We get home quite tired; but after she has gone to bed, I get out my pen and plunge into a new article. It is called, How to be a Successful Wife.
CHAPTER II
THAT MUDDLE-HEADED SANTA CLAUS
In the morning Anastasia always has her ménage to do. She sweeps till the parquet is like a mirror, and dusts till not a speck can you find from floor to ceiling. No priest could take his ministrations more seriously than Anastasia her daily routine as a femme d’intérieur, and on these occasions she makes me feel negligible to the point of humility. So I kiss her, and after being duly inspected and adjured to take precious care of myself, I am permitted to depart.
Oh, these morning walks! How this Paris inspires and exalts me! The year is closing with a seasonable brilliancy of starry nights and diamond-bright mornings. How radiant the sunshine seems as I emerge from our gloomy porch-way, with its prison-like gate! The gaunt rue Mazarin is a lane of light, and the ancient houses, with their inscriptions of honourable service seem to smile in every wrinkle. Each has a character of its own. There are some that step disdainfully back from their fellows, and there are quaint roofs and unexpected, pokey little windows, and a dilapidated irregularity that takes one back to the days of swashbuckling romance.
At the end of the street I stop to give a penny to the blind man who stamps his cold feet and holds out his red hand. On this particular morning he stamps a little more vigorously than usual, and the red hand is so numb that it seems insensible to the touch of the copper coin. The Seine flashes with light. Upholstered with its long, slim quays, it looks more than ever gilt and gracious. Yes, it is cold. The darting bâteaux-mouche are icicle-fringed, and the guardians of the few book-bins that are open are muffled to the ears. I wear no coat, because, except for my old mackintosh, I do not possess one. I have, however, bought a long muffler which I wind around my throat, and allow to flutter behind. People look oddly at me; because, where the world wears a coat, the coatless man becomes a mark.
From the Pont des Arts the river is yellow in colour, and seethes with slush ice. The sun is poised above the Institute, whose dome is black against the sky. The Ile de la Cite is a wedge of high grey houses that seem to pierce the Pont-Neuf bridge, and protrude in a green point, dominated by an enormous tree, through whose branches I can dimly discern the statue of Henri Quatre. Afar, the sweeping rampart of houses that overhang the river melts in pearly haze, and the dim ranges of roofs uprise like an arena amid which I can see the time-defying towers of Notre Dame and the piercing delicacy of the spire, as it claims the sun in a lance of light.
Here I pause to fill (with reverence) the meerschaum pipe, which is colouring as coyly as a sunkissed peach. “What a privilege to live in this adorable Paris!” I think: “How exasperatingly beautiful!”
Under the statue of Voltaire I stop for a moment to regard that enigmatic smile: then I turn to the rue Bonaparte. The École des Beaux-Arts is disgorging its students, fantastic little fellows with broad-brimmed hats and dark, downy faces. Here they come, these vivacious rapins drawn from all the world by that mighty magnet, Paris. Art is in the very air. In that old quadrangle it quivers from each venerable stone. It challenges at every turn. The shops that line the street exude it. Since I have come here it is odd how I have felt its inspiration, so confident and serene, making me disgusted with everything I have done.
Striking up the rue de Rennes I come to a doorway bearing the sign in large letters:
MONT DE PIETE