The New Paris Sketch Book: manners, men, institutions

Part I

— MANNERS. I. — French Ways .... i IX. — Non-Catholics . . 70 II. — Paris Streets and Houses 13 X. — Anti-Clericalism . . 78 III. — Concierges 24 XI. — Locomotion ... 84 IV. — Beggars 31 XII.— The July FSte . . 91 V. — Cosmopolis 38 XIII.— Paris by the Sea . g8 VI. — The English Colony . 47 XIV.— All Souls .... 104 VII. — English Subsidies . 56 XV.— Old and New Year no VIII. — Americans and French . 63

Part II

.—MEN. XVI. — President Grevy . . . 115 XXIII. — Ernest Renan . . 169 XXIV.— Cardinal Guibert . 177 XVII. — Pretenders 123 XVIII. — M. de Lesseps .... 133 XXV.— Protestants . . .185 XIX. — Two Reactionaries . . 140 XXVI. — Demagogues . . . 193 XX. — M de Freycinet . . . 147 XXVII. — Exotic Frenchmen . 202 XXI.— M. Jules Ferry ... 155 XXVIII.— The M'All Mission . 210 XXII.— M. Leon Say ... . 162 INSTITUTIONS

Part III

— XXIX.— Parliament 219 XXXIV. — Monopolies . . . 254 XXXV.— Journalism .... 261 XXX.— The Municipality . . 226 XXXI.— The Institute .... 233 XXXII.— The Legion of Honour . 240 XXXVL— Chantilly .... 273 XXXIIL— Elections 247 XXXVII.— Gambetta's Home .

Preface

. HE French Republic does not sacrifice to the Graces, and for foreign residents its metropolis has become dear and dull, yet there will always be a throng of visitors attracted to Paris by its historical associations, political rest lessness, architecture, museums, and manners, while many Englishmen who have never seen it, or only seen it long ago, nevertheless watch with interest its pulsations. This book, the result of a long soj'ourn here, will, it is hoped, meet the taste of both these classes. It does not compete with any existing work ; it is neither a guide book nor a dissertation ; it simply points out and explains what is most prominent or characteristic in social, political, and intellectual Paris. Paris, 1887.

Part I

— MANNERS. I. FRENCH WA YS. VT^HAT a monotonous world this would be were XsAJ it all British ! Happily, we have only to cross the Straits of Dover to find a people differing from us on a multitude of points. " I suppose we all come from that old man " said a wag to whom I was once introduced as a remote kinsman ; but if British and French both go back to Adam, they have diverged for so many ages as to be almost distinct species, so that people go over to France not so much for the sake of the scenery, which is mostly better at home, or of the palaces and museums, which we can also match, as for the sake of seeing men whose ways are not our ways nor their ideas our ideas. An Englishman on landing for the first time at Calais or Dieppe sees all the working-men arrayed in blue blouses, like so many butchers, and their wives bareheaded or in caps.

Reaching Paris, he is struck with many novelties. He sees men in summer hoisting white parasols, and that without being laughed at. Why not, indeed, protect yourself against the sun as well as against the rain, for the latter can only spoil your clothes, whereas the former may give you sunstroke ? A century ago an umbrella was as much ridiculed in London as a parasol would now be, and a London bricklayer could not at this day use an umbrella like his Parisian brother without raillery or horseplay. Yet he has greater need of it, for the Parisian has only on getting home to change his blouse and doff his outer trousers to be perfectly dry. The visitor likewise sees men walking in the shade or under their parasols, with their hats in their hands, and they are not stared at as escaped lunatics.

The French, in fact, though they set the fashions, and are supposed to be fond of dress, are more unceremonious than ourselves. Not only do all the milliners' girls go out to their meals bare-headed, but middle-class women may be seen marketing in their caps and dressing-gowns, and you may hear it said that the stallkeepers ask a higher price of those too squeamish to follow this primitive fashion. Toilets, moreover, are made in the streets. You may frequently see women and even men giving a touch to their bows or neckties by the aid of what may be called the gratuitous looking-glasses which form part of many frontages. A stranger might fancy, indeed, that these mirrors were provided for the purpose, just as the tobacco nists have a gas jet outside for the use of passers-by ; but with the heavy and lofty Parisian houses a long unbroken shop frontage would be unsafe, and these looking-glasses conceal stone or iron pillars.

A less pleasing spectacle in Paris streets is the number of fallen horses and broken-down cabs. The French are wretched drivers, collisions are not uncommon, and especially on the asphalte prostrate horses are daily met with. They always collect a crowd, but strange to say, not a man offers his assistance. People stand calmly looking on until the poor animal gets on its legs again, too often receiving a brutal whipping from the driver, or is consigned to the shambles. Not only are the French unmoved witnesses of harrowing spectacles, but they are in general insensible to bad smells and tormenting noises. Every now and then in the summer half of the year an abominable odour per vades Paris at night. The city surveyor pretends that it is brought by the wind from ammonia works in the suburbs, and that it is quite harmless.

I wonder he does not say it is beneficial. It is really an emanation from the sewers. In the day time, the air above the surface being hotter, the sewer gas remains below, but when towards mid night the surface air gets chilly the sewer gas, being warmer, rises like steam. Fortunately the smell goes off in an hour or so, but meanwhile you have to close every window, or if walking hold a handkerchief to your nose. Yet persons may be seen tranquilly seated outside cafes in the full smell without any sign of discomfort. So, again, the excruciating creaking of a cart wheel, or the clattering of iron bars in a galloping van, gives no annoyance to the bulk of Frenchmen. Their nerves are not finely strung, and the agonies of Carlyle and his wife from street or farmyard noises would have excited no sympathy from them.

Yet they are decidedly emotional, and display it in public in a way which strikes the phlegmatic and privacy loving Briton. The first thing a mother or nurse does on entering an omnibus or railway carriage is to kiss the baby, and the operation is frequently repeated during the journey. Medical writers vainly urge that this is very injurious to the infant, by keeping it in an intermittent state of excitement. Thirty per cent, of Parisian babies escape this caressing by being put out to nurse in the country, but they only avoid one evil by incurring a greater. The mortality among these infants is very serious — the Paris death-rate, of course, does not show it, and is deceptively light — the parents may often hear in a single letter that the child is ill, dead, and buried. There used to be suspicions that the baby farmer, if she received higher payment from one mother than from another, and if the higher-priced baby died, was not above the temptation of sending the notice of death to the low-priced baby's mother, and palming off the survivor on the wrong parent ; but recent legislation is believed to have put down these abuses.

This out-nursing system is chiefly practised by the lower-middle and working class, by mothers who have to earn a livelihood. Those in better circumstances engage a wetnurse at home, and multitudes of these, in caps with long broad ribbons behind nearly touching the ground, may be seen daily in the public gardens. These babies, as also the children able to run alone, look the picture of health ; but appearances are not always to be trusted. Cosmetics begin to be applied at a very early age, and, of course, when the rouge-pot has once been used, the effect on the skin is such that it cannot be discontinued without revealing positive disfigurement. Many Frenchwomen are so thickly painted as to look, to strangers' eyes, perfect scare crows, and at evening parties where the electric light is used, the effect is woeful, yet the self-made victims are evidently quite unconscious of their presentment.

Tight-lacing is equally common, and still less excusable. " What pains girls will take," I heard a lady remark, with especial reference to fringed or short hair, " to make guys of them selves." If British maidens are not altogether beyond reproach, they can at least claim credit for eschewing rouge and tight-lacing, once common, however, on our side of the Channel also. I have spoken of baby-kissing, but I must not forget the embraces at public meetings, the way in which an effective speech is sometimes compli mented. When an orator sits down, or rather before he sits down, the chairman warmly shakes his hand, other persons on the platform follow suit, and if he has intimate friends there, they are not satisfied without kissing him. At a meeting of a society for rescuing people from drowning, a young Alsatian lady was invited to ascend the platform, and she publicly kissed M. de Lesseps and M. Pasteur.

Both these gentlemen being grandfathers, Mdlle. Hirsch could not be chargeable with flirtation, but whereas in Great Britain the spectacle would have provoked hilarity, in Paris it was rapturously applauded. When Paul Bert landed in Tonquin as governor, he first shook hands with his predecessor General Negrier and then the two men threw themselves into each other's arms and hugged. Fancy a new Irish Viceroy giving his predecessor a hug on Kings town Quay ! But Frenchmen are not Britons, and the latter cannot resist a smile on seeing Frenchmen kiss each other on both cheeks at railway stations. At Protestant ordinations the new pastor is kissed all round by his brethren. Yet while kissing is so much in vogue, whistling is unknown. You may traverse all France without hearing a schoolboy's or ploughman's whistle.

Hence there is no need to distinguish between siffler, to kiss, and siffler, to whistle. It is sometimes said that French boys do not play. This is an exaggeration, but they leave off play at an earlier age than boys on our side of the Channel. They have also very few games. My windows look down on the playground of an ex- Jesuit school, with nearly a thousand pupils between 8 and 14 years old. They are noisy enough and scamper about, the priests and masters being with them and directing or joining in their recreation, but they have no regular games ; yet these Catholic schools are considered superior to others in what is styled the " education of the legs." The boys come out, moreover, for only a quarter of an hour at a time, and however advantageous these frequent breaks in their lessons may be, they obviously preclude set games.

Cricket is unknown in France, and skaters in the Bois are mostly foreigners. Football is played in the Tuileries grounds, but by young men. Leap-frog is occasionally witnessed, and tops are in great vogue, but only the smaller kind. Gutter children amuse themselves with hopscotch, and in the upmost division they chalk the word " ciel," which in this connection seems to mean " home." The smaller children in the public gardens are fond of raising miniature fortifications with gravel, which custom perhaps dates from the siege. Girls are very expert with skipping-ropes. Hide-and-seek is like wise known, as also " touchwood; " but there are few places where this can be played, for scarcely anywhere is it allowable to tread on the grass. Marbles are less popular than with us, and kites are seldom seen.

Punch and Judy attract as many adults as children, and in the Champs Elysees round-abouts and carts drawn by goats are largely patronised. The custom of dressing up little boys in military suits has almost disappeared, so that Mr. Herbert Spencer may withdraw his sarcasms on this point, but of late years drilling has been introduced into the elementary schools. Educational overpressure is seriously complained of in France as with us, but not as regards the lowest grade of schools. These open at eight in the morning, and the unpunctual have the fate of the foolish virgins. They are shut out for the whole morning— a necessary safeguard against a common French failing. Lessons are suspended at half-past eleven, some of the children going home to dejeuner, others bringing their provender with them.

The afternoon hours are from one to four, and considering that Thursday is a whole holiday, these children are not overtaxed. The secondary schools are more open to criticism. The boys are at work from eight to six, with a break in the middle, and when they get home have the next day's lessons to prepare. Many of them, moreover, are fetched and carried home in school omnibuses, which is a necessity for those living at a distance, but takes away the corrective of physical exercise. No wonder if they are often sickly-looking, especially as they begin smoking cigarettes on the sly at eight or ten years old, and lounge about the playground without any spirit for play. Talleyrand styled Napoleon " The Unamusable," and the description would apply to many French children. The cramming system is quite sufficient to account for it, without resorting to heredity, though, as his mother said of the Regent Orleans, some may be "born ennuye."

As for the boarders in the colleges and lycees, their lot is still less enviable. Entombed in gloomy barrack-like buildings, under a stern semi-military discipline, quartered in dingy sleeping rooms, they lead a miserable life. Their only consolation is that it cannot last for ever. A Frenchman, indeed, never looks back with regret to his school days. He shrinks from the recollection of them as from a period of prolonged martyrdom. Edmund About, in his last story, the " Roman d'un Brave Homme," written after he had for many years abjured light literature, gave a striking picture of what a French College is and what it might be. He represents a new Alsatian master as abolishing the military or prison-like system, having his wife and daughters dine at the same table with the boys, and converse with them, giving the boys the free run of the grounds, making the day-scholars actually envy the boarders, taking them out, not to formal promenades, hut to inspect all the factories and objects of interest in the neighbourhood, and so on.

About depicts the change as too good to last. The Alsatian is super seded on account of heterodox politics, and his successor restores all the old routine. But parents are sometimes as much to blame as teachers. I could mention a family where children, aged from nine to thirteen, begin lessons at 7 a.m., learn three languages, and have their chief meal at 7 p.m. " I have no time for play," dolefully complained the boy of eleven. No wonder if such children are constantly ailing or fractious. Let me make a leap from the morning to the evening of life. Frenchmen, as a rule, retire early from business. They are satisfied with a small competency, and do not plod on till too old for enjoyment, especially as they do not indulge in the luxury of large families. Paris, accordingly, swarms with men who have given up business and are rather at a loss how to kill time.

The lectures at the Sorbonne and College de France are a resort for many, but the former has of late years closed many lectures to the casual public and confined them to regular students, on the ground that a professor is inevitably affected by his audience, and goes down to their level if he cannot raise them to his. Many lectures, however, are still public, and I remember that on going to the Sorbonne after five years' interval I noticed a number of the old faces — white-haired men ensconced in corners or where there was a back to lean against. Some of these old stagers really take an intelligent interest in the lectures, discuss the subjects with those sitting next them, or even take notes ; but others notoriously go simply to kill time, or in winter for the sake of the warmth, and frequently fall asleep.

Men of this class even go to the omnibus offices, and sit in the warm or over heated room for an hour or two together, on the tacit plea of waiting for a particular omnibus — which never arrives. It may seem odd that people should be reduced to this, but the French are not great readers, and circulating libraries, except of the most ordinary stamp, do not exist. Our neighbours cling to certain things which we have renounced. Black servants, for instance, are still in vogue, the West Indies furnishing the supply. Many shops of all kinds have signs, though not, perhaps, signboards. I often pass a milk shop which is called " L'enfant Jesus." The large drapery establishments are generally known not by the name of the proprietor, which scarcely anybody knows, but by some fancy title — Bon Marche, Printemps, &c. Village wineshops have still the " bush," a branch of box or holly hung over the door, albeit our proverb says " Good wine needs no bush."

The belief in dreams and omens yet lingers, especially among maidservants, so that every bookstall displays treatises on the subject. The humbler worshippers at church still stand or kneel, otherwise they must pay a penny for a chair, whereas professors or other lecturers are usually seated. Michelet, however, I have been told used to stand. I can only just mention some other peculiarities — the signing with the surname alone (which dates, I believe, from the Revolution), the computation of time (from Saturday to Monday is always called three days, a week eight days, and so on), the rule of the road (keeping to the right in passing, which is puzzling for British coach men), the building of houses from the inside, not the outside, the shepherd's march in front of his flock, with the dog in the rear.

National, like provincial, customs are so steadily disappearing that all these distinctions should be made a note of, for by another generation we may have adopted French ways or the French may have adopted ours. PARIS STREETS AND HOUSES. PARIS, like a section of a tree, is approximately round, with rings of boulevards showing successive stages of growth, and a wall answering to the bark. This roundness is easily accounted for. Paris began with the oval island between two branches of the Seine, now called La Cite, on which Notre Dame and the Palace of Justice stand. There are no relics of this Gaulish Lutetia, but there are Roman relics at no great distance to the south of the island — namely, the walls, baths, and so on, of the Emperor Julian's Palace. A little further on are remains of an arena or circus which are being dug out, and are to be preserved.

This arena was discovered some twenty years ago in cutting a new street, but was carefully concealed from archæologists, who would otherwise have clamoured for its conservation. As it was, it was partially destroyed, and stables were built over the remainder, but on the removal of the stables there was a second discovery, which this time was not hushed up. Victor Hugo and others pleaded for the preservation of this relic of Roman rule, and, after some haggling between the municipality and the State as to which ought to pay the money, the site was bought by the former. There is, however, nothing very imposing, but simply a low amphi theatre of earthworks, tiers of seats on which Roman functionaries and soldiers may be supposed to have witnessed the sports. An almost equally curious vestige of mediæval Paris was brought to light in 1877, in clearing away the labyrinth of narrow streets which made way for the Avenue de l'Opera.

One of these streets was called the Rue des Moulins, and tradition stated that windmills once stood on this low ridge. The ridge was levelled, and proved to consist of the rubbish heaps of mediæval Parisians. The mills had afterwards been built on them, apparently to secure a free current of air. Nothing but rubbish, oyster shells, &c. was found however ; not a single object fit to figure in a museum. Not to dwell on the early fortifications of Paris, it is enough to explain the configuration of the central part of the city by the walls which sur rounded it in the time of Louis XIV. Two of the gates erected at that period, in the place of less imposing structures, still exist, namely, the Porte St. Denis and the Porte St. Martin ; the others were demolished shortly before the Revolution. The " grands boulevards " show where these walls stood, for the word boulevard is the same as our bulwark, and was originally applied only to thoroughfares where walls or bulwarks had existed, but it is now indifferently applied to any broad street.

It is tolerably easy to tell where the demolished gates stood. Wherever you see three streets coming to a point, you may be sure that they formerly led to an opening into and out of Paris. The demolition of the walls was of course followed by the multipli cation of outlets, and this threw difficulties in the way of the collection of the octroi, until in 1786 an outer wall was erected. This line also is traceable by the outer boulevards, where likewise you often see a junction of three, or even four, streets at points where a gate once existed. This second wall, which lasted less than eighty years, but served for the defence of Paris in 1814 and 1815, was merely a high hoarding, artistically an eyesore, and of no military utility. Its only advantage was for the collection of the octroi or tax on all commodities entering Paris.

One obvious result was that it was much cheaper to live outside than inside the barrier, and there was no inducement to build houses just inside. There was accordingly a belt of unoccupied land, incapable of cultivation, and serving only for rubbish heaps or for drying grounds. Outside the octroi barrier was a compact belt of streets, occupied by artizans and others employed in the city, and anxious to live as near it as they could consistently with cheapness. In 1859 these barriers were removed, octroi was extended to the fortifications raised in 1840, and the waste belt was speedily built upon. Paris thus consists of three rings — Old Paris, encircled by the Grand Boulevards ; New Paris, encircled by the Outer Boulevards ; and growing Paris, bounded by the fortifications. This last is as yet far from being entirely covered by houses, especially at the west end, for parts of Paris, such as Auteuil, are still village-like.

Already, however, there is a demand for the demolition of the walls, which, with long range artillery, are of no military value. Their only advantage in 1870 was that they gave the Parisians a feeling of security against a nocturnal surprise. The firing was between the forts, two or three miles beyond Paris, and the besiegers. There has since been constructed an outer range of forts, another two or three miles out, making so large a circumference that a siege is virtually impossible. It would take a million of men to invest these forts and prevent the inflow of provisions. If the Germans ever again invade France they will either keep away from Paris, or will attempt to break through the two lines of forts and force their way in. They will never dream of surrounding and starving it. In these circum stances the removal of the walls is only a question of time.

Paris will eventually outgrow them, yet at present there is considerable space for expansion inside them. Paris is not rich in colonnades, but it has plenty of covered passages. The Place des Vosges, formerly called the Place Royale, because occupying the site of an old palace, is a colonnade nearly three centuries old, and some back streets near the Bourse are also colonnaded, but the Rue de Rivoli, whose name sufficiently tells its date, is the only modern street built after this fashion. The covered passages number about thirty, the earliest con structed at the beginning of this century. There is quite a collection of them north of the Bourse, off the Rue Vivienne, a street which, with the Palais Royal, was once the busiest part of Paris, but is now quite off the track. These passages are certainly convenient in wet weather, but the ventilation in them is very defective.

It is a wonder how the shopkeepers can breathe, even though the bed-rooms in most cases are above the level of the glass roof. There are also uncovered passages, some of them styled cites. These have generally an iron gate at one or both ends, and consist of two lines of houses, let singly or in flats, a porter's lodge serving for the whole ciU, or villa, for the latter term is sometimes, though improperly, used. If you live in a cite and enter rather late at night you ring at the gate, the porter pulls his check-string which opens it, and you have a latch key for admission to your house or flat. These passages answer to our alleys, but are not public thoroughfares. Some of them have trees or a garden, and are a kind of oasis of verdure in grimy neighbourhoods, but they are often wanting in oxygen, and, like the passages, they have had their day.

None are now constructed. In the new quarters of Paris the outside of every house undergoes a septennial scouring and scraping, and the Opera, though not opened till 1874 — externally, however, it was completed before the war — has already had two ablutions. The effect is very odd when you see side by side two buildings, one renovated and looking brand new, the other weather-beaten and grimy. Sanitary reasons are assigned for this process, but these were probably an afterthought, for the regulation existed long before the word microbe had been invented. The anomaly is that public buildings — churches, theatres, Govern ment offices, &c. — are exempted, the Opera alone conforming to the rule. Lovers of the picturesque object to these whited edifices, maintaining that a house should no more be scoured to disguise its age than a woman should paint her face to hide its wrinkles.

Sanitarians also argue that if microbes ensconce themselves in house fronts, the best thing to be done is to leave them there, instead of washing and scraping them into the street, whence they may be wafted by the wind down people's throats. The rule, however, is kept up and is not likely to be repealed, though, of course, the occupants of houses would gladly be freed from the discomfort of having to cover up their furniture and retreat into the back rooms during the operation, for it should be under stood that the backs of houses never undergo the process. There are two reasons for this. Not only are the backs invisible to the public, but the walls consist of rubble or brick, with a coating of plaster, the scraping of which would soon bring to light the real composition, whereas the fronts are built of solid blocks of stone, which can go through a periodical exfoliation without inconvenience.

It is easy to tell the approximate age of any Paris house, scoured or unscoured. As a rule, the loftier it is, the newer it is. Some readers might expect from Scottish usage the very reverse, but the " flat " system is not of long standing in Paris. There are still a number of houses of only a single story, hidden away in bye streets, and very odd they look hemmed in with six-story buildings. In some cases, these low houses seem destined to stand for ever, for the adjoining ones have lateral windows which could not be blocked up without compensation. Most of them, however, will gradually disappear, and every visitor interested in quaint old-fashioned buildings sees their number lessened every time he comes over. About a century ago houses became two-storied, and every generation has seen another story added till the climax has now apparently been reached with the sixth story, for unless building undergoes a revolution, we are not likely to get any nearer the sky or deeper underground.

The economy of a modern Paris house may be soon described. The basement is allotted to cellars, one assigned to each flat, for the storage of wine and fuel. No Parisian lives underground ; " areas," as the Londoners call them, are almost unknown. On the ground floor, if not a shop, are three small sets of apartments, two in the front usually occupied by bachelors ; the third at the back, reserved for the concierge or porter. The hall, by the way, has generally a marble mosaic floor, and is tolerably wide, its trimness, like that of the staircases, depending on the concierge's love of cleanliness and neatness. Mounting the stairs, we first reach the so-called " entresol." This is really the first floor, but it originally meant a stratum of low rooms with tiny windows, assigned to the caretaker, or devoted to lumber.