Yet no one of the workers seems to grow impatient or disheartened over this; the faces bent absorbedly over their tasks are bright with interest, alert and full of eagerness to make something that will captivate the difficult mistress, if only for an hour. They may never see her—when she comes to inspect their handiwork, they are shut behind a dingy door; at best, they may only catch a glimpse of her as she enters her carriage, or sweeps past them outside some brilliant theatre of her pleasure. But one cries to another: “She’s wearing my fichu!” The other cries back: “And I draped her skirt!” And supreme contentment illumines each face, for each has helped towards the goddess’s perfection—and they are satisfied.
As I heard one unimportant little couturière remark, “Dieu merci, in Paris we all are artists!” And so they all are responsible for the finished success of the star. One cannot help contrasting this ideal that animates the most insignificant of them—the ideal of sheer beauty, towards which they passionately toil to attain—with the stolid “what-do-I-get-out-of-it” attitude of the Anglo-Saxon artisan. French working people are poorly paid, they have little joy in life beyond the joy of what they create with their fingers; yet there is about them a fine contentment, an almost radiance, that is inspiring only to look upon. When they do have a few francs for pleasure, you will find them at the Français or the Odéon—the best to be had is their criterion; and when the theatres are out of their reach, on Sundays and holidays they crowd the galleries and museums, exchanging keenly intelligent comment as they scrutinize one masterpiece after another.
The culture of the nation, at least, is not artificial; but deep-rooted as no other race can claim: in the poorest ouvrier, no less than in the most polished gentleman, there exists the insatiable instinct for what is fine and worthy to be assimilated. And if the prejudiced concede this perhaps, but add that it remains an intellectual instinct always—an artistic instinct, while the heart of French people is callous and cold, one may suggest that there are two kinds of artists: those who give away their hearts in their art, and those who jealously hide theirs lest the vulgar tear it to pieces.
And the great artiste, however gracious she may be for us, however kind may be her smile, never lets us forget that we are before a curtain; which, though she may draw it aside and give us brief glimpses of her wonder, conceals some things too precious to be shown.
II
ON HER EVERYDAY PERFORMANCE
Sight-seeing in Paris must be like looking at the Venus of Milo on a roll of cinematograph films—an experience too harrowing to be remembered. I am sure it is the better part of discretion to forswear Baedeker, and without system just to “poke round.” Thus one catches the artists, in the multiform moods of their life, as ordinary beings; and stumbles across historic wonders enough into the bargain.
Really to take Paris unawares, one must get up in the morning before she does, and slip out into the street when the white-bloused baker’s boy and a sleepy cocher or two, with their drowsy, dawdling horses, are all the life to be seen. One walks along the empty boulevards, down the quiet Rue de la Paix, into the stately serenity of the Place Vendôme and on across the shining Seine into the grey, ancient stillness of the crooked Rue du Bac. And in this early morning calm, of solitary spaces and clear sunshine, fresh-sprinkled streets and gently fluttering trees, one meets with a new and altogether different Paris from the dazzling, exotic city one knows by day and at night.
Absent is the snort and reckless rush of motors, the insistent jangling of tram and horse’s bells, the rumble of carts and clip-clop of their Norman stallions’ feet; absent the hurrying, kaleidoscopic throngs who issue from the subway stations and fill the thoroughfares; absent even that familiar smell-of-the-city which in Paris is a fusion of gasoline, wet asphalt, and the faint fragrance of women’s sachet: this virgin morning peace is without odour save the odour of fresh leaves, without noise, without the bustle of moving people. The city stretches its broad arms North and South, East and West, like a serene woman in the embrace of tranquil dreams; and suggests a soft and beautiful repose.
But, while still you are drinking deep of it, she stirs—opens her eyes. A distant cry is heard: “E-e-eh, pommes de terre-eeeeh!” And then another: “Les petites fraises du bois! Les petites fraises!” And the cries come nearer, and there is the sound of steps and the creak of a hand-cart; and Paris rubs her eyes and wakes up—she must go out and buy potatoes!
The same fat, brown-faced woman with the same two dogs—one pulling the cart, one running fussily along-side—has sold potatoes in the same streets round the Place Vendôme, ever since I can remember. For years, her lingering vibrant cry has roused this part of Paris to the first sign of day. And while she is making change, and gossiping with the concierge, and the smaller dog is sniffing impatiently round her skirts, windows are opened, gratings groan up, at the corner some workmen call to one another—and the day is begun.