Spring and the Americans Reach Paris Together

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 97, 15 July 1927, Page 4

Spring and the Americans Reach Paris Together

(Written for THE SUN by

T. W. CANE.)

SPRING is advancing rapidly. Ever the tide of American tourists is beginning to * arrive. At dinner at the Pension, I heard a voice behind me saying; “I guess A 1 Smith is the most lie-lawyer in Amurika.” Some one said that the face to which the voice belonged was pretty; but, as Shakespeare said, a voice “soft, gentle and low” is an excellent thing in woman. The voice, or another one went on to describe the “toolips” in Holland. Why the devil can’t the} say “tulips”? It is pleasant by way of contrast to listen to the French speech. And it is annoying, after having “taken” French as a subject for the B.A. degree, and having passed creditably, not to be able to understand a word of it.

It would be absurd to profess*to be able to write all worth reading about Paris after a week's visit. But first impressions strike very deep; contrasts are very vividly brought home; there is all the first excitement of being set in utterly new surroundings. All that one has heard and read of the beauty of Paris is at once confirmed. The great monuments, made familiar by pictures and by description, seem as magnificent as such things can be; a little flamboyant at times, and overpowering, for instance the Pantheon. But no words can describe the beauty of the boulevards, especially in this hour of approaching spring. A word about the “jewel of France,” the Sainte Chapelle, once the chapel of the most sacred royal family in the days of their grandeur. It is divided into two parts, one above the other The upper chapel was for the King and his family, the lower for servants. Thus the essential difference between the Lord’s anointed and the common herd was insisted upon, even in God's presence. Now the chapel has (like the Pantheon, that vast cold cavern of frozen grandeur) been secularised, and you are allowed to wear your hat. In fact, all good French citizens do wear their hats, to show their attitude; and it would be bad taste to take yours off. The chapel is deservedly called “the jewel of France.” It is almost all coloured glass, of the kind that is found only in places like York Minster in England. It reminds you of the two most characteristic traits of the French, their sense of irony and their sense of beauty. They are the most artistic people in the world; that we all know. It is no use trying to modify the statement in favour of England, America, Italy, or any other nation whatever. Their streets no less than their picture galleries, their underground railway passages no less than their corridors of sculpture, bear witness to this. It is a strange fact that the Englishman, hearing that a friend (male) is off to Paris for a holiday, still assumes a sly, knowing look, clicks his tongue or digs his friend in the ribs and calls him a sly dog, or something like that. Why? It is true that vice ia allowed to parade itself. If an unattached man strolls along in the neighbourhood of the Cafe de la Paix, about 10 p.m., it is quite likely some very pleasant-looking little lady will offer him her company. Or, less agreeable, some furtive young man will sidle up and whisper suggestions of amusements that do not as a rule attract our mankind. But these things are just a£ rife in London, and in proportion to population are relatively as flourishing in all other cities, English or otherwise. Only, in Pari3, people don’t bother about it. The Latin temperament treats these phases of life with indifference. They certainly have no false modesty or prudishness. But they are not vicious. After walking for hours in Paris and observing the thousands of sober, quiet industrious, orderly people who are its inhabitants. I have come to the conclusion that, in all true essentials. Paris is probably one of the most moral cities in the world. It is a very bright and lively city.

The motor traffic in the streets is astonishing, both for its volume and for the pace at which it moves. I should not say it is as well controlled as it is in London. The French gendarme who steps out into the streets and flourishes his little white baton does not seem to produce anything like the instant and paralysing stoppage of all movement which the nonchalant London policeman achieves with his white-gloved hand. In fact crossing streets in Paris is a little trying. First you have to get used to the fact that your danger is ap-

proaching from the right, and net the left. Then you have to learn that the French taxi-driver goes twice as fast as the London one. And then there appear to be about ten times as many taxis in Paris as in London, and, comparatively, hardly any omnibuses. The reason is that taxi-driving in Paris is so cheap. Four of us employed a taxi to-day for an hour ana a-half, and were charged the equivalent of five shillings. In London it would have been 25. You only employ a taxi in London when you can’t help it; in Paris you drive in taxis because it is the cheapest way of getting about. There is in London something which is missing in Paris. London is a royal city; the parks are royal parks; every day its citizens are conscious of the presence of the throne and its occupant, symbols of the national pride and of imperial status. All this is gone from Paris, and no wonder. Their kings played their part badly, and were never brought to conform to the growth of democratic ideas. But they have at Versailles a vast and depressing memorial of the former greatness of their kings, wander through the monstrous, echoing, indescribably proud chambers of that deserted palace is a strange and moving experience. The exquisite grounds and gardens: the statuary aid fountains; the Great and Little Trianon,

with sad and gay memories of Maris Antoinette; the endless empty stables; the great coach houses with gold and glittering equipages—all these provide the most ironical, tbs m(*3t touching, the most romattle setting in which to meditate upon the vanity of human hopes and ambitions. There are miles of galleries, their walls covered with gigantic, boastful paintings: “To all the glories of France.” Those particular glories may now perhaps seem to have lost something of their lustre. The real glories of France remain, however.

: but reside more in her contribution to i ! civilisation, to art, and to the pro- ; motion of the amenities of life. practical demonstration of the latter is to be found in the shops of Paris, which are treasure houses of beauty and luxury. For instance, nothing ' more wonderful can be imagined than the artificial flower shop m the Boulevard Hausamann. By way of contrast to the superb elegance of the famous magasins of the Boulevards a visitor r | should be introduced to the astonish' i | ing display of the Sunday morning • market at Clignancourt. How much more could be written, even of a bare week’s exploration of Paris. The theatres, the opera, Comedie Frangaise, Mistinquett. Some may turn up their noses at men- > tion of the last, but they should not. The show at the Moulin Rouge is a revelation of stagecraft, beauty, an “ spectacular effect. And it is not pot . on for the sole amusement of Americans and Englishmen. The audience is almost entirely French; or * aS when we were there. And Mistinquett, when all is said, is undoubtedly a genius, and the delight of Paris. Paris is a paradise for visitors. Whether, as many insist, the French do not and cannot, because of deep racial prejudices, ever really lihe ns* is a question others may decide. A any rate, they can be very charming | and delightful in their welcome.