Paris, August 20.
There are practically no athletic sports in France, none at all in and around Paris. In America the men put in a lot of time talking baseball, football, boating and such-like. In France the men talk only politics or gossip. There are no lodges and no clubs in France. This ought to be applauded by the women, but as a matter of fact they probably wish the men would do a little something in that line. There is a secret order or two, but they are not strong and not recognized by the orders in other countries. Frenchmen do not seem to care for athletics of any kind. The nearest approach to it is fencing, and the young Frenchman learns to use the sword so he can fight duels. The popular Hero is not a ball-player nor a prize-fighter, but a man who has invented something new or who has run off with the wife of a friend. They are venturesome and personally brave, but they can’t stand for team work. The attempt has been made to introduce a mild form of football, but every man on the team wanted to be the star. I suppose if the French should organize a baseball club every one of them would insist on being pitcher. They will go up in balloons or airships with dashing recklessness and are brave enough, if that trait is not merely the absence of caution and calculation. French aviators are numerous and successful, though the fatalities are still many. They have shown themselves good fighters but not good losers. They will quarrel over a trifle and then forgive and kiss each other in a manner that makes an American seasick. They are polite in a veneer, for they will lift their hats and make goo-goo eyes at every pretty woman, and they will let an old woman stand up in a street car. They are industrious, thrifty, temperate, and cheerful. Just because they look at some things from a different viewpoint is no reason why we should criticize them, and yet they are so different from the neighbors that I can’t help mentioning a few things that are very noticeable.
The French Government has a president, whose name few people know, and a senate which has little power, and therefore the main factor is the lower house. This kind of government is a mistake, for the large legislative body rushes from one extreme to another; whenever its majority changes, the cabinet resigns, and the result is inconstancy and instability. Public sentiment is the controlling factor, and it takes an acrobat to be a statesman in France. Sometimes the flippety-flop is popular in America, but on the long run he loses. In France he is succeeded by another just as good.
The French are great lovers of art, and in the Louvre they claim the largest collection of pictures in the world. They looted Italy to get them, but they have them. No living artist has a picture in the Louvre. The fellows now on earth have to hang their pictures in the Salon or the Luxembourg or some other gallery, a sort of artistic tryout, with the judging done after they are no longer able to exert any personal influence. I think modern art is as good as ancient art, or better, except that every modern picture is not art. And I may add that in the Paris Salon the pictures painted by the artists of today have just as good color, better drawing and just as few clothes as the works of the old masters in the Louvre. I get along right well with the old masters until they paint Mary de Medici and Mary the mother of Christ sitting and talking together, and then I want to go outside and say a few things.
But while Paris is important in the world, politically, historically, and artistically, its great distinction nowadays is in millinery and dressmaking. The women go to Paris to shop, and the men go on account of the women. The men of Paris are about the worst dressers in the world. The women are the best. The Parisienne has the natural ability to take a hat and stick a feather in it so the effect is brilliant. She can wear a dress that costs much less than the gown of an English woman or an American woman, and she can look stylish when the other women have hard work to look decent. The American woman is second, and in a few respects, like shoes and gloves, she can beat the French; but take it all around, and the world removes its hat to the French milliner. Of course the milliner is often a man, but he has to have his Parisian model or he would fail. Let M. Worth or any of the other Monsieurs who dictate styles in feminine attire go to London and he would be a second-rater at once. This is true, whether you want to believe it or not, and the doubter need only spend a few days on the Paris boulevards to be convinced.
There may be some who think that the latest development in costumes, the hobble skirt, has reached America. They are mistaken. No real French hobble skirt could go down the street of an American city without starting a riot. When one does get to the territory of the Stars and Stripes the railroads will run excursion trains. The first day or two in Paris I was nervous about this style of gown. When I saw a saucy French lady in a dress which looked as if it was put on by a glove-fitter, I felt that I ought to blush and look at the statuary. I was told by the best feminine authority with me that in order to wear one of those skirts it was necessary to discard any wearing apparel which is usually beneath the female skirt. The poor, pretty things would go along the street like boys in a sack-race trying to walk, and by a slit up one side which was not buttoned for several feet from the bottom, a little motion was secured. But when the lady crossed the street, or when she climbed to the top of a bus or even stepped into a cab, it was necessary in order that she maintain appearances that there be not even a hole in her stocking above the knee. Of course I do not speak from personal observation. Far be it from me to watch a lady cross the street or climb into a vehicle. But I knew how it must be from a careless study of the environment, and my theory was confirmed by the evidence of all those who did not hide their eyes or observe the scenery. And I will add that it is extremely difficult to keep the blinders on while seeing the sights.