picker is proverbial, -and I know something of it, for once a silver -spoon of mine was accidentally flung out, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_281"></a>[281]</span> -the next day the rag-picker brought it back to -the <i>concierge</i>.</p> - -<p>Her visage shone with a positive radiance of -soul. Her cheerfulness was so contagious that -it set me wishing to be a rag-picker too. Her -devotion to her husband and her children, of -whom she spoke in rapturous terms, was hardly -more touching than her devotion to a saintly -priest, who seems to do an immense deal of -good in the neighbourhood.</p> - -<p>This man is quite remarkable; and a friend, -speaking of him to me, and of his well-known -enthusiasm for rag-pickers and their like, told -me he once said to her: “See you, when once -you get into the heart of that class, you can’t -endure any other. It becomes a passion.” And -I can well understand it, from all I have seen of -the humbler classes of Paris. There is a fulness -of life, of vitality, of inarticulate, unconscious -goodness about them that puts you in sympathy -with Tolstoiïsm. But instead of the mysticism, -the intensity of the Russian character, you have -here that irresistible French gaiety, which is not -by any means so light as it is said to be. Action -is its virtue. Its mental horizon is brightened -by a personal charm of character, as a twilight -sky is enriched by an arch of radiant colour. In -spite of the false romancers, morality is in the -air, everywhere about us.</p> - -<p>In these humbler walks I refer to, pure girls,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_282"></a>[282]</span> -faithful husbands, devoted wives, hard-working, -honest sons and daughters abound, and -the force, as well as the weakness of all may -be found in the love of home and family. -The temple of self-respect is lit with the unquenchable -flames of independence. All these -admirable “little people” work so hard and -so contentedly that they may enjoy the delights -of freedom and a hearth, and they work -the more contentedly, without embittered or -soured temper, because they have the inestimable -art of living and enjoying themselves -when they leave aside work. The lower down -you go among the people, the greater the readiness -to open the purse, and a workman bent on -a holiday will not hesitate to pay twenty or -thirty francs for a picnic carriage for the day, -and fill the hamper with an abundance of good -fare and drink. I remember once hearing a -well-to-do woman violently complain because -her coachman’s brother-in-law had paid such a -price for a vehicle to take a marriage party out -into the country. I could not share her indignation, -to her disgust. The French people work -so hard, and so gallantly, and so well, that I -think they earn their right to an outbreak now and -then. They at least pay for their pleasures and -dissipations with the sweat of their brow, -and we who profit by their labour owe them all -thanks and indulgence.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_283"></a>[283]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/header5.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII<br /> -<span class="smaller">ORGANISED PHILANTHROPY AND PUBLIC ASSISTANCE</span></h2> - -</div> - -<p>It would be difficult to say whether or no -France compares favourably with England in -the matter of philanthropy and the poor laws. -But this much must be admitted in favour of the -Republican Government,—charity was never so -widely practised, was never so effectual or so -free-handed, as it is to-day in France. You will -hear the futile nobles and those who would pass -for a part of the aristocracy by the mere virtue -of adopting its vices and prejudices, assure you -that everything was better under the <i>ancien -régime</i>; that shopkeepers, peasants, farmers, -and workmen were all better off when they depended -upon an absolute king. French Catholics, -like nearly all other Catholics I know, soar -above argument, logic, the surprises, revelations, -and irrefragable testimony of history. -What they desire to have been, to have happened, -must have been and happened, and there -is nothing more to be said. And so to-day,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_284"></a>[284]</span> -whenever a handful of titled malcontents out -of office, followed by a train of wealthy and -fashionable imitators, rail at a Government indifferent -to their interests, it is solemnly maintained -that the people groan and sweat under -tyrannical laws, and that France has gone to the -dogs. A statement more contrary to truth and -fact could not possibly be made.</p> - -<p>Without examining even the enormous efforts -of private charity to improve the condition of -the poor, we need only take up the subject of -Public Assistance to assure ourselves that the -incessant preoccupation, under republican rule, -of the municipalities all over France is the -amelioration of the lot of the unfortunate classes -of humanity. If you lend an indulgent ear to -the Catholics, they will assure you that the -municipality of Paris, because hitherto it has -been democratic and secular, is a mere gang of -thieves, that the public funds are squandered on -private ends, and that not a penny of its vast -revenues finds its way into the pockets of the -poor. This is simply a calumny—a stupid, -groundless invention. The <i>Assistance Publique</i> -has done more for the poor than all the kings of -France put together. In the days of Louis XIV. -there was no such thing as a public lying-in -hospital. Wretched women, without a home, -or means of any kind to obtain shelter for the -birth of their children had to go to the Hôtel de<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_285"></a>[285]</span> -Ville, where they lay on the floors, and even -two occupied each of the few beds, and childbirth -took place in a state of indescribable filth -and discomfort.</p> - -<p>The calumniated <i>Assistance Publique</i> has built -a large <i>maternité</i>, where mothers and infants receive -all possible care; and, in case of pressure -on their space, they pay midwives, properly -diplomaed, to take charge of poor women in -their own houses. Everything at present is so -comfortably organised in these public institutions -that many women of small means prefer -to avail themselves of them rather than endure -the domestic upheaval of a confinement at home. -It should, however, be admitted that the <i>Assistance -Publique</i> took the idea from M. Pinard’s -charmingly situated <i>maternité</i> of the Boulevard -Port Royal. M. Pinard is something more than -a celebrated <i>accoucheur</i>; he is a philanthropist, -or, as his enthusiastic disciple, Dr. Franck Brentano, -said of him when kindly doing me the -honours of the <i>maternité</i> of the Boulevard Port -Royal, he is a saint. He decided that his hospital -should be cheerfully situated, and so it lies -in lovely gardens, and, on every side, the patients -have views of flowers and trees and -green spaces between well-kept paths. Not a -hospital this, surely, but an elegant old mansion, -through whose long, open windows the fragrance -and bloom of flowers carry joy to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_286"></a>[286]</span> -senses, while the song of birds makes perpetual -music for the weary convalescents. Dr. Franck -Brentano showed me the trim rose-beds with -the proud intimation that it was M. Pinard who -reared them exclusively for his invalids. From -time to time he gathers them, and places a rose, -moist with its early dew, beside a patient, bringing -her, with such delicacy, the assurance that -she is, for him, something more than a public -patient. Not so were cherished unfortunate women -under the <i>ancien régime</i>. We laugh at the -official legend bequeathed France by the Revolution, -and, of a surety, we are not justified in that -laughter. If liberty, equality, and fraternity are -not all that they might be in France to-day, there -has been made a considerable step towards their -accomplishment which the conscientious observer -is forced to recognise. If brotherhood -is still in a nebulous state, the same cannot be -said of equality. Where, in London, will you -find the head of a large hospital cultivating roses -and gathering them at sunrise to carry a breath -of delight to a worn-out woman of the people? -Such a division and infrangible distance as exist -between classes in England are here no longer -known. The people are the better for it, and -certainly society is not the worse. If republican -independence has done nothing else for France, -it deserves national gratitude for having abolished -what flourishes so desperately in England,—the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_287"></a>[287]</span> -painful whine of poverty, not ashamed to cringe, -and the smirking curtsey and bob of the people, -proud to acknowledge what they are pleased to -call their betters.</p> - -<p>I have heard a great deal of abuse of the lay -nurses who replace the sisters now in public -hospitals. All I can say is, that I was struck -with the spirit of cordiality and exquisite humanity -which seemed to emanate from everybody I -encountered at M. Pinard’s <i>maternité</i>. This, of -course, may be due to the governing hand, for -where so rare a nature as the chief commands -the illimitable devotion and passionate admiration -of his subordinates, it is but natural we -should find an atmosphere of disinterestedness -and good-will. That M. Pinard’s delicate consideration -for oppressed womanhood does not -end or even begin in this well-ordered hospital -is proven by the establishment of his admirable -asylum close by. This is a home for friendless -women awaiting their turn to be received into the -hospital. Here they may come for two or three -months, free to live and work as they like, to -go to mass, to the temple or synagogue, or to -no church whatever; and, by sewing or some -such light labour, to earn a little to put by for -the day they leave the <i>maternité</i>. Surely this is -the most practical of all forms of free philanthropy. -No propaganda, no religious exclusiveness, -no other preoccupation, but the wish to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_288"></a>[288]</span> -persuade a despairing creature to live and give -life under the best conditions of care and personal -kindness. Yes; let us frankly admit that -the Revolution has not been in vain, in spite of -its horrors, its inexplicable baseness, its acts of -inconceivable cowardice. The men who made -it were no heroes, and we can bear at this hour -to call them remorselessly by their proper names. -But the evil they did in the cause of humanity -has finally led to the amelioration of their race. -Lay France, with all her liberal aspirations, with -her generous hatred of injustice, tyranny, and -oppression, bids fair to construct a France which -shall be the real and not the illusive home of -freedom. The land that can produce men and -women like M. Pinard and Madame Coralie Cahen -need have no fear of the triumph of decadence. -There were nearly seven thousand births during -the past year at the <i>maternité</i>. When we remember -that women are not obliged to give -their names, and that their secret is honourably -kept in the teeth of all inquiries that may be -made, there seems less and less reason to-day -for the extremities of despair.</p> - -<p>The <i>Assistance Publique</i> is not exclusively concerned -with hospitals. The increase of its income -and the increase of its expenditure sufficiently -testify to the extent of public charity in France. -In 1834 its income reached 9,946,874 francs, -and in 1894, 43,043,935 francs. The number<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_289"></a>[289]</span> -of patients received in hospitals in 1834 was -66,521, and in 1894, 172,500; of children -helped in 1834, 21,781, and in 1894, 48,000. It -disposes of 11,989 beds in hospitals, 12,370 beds -in asylums, and the average of persons helped is -480,600 a year. In outdoor help it spends -11,365,951 francs.</p> - -<p>Again to compare the <i>ancien régime</i> with the -new order of things. It was not until 1660 that -the horrors of forsaken childhood obtained commiseration. -Yet St. Louis had lived; more -than one king had been called the father of his -people, and the good King Henri IV. of legend -had asserted his royal wish that each family -should have a fowl boiling in the pot. It was -the work of St. Vincent of Paul who, after -founding the excellent order of Sisters of Charity, -bethought himself of unwelcome babes left to -suffer the consequences of their parents’ fault. -Since then the idea has rapidly progressed. In -1881 the <i>Conseil Général de la Seine</i> instituted -what is greatly superior to the mere -animal succour of new-born infancy, the <i>Service -des Moralement Abandonnés</i>. The morally -abandoned! How much more needful, how -much more clamorous for the good of the race, -is the succour of these little creatures, morally -depraved, from want of training! In 1888 this -society received 2062 boys and 905 girls, the -numerical difference being explained by the fact<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_290"></a>[290]</span> -that there are always more ways of disposing of -girls than of boys, and their adoption by private -persons is much more frequent.</p> - -<p>Too much praise cannot be given to the <i>Assistance -Publique</i> for the admirable fashion in -which it discharges its duty to the children placed -under its protection. Zola in <i>Fécondité</i> records -the improbable tale of a whole town in Normandy -living solely upon the slow murder of -babies put out to nurse by the institution. I -need give only one example of what has come -under my own notice. My servant, unfortunately -married, was deserted many years ago with -three children, one new-born. The Public Assistance -took the two elder boys and placed -them out to nurse in a farmhouse, where every -quarter an inspector visited them, and himself -inquired into the condition of their health and -general welfare. The inspector makes his report -to the prefect, and his visits are supplemented -by the doctor’s. It is he who signs the -agreement of apprenticeship, distributes clothes, -and pays the nurses and adopted parents. As -an encouragement to treat the children well, these -receive a present of money when each child -reaches the age of thirteen; an outfit is bestowed -upon the child, who is then apprenticed, -preferably for farm-work, and, in order that the -precious ties of family life shall not be broken, -it is invariably exacted that the boys shall<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_291"></a>[291]</span> -continue to live with their foster parents during -the years of apprenticeship. A portion of the -boy’s earnings is placed in the Caisse d’Épargne -to make him a tiny capital, when of age to start -upon his own account. My servant’s children -were well-treated and happy, and when she -went down to the farm to spend ten days with -them, she found two healthy lads and a hospitable -family to receive her, and in their midst -enjoyed a delightful holiday. The boys had -their pass-books, and could make her a present -each of twenty-five francs. The other day one -of them decided to come to Paris to earn his -bread, and even at the station the mother was -not allowed to claim him, it being a notorious -fact that boys fresh from the country often fall -into evil hands at the big railway stations. Scrupulous -in the acquittal of its duties, the <i>Assistance -Publique</i> will only deliver its charge into -the mother’s hand in official circumstances that -render all fraud impossible. The boy wore a -fine new suit of clothes and new boots, and -his great fear was that, leaving the care of -the <i>Assistance Publique</i> these peacock feathers -would be taken from him. But they were not, -and when he came to see me, I found, instead -of a cowed charity lad, a pink-cheeked, open-eyed -youth, well dressed and strong, with an -independent air and an excellent fashion of -speech. I sent him with a card of recommendation<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_292"></a>[292]</span> -to the <i>Figaro</i>, and he was engaged on -the spot. It speaks well for the people who -brought him up, that he already regrets them -and their quiet shepherd-life, and says he -was much happier in the country than ever -he expects to be in Paris. In the case of -children leaving the correctional schools, the -State has organised several schools of apprenticeship -for the young prisoners of both sexes.</p> - -<p>There are, as well, a considerable number of -these establishments under the direction of private -persons and charitable societies. The boys -are taught a trade and are classed according to -their antecedents, if brought up in town or country. -They work seven hours a day, and the -money they earn is placed to their account in the -Savings Bank. The colony at Belle-Ile-en-Mer -receives the pick of this corrupt young world, -and trains them for marine service. They are -taught reading, writing, history, geography, and -arithmetic, while Sunday is given up to gymnastics -and long walks with their professors. -The rewards for good behaviour are—praise, -additional food, good-conduct stripes with pecuniary -remuneration, gifts, a grant of three -francs a month, confidential employment, and -weekly leave of absence, provisional freedom, -and military service. The Maison Darnetal for -girls, near Rouen, has excited such admiration -that the Italian Government has ordered its nuns<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_293"></a>[293]</span> -to imitate it. Young girls here, when they leave -the correctional school, are trained as farm wives, -to grow fruit and vegetables, to make butter -and cheese, to rear fowl; and they themselves -carry to market the produce of their labour and -learn to make excellent bargains. When they -have earned their freedom, they are independent -young women, capable of directing a farm, with -all the thrift, the natural, keen intelligence and -unsleeping industry of that most admirable portion -of the French race, the hard-working, -good-humoured women of the people.</p> - -<p>For years past there has been raging in France -a bitter war between the Catholics and the Radicals -on the subject of hospital nurses. The Republic, -which mistrusts the Catholic party, has -sought to limit their power in every direction. -It was a mistake, I think, to attack them at hospital -beds, for if there is a place which belongs by -divine right, if I may say so, to the nun, it is the -side of a sick-bed. With their guimps and coifs, -their life of religious meekness, their cheerfulness -and self-abnegation, they make ideal sick nurses. -Then, the patient feels that with them it is not a -profession, the means to an end, that money is -not their object, nor are they likely to forget -their duty in a flirtation with the doctor. In -England and France I have had, unfortunately, -experience of both kinds of nurses, and I unhesitatingly -give my preference to the French<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_294"></a>[294]</span> -nun. She is softer, kinder, gayer, and more -delicate and modest in her handling of a patient -than the average lady nurse of England. She -nurses you for love of nursing, or for the good -of her soul, and she has the secret of a boundless -sympathy and untiring good-will. Yet many -scientific Frenchmen and doctors, while praising -her disinterestedness and purity of motive, allow -her unsatisfactory peculiarities. For instance, -they complain of her indocility to the doctor and -surgeon, and state that when a difference of -opinion between them and the mother superior -arises, the religious sick nurses will obey the -latter rather than those in whose hands lies the -fate of the patient. Dr. Fauvel, of le Hâvre, -stated before the International Congress of Assistance, -relative to the laity of the new hospital -of that town: “As regards primary instruction -and professional education, the nuns are in no -wise superior, quite the contrary; with an incomplete -professional education, the lay staff -has shown special knowledge ignored by the -nuns, nursing the sick with greater intimate -skill, preparing instruments, baths, helping the -doctors and pupils more efficiently, being more -docile in taking the thousand precautions ordered -in operations and the dressing of wounds.... -It is a mistake to regard as false all the accusations -made against the sisters; and I declare -emphatically that I have found in lay nurses an<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_295"></a>[295]</span> -equal and often a more spontaneous devotion.” -This is quite possible, but I maintain, upon personal -experience of both methods, that the -religious atmosphere brings a refinement and -delicacy into the sick room by no means to be -despised. Whatever throws a charm, a grace, a -sweetness over the sick-bed carries an inappreciable -value, and Frenchwomen, at least, however -religious, have that delightful tact of their race -to prevent them from worrying a recalcitrant -patient on the subject of her faith.</p> - -<p>At Lyons, as early as the fifteenth century, a -medium was found between congregational and -secular sick-nursing. It appears to work excellently, -though the persons in this state affair who -deserve our pity are the unfortunate sick nurses, -whose sole reward for a life of unceasing labour -is the precarious value of fifty low masses -after death. I cannot, for the life of me, see -why these poor women, so wretchedly paid in -life, should not at least enjoy the glory of fifty -high masses and a monument. But women -who devote themselves to public service are, in -all lands, and under every <i>régime</i>, ancient or -modern, gallantly exploited. It is a recognised -duty to overwork them, underfeed them, and -pay them next to nothing, and then expect gratitude -from them for permitting them to waste -their lives in the service of their ungrateful fellow-men. -In mediæval times the town of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_296"></a>[296]</span> -Lyons decided to profit by the repentance of -loose women, and ordered them to attend the sick -for the good of their souls. They took no -vows, but little by little they adopted a uniform, -and, in 1598, a meeting of Lyonese doctors resolved -that this lay order of sick nurses should -be known as <i>servants of the poor</i>. There is -such a pretty mediæval twang about this name, -that we salute it, still existing in these modern -days, with respect. This lay order has existed -throughout all the storms of French history, and -works as well to-day as when it was founded -four centuries ago. True, it is now recruited -from quite a different class, and is divided into -three terms of service: <i>novices</i>, <i>prétendants</i>, -<i>sœurs croisées</i>, or decorated sisters. When a -young girl wishes to become a “servant of the -poor,” she is severely catechised as to the reasons -of her choice, is compelled to furnish proofs of -her capacity for her chosen task, and the consent -of her parents or guardians. Inquiries are made -about her, and if she is accepted, her novitiate -lasts a year, during which period she wears no -uniform. Then she becomes a <i>prétendant</i>, and -wears a uniform, receiving in payment of her incessant -service the sum of eighty francs a year, -out of which she must pay for her uniform and -linen. She can leave when she likes, or the -hospital committee can discharge her for any -reason whatever. She obeys a superior nurse,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_297"></a>[297]</span> -who in turn obeys the administration, and her -period of service lasts from twelve to fifteen -years. Imagine her, then, wishful of rest, far -away from lint and bistouries and hospital -odours. Her £3 4<i>s.</i> a year will not have afforded -her much chance of putting anything by. -But if, happily, her vocation for unrewarded -service lasts, she is decorated with a silver cross; -and though she still takes no vows, and can -leave when she wishes, she is regarded as having -a life-claim upon the administration. They cannot -now turn her into the streets, and there is -no fear of her dying of hunger. In return for -this assurance her salary is reduced to forty -francs a year. But she is titled <i>Cheftaine</i>, with -also its pretty ringing sound of the Middle Ages; -she has seventeen days holiday every year, and -she has her silver cross and fifty low masses! -There are eight hundred of these disinterested -creatures in the city of Lyons; and it will be -admitted that the great silk centre of France -knows how to manage its affairs with prodigious -economy.</p> - -<p>It would be impossible, in a short chapter dealing -with organised philanthropy in France, to -mention even a tenth of the private institutions -and associations that abound. In Paris alone -there are thirty orphanages for boys and a hundred -and twenty for girls, the deficiency on the -side of the boys being supplied by innumerable<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_298"></a>[298]</span> -patronages, or boys’ clubs. There are forty-three -societies for infancy, eighty-seven <i>crèches</i>,—an -excellent institution invented nearly fifty years -ago by M. Marbeau,—two hundred and ten infants’ -schools, first established by a Protestant -clergyman in the Vosges, and now spread all over -France. In 1895, 37,253 children were placed -in the country, entailing an expense of 9,336,711 -francs, and every year the number increases.</p> - -<p>Each denomination has its private and organised -charities, and the late Maxime du Camp -awards the palm of incomparable perfection in -this path to the children of Israel. The Rothschild -hospital, the Rothschild asylum for old -ages of both sexes, the children’s school, and -school for girls of Madame Coralie Cahen, are -the best of their kind in Paris. When one reads -the story of Jewish charities in Paris, one is stupefied -by the senseless outburst of mad and -wicked anti-semitism which rages in France -to-day. The Baron Henri de Rothschild has instituted -a sort of mothers’ refuge up in the poor -and populous quarter of Belleville, where he gives -advice to mothers, and supplies them with a litre -of sterilised milk daily. Believe me, when you -dive below the surface of Paris, you will find it -to be something nobler than a city of pleasure. -Poverty and misery abound because, alas! they -are inseparable from existence; but there is -no city in the world where poverty is more<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_299"></a>[299]</span> -endurable than in Paris, none where it is sweetened -with a surer and more efficacious fraternity. -Between the classes there is not that intolerable -arrogance and impertinence which constitute the -blight of British philanthropy. In England I -have seen charitable women go into poor men’s -cottages with the air of tamers entering a menagerie. -They ask unendurable questions, fling -open windows without consulting their victims, -pooh-pooh everything said to them, order this, -command that, till I have marvelled at the -long-suffering of the poor, and wondered that -they restrained themselves from flinging their -torturers out of the window. And I have remarked -that these busybodies, under the guise of -philanthropy, rarely brought the victims of their -implacable sense of Christian duty anything but -their arid advice. Now, whatever the failings of -the French are, I can confidently assert that tactless -spiritual arrogance is not among them, still -less an impertinent interference in private matters. -They will not open their purse as freely as -the English do—the French themselves are the -first to admit it—and the secretary of the Academy -of Medicine, speaking to me of English private -charities, and the vaster scale on which they are -managed, said, with delightful gaiety of admission, -“In England, you know, you always find -a benevolent old lady or gentleman, who will -give you for a charitable project £20,000, as I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_300"></a>[300]</span> -might give you two sous”; but they will not -thrust their advice upon the poor with wounding -contempt as the English do.</p> - -<p>If you would obtain the most striking possible -contrast of the hospital workings of the old and -new <i>régimes</i>, comparison should be made of the -authentic plan of the old hospital under the kings -of France, and the new hospital of the Institut -Pasteur under the directorship of M. Duclaux. -Under the old system, patients suffering from -various maladies, all more or less contagious, lay -four in one bed, two with their heads above, -two with their heads below, the legs of the four -touching. We may imagine the rest of the details -in keeping with this frightful situation—sanitary -details not improved between the eighth -and eighteenth centuries—food, attendance of -doctors, surgeons, and nurses of the worst and -coarsest kind, sickness not other than a filthy -and hideous visitation of destiny, the inevitable -precursor of the common ditch of burial. One -wonders what degree of physical despair and -disgust it was necessary to reach in those days -to face the horrors of a public hospital. The -courage such awful contact entailed means, to -me, greater far than any involved in fronting the -vicissitudes of battle. To die untended and forsaken -on the bloodiest field of history, with unchanged -linen, unwashed and unbound wounds, -the visible prey of vultures, without hope of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_301"></a>[301]</span> -decent burial, were surely an end more honourable -and less nauseous than illness and death in a -public hospital of Paris in the much lauded and -poetised days of the <i>ancien régime</i>.</p> - -<p>A well-known charitable institution of France -is the order of the Little Sisters of the Poor. -These Little Sisters are highly popular, and whenever -anyone <i>bien pensant</i> (as the Catholics call -themselves) dies, his or her relatives hasten to -send all the wardrobe of the defunct to the Little -Sisters. A branch house is almost beside me, -and I see cartloads of clothes driven off frequently -for sale from its door. I visited the -establishment once, and cannot say that I was -much impressed with the spirit of charity revealed -to me. To enter this asylum, men and -women must have attained the age of sixty. -The old men are better cared for, better treated, -by the Little Sisters than the old women. The -best side of the house is theirs; they have a -handsome covered terrace to walk along when -they are not in the gardens, have a smoking-room, -and can spend their days playing cards. -Their quilts are of silk and velvet patchwork, -while the old women must be thankful for -cotton, and the nun who showed me over the -establishment reserved for the men all her smiles -and pleasant greetings. The poor old women -got nothing but sour looks and silence, and -while the men amused themselves, these were<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_302"></a>[302]</span> -condemned to hard work in the big laundry and -kitchen. “As we have no servants,” said the -nun, “the old women must work.” To enter -a charitable institution over sixty, having worked -hard all one’s life, in order to stand over a wash-tub, -seems a dubious advantage. A very devout -Catholic friend, with whom I discussed -this fact, has told me of a lasting grievance she -has against these Little Sisters of the Poor. A -broken-down gentle old washerwoman, near -seventy, in whom she took an interest, was -recommended to them, a friend paying four -hundred francs to the asylum. The nuns are -not supposed to take money, but it is never -refused, and in this case the generous donor -meant to secure a little extra comfort for the -hard-worked old soul. She was put in there -to rest from the wash-tub, but the excellent -nuns understood it differently, and placed her -at once before it. Within a year she died -from overwork. Whenever you penetrate below -the surface of conventual charities, they will -always be found profitable for the order and -never for the individual. The hearts of nuns -seem implacably steeled against human suffering, -steeled against pity and generosity. They are -among the worst paymasters and taskmasters -in the world, on the pretext that, being hard to -themselves, nobody has the right to expect that -they shall be soft to others.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_303"></a>[303]</span></p> - -<p>The Mont-de-Piété is a civil institution, which -exists for the benefit of the needy. It is not in -the least like our pawn-offices, for here no -usury is practised, and the town benefits by -any profits that accrue. The central house is -in the Rue des Blancs-Manteaux, and there are -four large branch offices. Money is advanced -on the objects offered, and when the sum is -brought back, interest is charged, and the objects -are restored. If no claim is put in at the end of -eighteen months, the objects are sold, and the -profits are handed over to the <i>Assistance Publique</i>. -All classes of society in straitened circumstances -have recourse to the Mont-de-Piété -which is a most useful institution.</p> - -<p>Turn now to the latest public edifice for the -poor under the Third Republic. The late Baroness -de Hirsch, a Jewess, was one of the several -founders—all of them women—of this splendid -hospital, attached to the Pasteur Institute. Here -each patient has a room to himself free on the -raised ground-floor or on the story above. Below -there are bath-rooms and douches; there is -a workshop for the carding of mattresses, each -patient sleeping on a new mattress, each mattress -passing through an immense steriliser. To -improve upon the old method, by which doctors -and surgeons visit the patient at stated hours, -a private house of handsome dimensions has -been built expressly for the doctor, who must<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_304"></a>[304]</span> -be always on the spot. In the case of contagious -sickness there is the process of purification -in the lower cells, while ordinary cases of illness -are, after the <i>consultation à la hâte</i>, despatched -to one of the bright, clean, little sick rooms on -the ground-floor. Here the rooms are divided -by glass partitions, which are muffed or not, as -may be required. Grown patients are more -likely to wish for the privacy of muffed-glass -panels, whereas it is preferable that the panels -should be transparent when the patients are children -and need constant supervision. During convalescence, -the patients, weary of solitude, can -seek change by transportation to a public ward, -and there is a long glass gallery, or winter -garden, well located, and gay with green seats -and tables, where they can walk up and down, -and receive their friends among the palms and -India-rubber trees. This part of the establishment -has more the air of a convalescent home -than a public hospital. As deaths may occur -even in the best regulated hospitals, there is a -subterranean passage constructed for the <i>service -des morts</i>, by which means the living are spared -all contact with lugubrious eventualities. M. -Duclaux calculates that the yearly expenditure -of this admirable institution will reach £20,000. -Let us hope that those who profit by this foundation -will prove not destitute of good feeling -towards those who have spent so much time,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_305"></a>[305]</span> -labour, money, science, and thought on their -behalf. But, alas! the poor are essentially mistrustful -of public charities. I know not why, -but it is, nevertheless, a fact that they seem to -labour under the impression that such edifices -exist mainly to exploit and defraud them in -some mysterious fashion. One would approve -of a sentiment of independence, and the conviction -of a sacred claim in their usage: but -the feeling of distrust of them is ever to be -deplored.</p> - -<p>It is due, no doubt, to groundless suspicions -among the benefited themselves, the flame of -discontent being steadfastly and perfidiously -fanned by the Catholics, ever yearning for Catholic -rule in France, that all sorts of reports are -spread as to maladministration of the <i>Assistance -Publique</i>. The fact is, of course, that centralised -state assistance to the poor can never be so -cordial, so satisfactory and helpful, as that administered -by private hands. The State is a -functionary-tyrannised machine, which nobody -thanks, and from which everything is expected.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 21.875em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/footer8.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_306"></a>[306]</span></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_307"></a>[307]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/header7.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="INDEX">INDEX</h2> - -</div> - -<ul> - -<li class="ifrst">Académie Française, <a href="#Page_147">147</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">reception of M. Lavedan, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">reception of M. Hervieu, <a href="#Page_151">151</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">its restoration after the Terror, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">its influence and mission, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">prizes, <a href="#Page_158">158</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Affaire Dreyfus</i>, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>, <a href="#Page_126">126</a>, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>, <a href="#Page_237">237</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Alsace and Lorraine, <a href="#Page_102">102</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Angoulême, <a href="#Page_214">214</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Anti-Semitism, <a href="#Page_26">26</a>, <a href="#Page_53">53</a>, <a href="#Page_151">151</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Aristocracy, <a href="#Page_47">47</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">its disaffection, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">the old-fashioned aristocrat, <a href="#Page_55">55</a>, <a href="#Page_56">56</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">the modern rowdy aristocrat, <a href="#Page_52">52</a>, <a href="#Page_56">56</a>, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>, <a href="#Page_259">259</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Army, <a href="#Page_87">87</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">its attitude, <a href="#Page_90">90</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">its popularity, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">the perils of militarism, <a href="#Page_94">94</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">conscription, <a href="#Page_94">94</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">a military document, <a href="#Page_95">95</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">military service, <a href="#Page_99">99</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">attitude of officers in civil courts, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">M. Urbain Gohier’s indictment of the army, <a href="#Page_103">103</a>, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">military plays, <a href="#Page_105">105</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">French generals, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">military rewards, <a href="#Page_109">109</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1"><i>Au Tableau</i>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Artisan, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>, <a href="#Page_244">244</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Assistance Publique, <a href="#Page_284">284</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">contrast of the state of the poor in Paris under the <i>ancien régime</i> and under the Third Republic, <a href="#Page_284">284</a>, <a href="#Page_285">285</a>, <a href="#Page_288">288-292</a>, <a href="#Page_300">300</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Aubernon, Madame, <a href="#Page_257">257</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Aversier</i>, <a href="#Page_17">17</a></li> - -<li class="ifrst">Baccalauréat, <a href="#Page_116">116</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Balzac, <a href="#Page_148">148</a>, <a href="#Page_205">205</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Barrès, Maurice, <a href="#Page_103">103</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Bazin, René, <i>La Terra qui Meurt</i>, <a href="#Page_106">106</a>, <a href="#Page_205">205</a>, <a href="#Page_227">227</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_308"></a>[308]</span>Béarn, <a href="#Page_3">3</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Blaguer, <a href="#Page_255">255</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Blaze de Bury, Madame, <a href="#Page_178">178</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Bodinière, <a href="#Page_252">252</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Bon Pasteur, <a href="#Page_225">225</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Bourgeoisie, the, <a href="#Page_60">60</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">its provincial pretensions, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">its prejudices, <a href="#Page_63">63-65</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">its passion for titles, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">the “little bourgeoise,” <a href="#Page_264">264-274</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Bourget, Paul, <a href="#Page_51">51</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Breton, <a href="#Page_2">2</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">Breton superstitions, <a href="#Page_19">19</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Brisson, M., <a href="#Page_256">256</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Brunetière, M., <a href="#Page_53">53</a>, <a href="#Page_152">152</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>, <a href="#Page_159">159</a></li> - -<li class="ifrst">Catholicism, the cult of St. Anthony of Padua, <a href="#Page_18">18</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">hostility to the Republic, <a href="#Page_89">89</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">its influence, <a href="#Page_128">128</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Charbonnel, Victor, <a href="#Page_252">252</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Châteaux, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_22">22</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Child service, <a href="#Page_223">223</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Clericalism, <a href="#Page_27">27</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Comédie Française, <a href="#Page_161">161</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">its traditions, <a href="#Page_161">161</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">its composition, <a href="#Page_163">163</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">the new theatre, <a href="#Page_164">164</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Concierge, <a href="#Page_277">277</a>, <a href="#Page_278">278</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Conférence, la, <a href="#Page_250">250</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Conservatoire, <a href="#Page_170">170-172</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Convent life, <a href="#Page_139">139-146</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Country life, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_25">25</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Coppée, François, <a href="#Page_103">103</a>, <a href="#Page_157">157</a>, <a href="#Page_236">236</a></li> - -<li class="ifrst">Daudet, Alphonse, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>, <a href="#Page_233">233</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Demolins, M., <a href="#Page_70">70</a>, <a href="#Page_113">113</a>, <a href="#Page_115">115</a>, <a href="#Page_117">117</a>, <a href="#Page_120">120</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Duclaux, M., <a href="#Page_241">241</a>, <a href="#Page_300">300</a>, <a href="#Page_304">304</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Duruy, Georges, <a href="#Page_104">104</a></li> - -<li class="ifrst">École des Beaux Arts, <a href="#Page_164">164</a></li> - -<li class="indx">École Polytechnique, <a href="#Page_104">104</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Education, <a href="#Page_112">112</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_309"></a>[309]</span>England and France contrasted, <a href="#Page_34">34</a>, <a href="#Page_37">37-42</a>, <a href="#Page_59">59</a>, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>, <a href="#Page_76">76</a>, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>, <a href="#Page_167">167</a>, <a href="#Page_197">197</a>, <a href="#Page_206">206</a>, <a href="#Page_232">232</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Environments of Paris, <a href="#Page_82">82</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Estaunié, M., <i>L’Empreinte</i>, <a href="#Page_123">123</a>, <a href="#Page_127">127</a></li> - -<li class="ifrst">Fabre, Ferdinand, <a href="#Page_124">124</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Fairs, <a href="#Page_82">82</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Farmer, <a href="#Page_12">12</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Fashionable Paris, <a href="#Page_53">53</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Faubourg St. Germain, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>, <a href="#Page_55">55</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Fiction, <a href="#Page_118">118</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Flats, <a href="#Page_39">39</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Flower markets, <a href="#Page_43">43</a></li> - -<li class="ifrst">Gallifet, General de, <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Geoffrin, Madame, <a href="#Page_256">256</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Gouvernantes, <a href="#Page_137">137</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Grisette, <a href="#Page_248">248</a>, <a href="#Page_274">274</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Gyp, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>, <a href="#Page_137">137</a>, <a href="#Page_259">259</a></li> - -<li class="ifrst">Halévy, Ludovic and Daniel, <a href="#Page_241">241</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Halles, the, <a href="#Page_43">43</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Hirsch, Baroness de, <a href="#Page_303">303</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Hobereaux, <a href="#Page_8">8-12</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Home life, <a href="#Page_55">55</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">its economies and courtesies, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>, <a href="#Page_188">188</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">French table, <a href="#Page_193">193</a>, <a href="#Page_194">194</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">home habits, <a href="#Page_197">197</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Hospitals, <a href="#Page_285">285</a>, <a href="#Page_298">298</a>, <a href="#Page_300">300</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Hugo, Victor, <a href="#Page_263">263</a></li> - -<li class="ifrst"><i>Jacquou le Croquant</i>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Jeanne of Angoulême, <a href="#Page_214">214</a>, 520</li> - -<li class="indx">Jesuits, <a href="#Page_123">123</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">their mission and training, <a href="#Page_124">124-127</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Jeunesse Royaliste, la, <a href="#Page_46">46</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Journal des Débats</i>, <a href="#Page_231">231</a>, <a href="#Page_234">234</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Journal d’une Femme de Chambre</i>, <a href="#Page_213">213-215</a>, <a href="#Page_234">234</a></li> - -<li class="ifrst">Larroumet, Gustave, <a href="#Page_254">254</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Lemaître, Jules, “Ligue de la Patrie Française,” <a href="#Page_156">156</a>, <a href="#Page_157">157</a>, <a href="#Page_236">236</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_310"></a>[310]</span><i>Le Vieux Marcheur</i>, <a href="#Page_148">148-150</a>, <a href="#Page_225">225</a></li> - -<li class="indx">“Little bourgeoise,” the, <a href="#Page_264">264-274</a></li> - -<li class="indx">“Little people,” <a href="#Page_226">226</a>, <a href="#Page_264">264</a>, <a href="#Page_273">273</a>, <a href="#Page_274">274</a>, <a href="#Page_281">281</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Little Sisters of the Poor, <a href="#Page_301">301</a>, <a href="#Page_302">302</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Lycées, <a href="#Page_113">113-122</a></li> - -<li class="ifrst">Maison Darnetal, <a href="#Page_292">292</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Marais, the, <a href="#Page_31">31</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Marchand de Vin, <a href="#Page_245">245</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Maternité, the, <a href="#Page_285">285-287</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Métayer, <a href="#Page_227">227</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Minister: Waldeck-Rousseau, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>, <a href="#Page_237">237</a>, <a href="#Page_240">240</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Molière, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>, <a href="#Page_262">262</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Mont-de-Piété, <a href="#Page_303">303</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Montmartre, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>, <a href="#Page_248">248</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Morality, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>, <a href="#Page_42">42</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">influences of public-school training, <a href="#Page_117">117</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">the moral training of Stanislas College, <a href="#Page_130">130-137</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">tolerance of vice, <a href="#Page_176">176</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">feminine cynicism, <a href="#Page_177">177</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">the Frenchman’s vices, <a href="#Page_198">198</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Motor cars, <a href="#Page_60">60</a>, <a href="#Page_61">61</a></li> - -<li class="ifrst">Napoleon, <a href="#Page_46">46</a>, <a href="#Page_87">87</a>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>, <a href="#Page_117">117</a>, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>, <a href="#Page_163">163</a>, <a href="#Page_234">234</a>, <a href="#Page_263">263</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Nationalists, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>, <a href="#Page_79">79</a>, <a href="#Page_103">103</a>, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>, <a href="#Page_231">231</a>, <a href="#Page_236">236</a>, <a href="#Page_237">237</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Nurses, religious and lay, <a href="#Page_287">287</a>, <a href="#Page_293">293</a>, <a href="#Page_294">294</a></li> - -<li class="ifrst">Orleans, Duc D’, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>, <a href="#Page_260">260</a></li> - -<li class="ifrst">Paris and Parisianism, <a href="#Page_28">28-57</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">the gaiety and charm of Paris, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">the influence of women, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">the old streets of the Faubourg St. Germain, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">inoffensiveness of the streets, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">rents, <a href="#Page_39">39</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">walks, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">markets, <a href="#Page_43">43</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">Parisianism, <a href="#Page_47">47</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">aristocratic Paris, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">the old-fashioned noblewomen, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>, <a href="#Page_55">55</a>;</li> -<li class="isub1">Parisian washerwomen, <a href="#Page_220">220-222</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Pastimes, <a href="#Page_80">80-86</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Patriotism, <a href="#Page_80">80</a>, <a href="#Page_103">103</a>, <a href="#Page_236">236</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Peasant, the, <a href="#Page_202">202</a>, <a href="#Page_215">215</a>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Pellouaille, La, <a href="#Page_202">202-205</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_311"></a>[311]</span>People’s colleges, <a href="#Page_238">238-244</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Philanthropy, <a href="#Page_283">283</a>, <a href="#Page_298">298</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Pinard, M., <a href="#Page_285">285-288</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Press, <a href="#Page_229">229-235</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Prix de Rome, <a href="#Page_166">166</a>, <a href="#Page_167">167</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Public ball, <a href="#Page_246">246</a>, <a href="#Page_247">247</a></li> - -<li class="ifrst">Rag-Picker, <a href="#Page_278">278-280</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Renan, <a href="#Page_258">258</a>, <a href="#Page_263">263</a></li> - -<li class="ifrst">Sainte-Beuve, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>, <a href="#Page_158">158</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Sand, George, <a href="#Page_205">205</a></li> - -<li class="indx">“Servants of the poor,” <a href="#Page_295">295-297</a></li> - -<li class="indx">Stanislas College, <a href="#Page_128">128-135</a></li> - -<li class="ifrst">Taine, <a href="#Page_179">179</a></li> - -<li class="indx"><i>Temps, Le</i>, <a href="#Page_231">231</a>, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>, <a href="#Page_234">234</a></li> - -<li class="ifrst">Vogüé, M. De, <i>Les Morts qui Parlent</i>, <a href="#Page_225">225</a></li> - -<li class="ifrst">Woman’s rôle, <a href="#Page_200">200</a>, <a href="#Page_201">201</a></li> - -<li class="ifrst">Zola, M., <a href="#Page_156">156</a>, <a href="#Page_205">205</a>, <a href="#Page_213">213</a></li> - -</ul> - -<p class="titlepage">THE END</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp100" style="max-width: 21.875em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/footer1.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter ad"> - -<h2 class="nobreak">Our European Neighbours</h2> - -<p class="center">Edited by WILLIAM HARBUTT DAWSON</p> - -<table> - <tr> - <td>12ᵒ. Illustrated. Each, net</td> - <td class="tdpg">$1.20.</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>By Mail</td> - <td class="tdpg">1.30</td> - </tr> -</table> - -<h3>I.—FRENCH LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY</h3> - -<p class="by">By <span class="smcap">Hannah Lynch</span>.</p> - -<p>“Miss Lynch’s pages are thoroughly interesting and suggestive. -Her style, too, is not common. It is marked by vivacity without -any drawback of looseness, and resembles a stream that runs -strongly and evenly between walls. It is at once distinguished and -useful.... Her five-page description (not dramatization) of the -grasping Paris landlady is a capital piece of work.... Such -well-finished portraits are frequent in Miss Lynch’s book, which is -small, inexpensive, and of a real excellence.”—<i>The London Academy.</i></p> - -<p>“Miss Lynch’s book is particularly notable. It is the first of a -series describing the home and social life of various European -peoples—a series long needed and sure to receive a warm welcome. -Her style is frank, vivacious, entertaining, captivating, just the -kind for a book which is not at all statistical, political, or controversial. -A special excellence of her book, reminding one of Mr. -Whiteing’s, lies in her continual contrast of the English and the -French, and she thus sums up her praises: ‘The English are -admirable: the French are lovable.’”—<i>The Outlook.</i></p> - -<h3>II.—GERMAN LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY</h3> - -<p class="by">By <span class="smcap">W. H. Dawson</span>, author of “Germany and the -Germans,” etc.</p> - -<p>“The book is as full of correct, impartial, well-digested, and -well-presented information as an egg is of meat. One can only -recommend it heartily and without reserve to all who wish to gain -an insight into German life. It worthily presents a great nation, -now the greatest and strongest in Europe.”—<i>Commercial Advertiser.</i></p> - -<h3>III.—RUSSIAN LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY</h3> - -<p class="by">By <span class="smcap">Francis H. E. Palmer</span>, sometime Secretary to -H. H. Prince Droutskop-Loubetsky (Equerry to -H. M. the Emperor of Russia).</p> - -<p>“We would recommend this above all other works of its character -to those seeking a clear general understanding of Russian life, -character, and conditions, but who have not the leisure or inclination -to read more voluminous tomes... It cannot be too highly -recommended, for it conveys practically all that well-informed -people should know of ‘Our European Neighbours.’”—<i>Mail and -Express.</i></p> - -<h3>IV.—DUTCH LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY</h3> - -<p class="by">By <span class="smcap">P. M. Hough</span>, B.A.</p> - -<p>Not alone for its historic past is Holland interesting, but also -for the paradox which it presents to-day. It is difficult to reconcile -the old-world methods seen all over the country with the advanced -ideas expressed in conversation, in books, and in newspapers. -Mr. Hough’s long residence in the country has enabled him to present -a trustworthy picture of Dutch social life and customs in the -seven provinces,—the inhabitants of which, while diverse in race, -dialect, and religion, are one in their love of liberty and patriotic -devotion.</p> - -<p>“Holland is always interesting, in any line of study. In this -work its charm is carefully preserved. The sturdy toil of the -people, their quaint characteristics, their conservative retention of -old dress and customs, their quiet abstention from taking part in -the great affairs of the world are all clearly reflected in this faithful -mirror. The illustrations are of a high grade of photographic -reproductions.”—<i>Washington Post.</i></p> - -<h3>V.—SWISS LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY</h3> - -<p class="by">By <span class="smcap">Alfred T. Story</span>, author of the “Building of -the British Empire,” etc.</p> - -<p>Switzerland forms one of the smallest states of Europe, being -little more than half the size of Scotland, and is almost the only -one whose history is the history of its people. It is the centre of -the grandest scenery, the birthplace of four of its best known and -most considerable rivers, and has for centuries enjoyed the special -distinction of being the home of democracy and freedom.</p> - -<p>As Mr. Story points out, the average tourist, passing more or -less rapidly through the country, while impressed by the grandeur -of the scenery, fails utterly to secure any true insight into the home -life of the people. Mr. Story has, however, pitched his tent among -the Alps and has made a careful and sympathetic study of Swiss -life,—the keynote of which is simplicity and sincerity.</p> - -<p class="titlepage"><span class="u"><i>IN PREPARATION</i></span></p> - -<h3>SPANISH LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY</h3> - -<p class="by">By <span class="smcap">L. Higgin</span>.</p> - -<h3>ITALIAN LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY</h3> - -<p class="by">By <span class="smcap">Luigi Villari</span>.</p> - -<p class="center">G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS<br /> -<i>New York and London</i></p> - -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRENCH LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. 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