CONTENTS
| PAGE | |||
| PREFACE | [7] | ||
| I. | IN THE STREET | [19] | |
| II. | IN A CELLAR | [31] | |
| III. | IN A MARKET-PLACE | [38] | |
| IV. | BOURGEOISIE | [47] | |
| 1. | M. DURAND AT MARIE-LE-BOIS | ||
| 2. | PENSION DE FAMILLE. THE BEAUTIFUL MADEMOISELLE MARIE, WHO LOVED GAMBETTA | ||
| 3. | PENSION DE FAMILLE. FRENCH AND PIANO LESSONS. LES SAINTES FILLES, MESDEMOISELLES PÉRIVIER | ||
| 4. | THE AFFAIR OF THE COLLARS | ||
| V. | ON STRIKE | [69] | |
| 1. | WHEN IT WAS DARK IN PARIS | ||
| 2. | BIRDS OF THE STATE AT THE POST OFFICE | ||
| 3. | AFTER THE STORM AT VILLENEUVE-ST-GEORGES | ||
| VI. | COTTIN & COMPANY | [84] | |
| VII. | THE LATIN QUARTER | [92] | |
| 1. | MÈRE CASIMIR | ||
| 2. | GLOOM ON THE RIVE GAUCHE | ||
| 3. | THE DAUGHTER OF THE STUDENTS | ||
| VIII. | MONSIEUR LE ROUÉ | [114] | |
| IX. | FRENCH LIFE AND THE FRENCH STAGE | [122] | |
| 1. | M. PAUL BOURGET, THE REACTIONARY PLAYWRIGHT, AND M. PATAUD, WHO PUT OUT THE LIGHTS OF PARIS | ||
| 2. | M. ALFRED CAPUS. “NOTRE JEUNESSE” AT THE FRANÇAISE | ||
| 3. | M. BRIEUX, “LA DÉSERTEUSE,” AT THE ODÉON | ||
| 4. | PARIS, M. EDMOND ROSTAND, AND “CHANTECLER” | ||
| X. | AFTER “CHANTECLER” | [187] | |
| XI. | AU COURS D’ASSISES. PARIS AND MADAME STEINHEIL | [192] | |
| XII. | THE LATE JULES GUÉRIN AND THE DEFENCE OF FORT CHABROL | [216] | |
| XIII. | DEATH OF HENRI ROCHEFORT | [235] | |
| XIV. | ROYAL VISITS TO PARIS | [246] | |
| XV. | AT THE ÉLYSÉE. MESSIEURS LES PRÉSIDENTS | [260] | |
| 1. | M. LOUBET AND PAUL DÉROULÈDE | ||
| 2. | M. ARMAND FALLIÈRES. MOROCCO AND THE FLOODS | ||
| 3. | M. RAYMOND POINCARÉ AND THE RECORD OF M. LÉPINE | ||
| XVI. | MADAME LA PRÉSIDENTE, M. GEORGES CLEMENCEAU AND THE UNFORTUNATE M. PAMS | [296] | |
PREFACE
This selection from the writings of the late John F. Macdonald—between 1907 and 1913—finds, naturally, and without any arbitrary arrangement, its unity of character, as the middle volume of the book, in three parts, that it was this author’s ruling desire—rather than his deliberate and predetermined purpose—to spend many years in writing. The first volume of this book was Paris of the Parisians, the last was the posthumous volume recently published, under the title of Two Towns—One City. In order to convey a clear idea of the motive and ruling method that give literary and spiritual unity to this long book in three volumes, which stands for the accomplished desire of a brief life, let me quote the author’s own account of this desire given in his Preface to Paris of the Parisians, where, at twenty years of age, he described himself as “a student of human life, still in his humanities”:
“The purpose of these sketches is not political nor yet didactic. No charge is laid upon me to teach the French nation its duties, to reprove it for its follies. Nor yet is it my design to hold up Paris of the Parisians as an example of naughtiness, nor even of virtue, to English readers. A student of human life still in my humanities, my purpose is purely interpretative. I would endeavour to translate into English some Paris scenes, in such a way as to give a true impression of the movement, personages, sounds, colours and atmosphere pervaded with joy of living which belongs to them. These impressions which I have myself received, and now desire to communicate, are not the result of a general survey of Paris taken from some lofty summit. I have not looked down upon the capital of France from the top of the Eiffel Tower; nor yet from the terrace of the Sacré Cœur; nor yet from the balcony among the chimères of Notre Dame; nor yet from Napoleon’s column on the Place Vendôme; nor yet from the Revolution’s monument that celebrates the taking of the Bastille. No doubt from these exalted places the town affords an amazing spectacle. Domes rise in the distance and steeples. Chimneys smoke; clouds hurry. Up there the spectator has not only a fine bird’s-eye view of beautiful Paris: he has a good throne for historical recollections, for philosophical reveries, for the development of political and scientific theories also. But for the student of to-day’s life, whose interest turns less to monuments than to men, there is this drawback—seen from this point of view the inhabitants of Paris look pigmies. Far below him they pass and repass: the bourgeois, the bohemian, the boulevardier, all small, all restless, all active, all so remote that one is not to be distinguished from the other. Coming down from his tower the philosopher may explore Paris from the tombs at St Denis to the crypts of the Panthéon, from the galleries of the Louvre to the shops in the Rue de Rivoli, from the Opera and Odéon to the Moulin Rouge and sham horrors of the cabarets of Montmartre—leaving Paris from the Gare du Nord he may look back at the white city under the blue sky with mingled regret and satisfaction—regret for the instructive days he has spent with her, satisfaction in that he knows her every stone; and yet, when some hours later in mid-Channel the coasts of France grow dim, he may leave behind him an undiscovered Paris—not monumental Paris, not political Paris, not Baedeker’s Paris, not profligate Paris, not fashionable cosmopolitan Paris of the Right Bank, not Bohemian Anglo-American Paris of the Left Bank, but Paris as she knows herself—Paris of the Parisians.
“Virtues of which the mere foreign spectator has no notion are to be found in Paris of the Parisians. And the Parisian does not conceal them through mauvaise honte. Love of Nature, love of children, both absorb him; how regularly does he hurry into the country to sprawl on the grass, lunch by a lake, stare at the sunset, the stars and the moon; how frequently he admires the view from his window, the Jardin du Luxembourg and the Seine; how invariably he spoils his gosse or another’s gosse, anybody’s gosse, infant, boy or girl! He will go to the Luxembourg merely to watch them. He likes to see them dig and make queer patterns in the dust. He loves to hear them laugh at guignol, and is officiously careful to see that they are securely strapped on to the wooden horses. He does not mind their hoops, and does not care a jot if their balls knock his best hat off. He walks proudly behind Jeanne and Edouard, on the day of their first Communion, all over Paris; laughing as Jeanne lifts her snow-white skirt and when Edouard, ætat. 10, salutes a friend; and he worships Jeanne, and thinks that there is no better son in the world than Edouard, and he will tell you so candidly and with earnestness over and over again. ‘Ma fille Jeanne,’ ‘Mon fils Edouard,’ ‘Mes deux gosses,’ is his favourite way of introducing the joy of his heart and the light of his home. And then he knows how to live amiably, and how to amuse himself pleasantly, and how to put poorer people at their ease, as on fête days. He will go to a State theatre on 14th July (when the performance is free) and joke with the crowd that waits patiently before its doors, and never push, and never complain, and never think of elbowing his way forward at the critical moment to get in. He will admire the fireworks and illuminations after, and dance at street corners without ever uttering a word that is rude or making a gesture that is rough. He will trifle with confetti on Mardi Gras, and throw coloured rolls of paper on to the boulevard trees. And he will laugh all the time and joke all the time, and make Jeanne happy and Edouard happy, and be happy himself, until it is time to abandon the boulevards and go home. ‘La joie de vivre!’ Verily, the Parisian studies, knows and appreciates it.
“There is something else he appreciates also, and reveres. And here especially we find that his paternal affection for all children, his courtesy and good-fellowship with all classes, his sense of proprietorship and delight and pride in public gardens do not indicate only a happy and amiable disposition, but spring from a deeper sentiment. He is sauntering on the boulevards, it may be, with Edouard. The time is summer—there is sunshine everywhere; the trees are in bloom, the streets are full of movement and noise, fiacres rattle, tram-horns sound, camelots cry, gamins whistle. Suddenly there is a temporary lull. A slow procession passes, a hearse buried in flowers; mourners on foot follow, the near relatives, bareheaded, walking two by two; after them come, it may be, a long line of carriages; it may be, one forlorn fiacre. It does not matter. For the Parisian, a rich funeral or a poor one is never an indifferent spectacle; never simply an unavoidable, disagreeable interruption of traffic, to be got out of sight, and out of the way of the busy world as quickly as possible. Here is one of those ordinary circumstances when the Parisian’s attention to the courtesies of social life is the outward and visible sign of his self-respecting humanity and fraternal sympathy. His hat is off, and held off—so is Edouard’s cap, so are the caps of even younger children, for from the age of four upwards each gosse knows what is due from him on such an occasion. Cochers are bareheaded, boulevard loafers also; the bourgeois stops stirring his absinthe to salute; many a woman crosses herself and mutters a prayer. ‘Farewell!’ ‘God bless thee!’ The kind and pious leave-taking of the Parisian enjoying to-day’s sunshine to the Parisian of yesterday whose place to-morrow will know him no more, accompanies the procession step by step on its way to the cemetery of Père Lachaise or Montparnasse....