THE CITY OF LIGHT

Evening Post, Volume CXXX, Issue 3, 3 July 1940, Page 6

THE CITY OF LIGHT

(By G. 0.)

"Paris est le centre dcs lumieres et dcs arts, Tune dcs plus vastes, dcs plus riches, et dcs plus belles villes dv monde-." —Larousse.

Paris was ail this and much more. Frenchmen were its trustees and guardians, but the civilised world had the idea of a proprietary interest in the city. At any rate, as a magnet it drew to itself men and women of every nation. Those who had never seen it, nor were likely to see it, were familiar with it by oral descriptions by those who had, by reading and by depiction in every medium known to the graphic arts.

Adhering to the past tense —for who* outside its walls, with a Goering running around it in a Rolls-Royce, can describe the Paris of today? It was a city of many facets, like a crystal chandelier. One saw there what one went to see. Now, only memories of it remain; gay, jolly, pleasant and not so pleasant, instructive, disappointing, but never a memory of them all without interest.

Gay Paris! But gay for whom? What city has known greater sorrows? St. Bartholomew's Eve, the Terror, the Prussians, the Commune, these were but some of its griefs. Yet again it is in mourning not only,, as in 1914-18, for its sons fallen in the war, but now for its glory, its liberty, its gaiety. Its present humiliation can only be adequately expressed in the language of the prophets.

Kindly memory (in the present tense) will take one by the hand, lead him to the very cafe terrasse, set him in the very chair, between the identical symmetrical lady-like trees in green tubs,, and bid him drink at leisure and watch the passing show. Here shall he learn, say in the Avenue de l'Opera, that it is* no stranger thing to hear many people as they pass speak in a tongue not French than it is to hear only English spoken in a Coney Island holiday crowd.

Paris may be gay by instinct but it is also essentially businesslike. As all nationals go there so all tastes in pleasures must be met, all appetites for enjoyment satisfied. What one seeks in Paris he shall find, and what is sought may not be merely masterpieces of the arts or the last creations in couture or mode-

From the terrasse at the right hour of the day in the right locality the scene seems more theatrical than real; the broad pavement is the stage, the crowds are the players,, mostly m walk-on-walk-off parts: soldiers, workmen, business men, clerks, shop assistants, girl's with band, boxes on their arms, perhaps a zouave, black as ebony, from Senegal, girl "stenodactyls" released from offices after covering up their type machines for the night; and, of course, foreigners of all nations, some of them highly voluble, Japanese, Poles, . Germans,. Russians, Latin-Americans, British, and Americans from all States of the Union. They pass and pass and pass as across a. stage. Here and there circulate among them a smart-looking.'! agent whom we call a policeman.

At the cafe table one does not gulp; at the restaurant one does not gobble. There may be quick-lunch places, there certainly are tea rooms, but whether one drinks or dines on the terrasse there is never a hint of hustle. Briskness in action may be seen as Parisians of both sexes at, say, between 6 and 7 in the evening, make for their particular restaurant to dine or to catch a particular train on the Metro or Nord-Sud, or to get a good place in a queue for a particular auto bus. The waiter at cafe or restaurant expects his tip and earns it. He is deferential and efficient, and utterly unlike the barman of a pub. He comes at a beck or a nod, takes the order, places it on the table, collects payment and tip, and that is all. He may come to see if the glass is empty, if so he removes it, but never with word or look does he suggest filling up again or getting out. So the time passes and the people pass, and pass. What also pass are three large char-a-bancs, each flaunting a large German flag in its bonnet. Provocative? Certainly. Two Frenchmen, at the next table, seeing the vehicles full of Germans of both sexes all jolly and very well satisfied with themselves, make no remark. They raise their eyebrows, shrug their shoulders, and that is all. * * * *

A shrill cry, a crash of glass—all eyes on the terrasse turned to the centre of the street. A taxi and a fiacre are lacked together. The driver of the horse vehicle is knocked off his perch; his shiny tall hat rolls under a bus and is flattened out. Women scream, their sympathies all for the poor cabman. The taximan is unhurt but excited, using his hands as well as Ms tongue to express his

ITS CANDLES PUT OUT

PARIS OF YESTERDAY

indignation at the stupidity of this cabman and all his tribe, emphasising his own innocence. The cabman is helped to a table, is given brandy. An agent arrives, puts the cabman in the taxi, gets in with him, commands the taximan to drive both of. them somewhere. The people at the cafe tables resume their talking and refreshment.

Next scene, enacted by a lady and a taximan, a little- dog playing a

yapping part. The dialogue is animated. The question is the fare to be paid for the dog. The lady resists,' the taximan insists. People at the tables look on, the garcons look on. It is a fine point, this fare for a dog, and such a small dog! It is, too,, an arguable point and as such is taken up at the tables. The manager is appealed to^ but is non-committal. Finally another agent arrives; the lady pays a few coins to the taximan. who drives away in high rage at top speed;, and she sits at a table to cool off. The dog inspects all the table legs.

The Opera. Place, "deuxieme Loge, 35." A box shared with foreigners, Slavs perhaps, certainly Germans. The opera is "Tannhauser,"' the auditorium bewildering, remarkable for its ornate, perhaps overdone, decoration; gold and crimson with a sense, too, of immensity. Yet actors, and music, even in the softest passages, distinctly audible. Four tiers of boxes above, then thegallery, boxes below, and at the sides of the great proscenium. Curtain seems dingy. Ceiling is a mass of intricate ornamentation in high relief, the centre gorgeously painted and fretted to represent clouds and rays of lightning, the open work affording ventilation. Great orchestra. Three portentous knocks heard before the curtain rises. The Germans are enthralled. So the opera' begins. Next scene- the foyer, crowded with people of all nations. Conversation, a babel. Mirrors from floor to ceiling reflect nearly all races of mankind. Agents watchfully linger here, also about the vast marble staircase. That staircase! What an insect one feels treading its broad steps, for ; what scenes of brilliancy has it formed' the setting on great occasions when ; notabilities, some coroneted, have trodden its steps, the place lit up with the glory of reflecting diadems,, and the brilliant uniforms and the indescribable froufrou of toilettes and odours of enchanting perfumes. But not now; this is no great occasion for "Tout Paris" is elsewhere and the discreet, wire-blind, highly-expensive shopping places exhibit notices in their windows, "fermeture annuelle."

The Chatelet. Here is the people's theatre; . entertainment cheap and plenty. No sense of awe as at the Opera. The play "Capoulade de Marseille." A very devil at getting other people into' scrapes,, but equally smart in getting them out of them is this Capoulade. Here are French men and; women; here are lavish, stage spectacles; here are ballets sandwiched between acts. How the people laugh at the antics of this droll Capoulade! With what gusto do they relish his piquant humour!

The gangway of the little steamer running down the river to Suresnes is graced by a lady walking down it. She would be between 45 and 50. She is dresed in black, a long skirt; on her shoulders a light white shawl, and she wears a small lace cap. A Frenchman whispers to his wife, "A lady from Provence." Wherever she comes from she is the acme of grace in her carriage and her expression is arresting for that serene beauty that immediately holds the interest of many men. "A lady from Provence" is the accurate description. How is it that any .frenchwoman always seems to grace her clothes, not the clothes the woman?

A pretty woman on the opposite bench looks lovingly at her son, a boy of about 12. He looks inquiringly at the anglers with their extremely long, thin rods. They have no bites. "Do they ever catch anything?" one asks of a stout old gentleman with a long beard. "My word! They do indeed," he replied, and gave the length of the fish with his open hands, which varied from 9in to Ism apart. "But I would not eat them on any account," added another Frenchman. The lady continued to Took at her boy, her "cheri" she called him. So the boat came to Suresnes, between the pleasant banks of the Seine and its islands with trees and boat houses on them, and under- bridges, past large factories, arw" stopped a while at St. Cloud, where, the Prussians destroyed the Palace.

Kindly memory is asked, What sort of people frequent the cafes and restaurants of Paris and parade its boulevards now, and how do they look and seem; what is on at the Opera, the Comedie Francaise, the Chatelet; where is the lady of Provence and the stout old gentleman with, the long beard, and the pretty mother of the boy of 12, and where is that boy now? There is no response.