Read Ebook: The Amazing City by Macdonald John Frederick

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Ebook has 552 lines and 73897 words, and 12 pages

PAGE

PREFACE 7

Looking through the list of subjects dealt with in these chapters, it will be seen that the criticism of French life carried through by John F. Macdonald covered, from 1907 to 1913, nearly all events in every domain of Parisian life during this critical period.

"It has been repeatedly and persistently asserted, in hastily written articles and books, that the war has created an entirely 'new' Paris. Journalists and novelists have proclaimed themselves astonished at the 'calm' and the 'seriousness' of the Parisians, and at the 'composed' and 'solemn' aspect of every street, corner and stone in the city; and how elaborately, how melodramatically have they expatiated upon the abolition of absinthe, the closing of night-restaurants, the disappearance of elegant dresses, the silence of the Apaches, the hush in the demi-monde, and the increased congregations in the churches!

"'A new, reformed Paris,' our critics reiterate. 'The flippancy has vanished, the danger of decadence has passed--and in place of extravagance and hilarity we find economy, earnestness and dignity.'

"the Land beloved by every soul that loves and serves its kind."

FREDERIKA MACDONALD.

IN THE STREET

In my almost daily perambulations through the brilliant, through the drab, and through the ambiguous quarters of Paris, I constantly come upon street scenes that bring me inquisitively to a standstill. Not that they are particularly novel or startling. Indeed, to the Parisian they are such banal, everyday spectacles that he passes them by without so much as a glance. But for me, familiar though I am with the physiognomy of the Amazing City, these street scenes, amusing or pathetic, sentimental or grim, possess an indefinable, a never-failing charm.

For instance, I dote on a certain ragged, weather-beaten old fellow who is always and always to be discovered, on a boulevard bench, under a dim gas-lamp, at the precise hour of eleven. Across his knees--unfolded--a newspaper. And spread forth on the newspaper, scores and scores of cigarette ends and cigar stumps, which have been industriously amassed in the streets, and on the terraces of caf?s, during the day. Every night, on this same boulevard bench, at the same hour of eleven, the old fellow counteth up his spoil.

"Fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven," he mutters.

"Eh bien, le vieux, how are affairs?" asks a policeman. But the old fellow, bent in half over the newspaper, hears him not. When--O joy!--he comes upon a particularly fine bit of cigar, he holds it up to the gas-lamp, measures it closely with his eye, then packs it carefully away in his waistcoat pocket. But when--O gloom!--he has a long run of bad luck in the way of wretched, almost tobaccoless cigarette ends, he breaks out into guttural expressions of indignation and disgust.

The night wears on. Up go the shutters of the little wine-shop opposite. Rarely a passer-by. Scarcely a sound.

"One hundred and two. One hundred and three. One hundred and four," counts the weather-beaten old fellow under the gas-lamp.

General applause. Cries of "C'est chic, ?a" from the charming, bareheaded girls. Sighs and sentimental glances from their faithful adorers.

At least twenty copies are sold. "Attention," cries the vocalist. And then, under the gas-lamp, what a spectacle and what song! Everyone sings; yes, even this huge, apoplectic cabman: "Though the snow may fall...." Everyone sings: the soldier, the workmen, the decrepit old charwomen: "Though the skies may frown...." Everyone sings: the very policeman's lips are moving. And how the charming, bareheaded girls sing and sing; and how amorously, how passionately do their adorers raise their voices: "Though the seas may roar.... What matter, what matter!... Since love, sweet love, is always in season!"

Well, at once the most irresponsible and irresistible street scene in Paris. Or, at least, second only in irresponsibility to the f?tes of Mardi Gras and Mi-Car?me.

Year after year, the cynic is to be heard declaring that confetti has "gone out" and that no one really rejoices at carnival time; but year after year, when Mardi Gras and Mi-Car?me come round, confetti flies swiftly and thickly and gaily in Paris, and only a rare, elegant boulevardier, or some dull, heavy bourgeois remains indifferent to the excitement of the scene.

Confetti, in fact, everywhere! Already at nine o'clock this morning--blithe morning of Mardi Gras--it has got on to my staircase, and from thence into the dining-room and on to the breakfast-table. Suddenly, confetti in my coffee. A moment later, confetti on the butter. And when I unfold the newspapers, a shower of confetti.

"It is extraordinary," I murmur to the servant.

"Most certainly, confetti is extraordinary," she assents. "It goes where it pleases; it does what it likes; it respects nobody and nothing--impossible to stop it."

"And only nine o'clock in the morning," I remark, removing a new speck of confetti from the butter.

"At seven o'clock, when I went to Mass, it had got into the church," relates my servant. "It was also in the sacristy when I went to see M. le Cur?. Truly, it is the most astonishing thing in the world; and yet it is only a little bit of coloured paper."

As time wears on the tradesmen's assistants bring more confetti into the house. Somehow or other it enters my boots, and finds a resting-place in my pockets. At luncheon, lots of confetti. At dinner, pink, green, yellow, orange and purple confetti with every course. And when at eight o'clock I set forth to view the rejoicings on the Grands Boulevards, my servant, leaning over the banisters, impudently pelts me with confetti.

A cold night and occasionally a shower--but the boulevards are thronged with I don't know how many thousands of Parisians. Here, there and everywhere electrical advertising signs dance and blink dizzily. Each caf? is brilliantly illuminated. More pale, fierce light from the street lamps. And, heavens! what a din of voices, and whistles, and musical instruments!

"Who is without confetti? Who is without confetti?" shout scores of men, women and children, holding up long, bulky paper bags, supposed to contain two pounds of the bright-coloured stuff. And the bags sell and sell. And the little rounds of paper fly and fly. And down they fall in their hundreds of thousands on to the ground, making it a soft, agreeable carpet of confetti.

A splash of confetti in my face. Then, a deluge of confetti over my hat. And I am pleased, and I am flattered; for my assailant is an English girl, with blue eyes, and gold hair, and an incomparable complexion.

"Who wants a nose? Who wants a nose?" shouts a hawker, holding up a collection of long, vivid red noses. And the red noses are bought; and so, too, are false beards and moustaches, and artificial eyebrows, and huge cardboard ears.

Then, what costumes in the crowd! Of course, any number of pierrots and clowns, who gesticulate and grimace; and ladies in dominoes, and men in heavy scarlet mantles and black masks. Over there, an Arab; here, a Greek soldier in the Albanian kilt--the picturesque "fustanella." And confetti--red, blue, yellow, green, white, orange, purple--sprinkled over, and clinging to, all these different costumes, and flying above them and all around them, a fantastic spectacle!

Confetti, again, in the fur coats of chauffeurs; a whirl of it--bright yellow--around three colossal negroes from darkest Africa; and a fierce battle of it, waged by an admiring Parisian against two fascinating young ladies from New York. Darkest Africa grins, displaying glistening white teeth. New York utters shrill little cries. And Motordom--represented by the three chauffeurs--imitates the many savage sounds emitted by 60-horse-power machines.

"Your health!" cries a clown, plunging a handful of confetti into a glass which, for only a second or two, has remained uncovered.

"Vive la Vie! Vive la Vie!" shout a procession of students from the Latin Quarter.

"Who is without Confetti? Who wants a nose? Who desires a moustache?" yell the hawkers.

And now, rain. Down it comes, finely, steadily, soddening the carpet of confetti, spotting the fantastic costumes, scattering the crowd. Edouard and Yvonne are hurried along homewards--much against their will--by their parents; the hawkers disappear with the remaining paper bags; the dizzy advertising signs give a last blink and go out; the policemen congregate beneath the street lamps and in doorways--the carnival is over.

However, memories remain, and these memories are--confetti.

It has flown, but it has not gone. Every hour of every day, for many a week, it will turn up in one's home, in one's clothing, at one's meals... still bold, vivid, ungovernable, unconquerable....

"Sur ce terrain va--aa--gue."

IN A CELLAR

Bright things and sombre things, tarnished things and threadbare things, frail things, fast-fading things; things and things, and all of them old things.... The past in this cellar; in every nook and corner of it--the past. Come here through a hole in the wall of a narrow, cobbled Paris street--come down a number of crooked stone steps--I now look curiously about me, and wonder what to do next. No one challenges me: the cellar appears to be uninhabited. Yet above its crude, primitive entrance, on a weather-beaten board, I discern the name--Veuve Mollard.

"Monsieur?"

An apparition, a spectre! There, in the background, appears a tall, gaunt woman, with a pale, wrinkled face, large, luminous dark eyes and tumbled white hair. In the dim light from the lamps Veuve Mollard looks a hundred years old. There she stands, old and alone, in a rambling old cellar, amidst old, discarded things.

"Monsieur?"

A deep, even a sepulchral voice--and then from myself an explanation. I should like to examine the old things--all of them, not knowing myself what I want. I have a fancy for old things; like to wonder over them; like, O most respectfully, to handle them. No; unnecessary to turn up the lamps; they give, just as they are, the very light for old things. "Fa?tes donc, fa?tes donc," assents the deep voice. Retiring to a corner, Widow Mollard seats herself on a stool and proceeds to darn a rent in a faded yellow velvet curtain.

Silence in the cellar. Shadows, ambiguities, and the mist from the street.

Out of this tray a snuff-box, enamelled, oval-shaped and delicate. A Watteau peasant girl on the lid--but the pretty, pink-cheeked girl, fast fading. Whose snuff-box? Then a shoe buckle. Whose massive, old-fashioned silver buckle? And of whom this miniature: blue eyes, sensitive mouth, delicate eyebrows and powdered hair? Then, a tiny S?vres tea-cup; a gilt key; a chased silver book-clasp; a string of coral; an ornament of amethysts; bits of embroidery; stray pieces of velvet and silk; lace, satins, furs, and spangled and soft and transparent stuffs. Whose finery? Perhaps a d?butante's, a d?butante of years ago--now old, like the things.

Now does a moth fly out of a piece of tapestry I have shaken. Now do I behold a black cat, with lurid yellow eyes, perched motionless upon a pile of draperies in a corner. Now do I perceive gigantic cobwebs overhead. Thus, some life--but life of an eerie nature--in the cellar.

"Je ne vous d?range pas, Madame?"

"Fa?tes donc, fa?tes donc," replies the deep, sepulchral voice of Veuve Mollard.

Thus the past in this cellar; in every nook and corner of this rambling, chaotic cellar, the past. Changes and changes--but not one change for the better. All around me evidence of somebody's indifference and faithlessness to old possessions. On all sides, symbols of somebody's downfall and ruin.

"Je vous remercie, Madame."

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