Paris, the City of the Sad

Southland Times, Issue 14516, 16 December 1899, Page 1 (Supplement)

Paris, the City of the Sad

Gay Paris ! How many times have I heard those two words combined, and conjured* up mental pictures of a capital where gaiety was the mot d’ordre ; where pleasure was the one thing manifest to the most cynical observer ; a city whose glitter, fun, and delight were almost delirious in their mad whirl. Well, there is nothing like personal experience for confirmation or disillusionme’nt, and so, having seen the gay capital, the Ville Lumiere, having strolled, driven, trammed, and bussed through all its ramifications I feel justified in recording my impressions. As to gaiety, to put it plainly, I have seen absolutely none. Feverish,frantic attempts at being gay, desperate endeavours at enjoyment in plenty, but of gaiety in any commonplace sense of the word, not a jot. Both for natives and strangers the main idea of enjoyment, the one central column of Parisian life, seems to be to sit outside of squalid shops without fronts, at little ironlegged, glazed cloth-covered tables, and drink bad German lager (Bock), at 3d, 4d, and od per glass, according to the situation of the cafe. Sit and sip the insipid onionflavoured liquid and watch the wearied stream of would-be revellers, the women whose white, drawn faces no amount of paint can enliven, the men upon whose sallow faces waste of life is writ large; endeavour you never so earnestly to persuade yourself that this if gaiety and enjoyment, it is impossible to succeed. Paying your addition, do not forget the waiter,the garson ready to drop with fatigue, whose duties permit him to sleep perhaps for an hour or two towards daybreak. Remember that for every franc on your bill ho must pay in one franc five centimes, and make, if he can, a living out of the balance. For a proprietaire must live, and since for every one of these multitudinous chairs upon the pave the Government claims a tax, he must in self-defence mulct even so poor a creature as a waiter. As you sit there, wonder when Paris rests, when that infernal uproar of electric trams, automobiles, fiacres, omnibuses, and commercial traffic is quiet. And the answer is never. Paris never rests. The whole population lives out of doors, for homes there are none, and the clamour of the never-resting tide of life becomes after a while absolutely appalling. Insensibly the mind reverts to those trim, hedgeless fields through which you pass between Paris and the sea coast, and the bent forms of the peasant proprietaires, who wrestle with Nature until she yields up her last available ounce of produce. Cui bono ? Well, for the benefit of the gang of incapables who are hurrying France down a Gadara precipice of debt, creators of the Affaire, besiegers of Fort Chabrol. For only think of it. This nation of thrifty, patriotic people are bleeding at every pore to maintain the beseigers of Fort Chabrol, the pantomimists of the Chambre des Deputes. From the day of their birth until restful death claims them the hand of misgovernment is ever stretched, vulture-wise, for a full half of all they gain. Neverin all my life, not even in the dominion of Abdul, did I hejir anything so grim as the fact that when one dies his or her family are assessed at so much earnings, and compelled to indulge in a funeral which, for an income of, say, £3OO per annum is fixed at £4O. This Js the business of the State, and that harpy takes no encuse. You must have the funeral, and you must pay, if it ruins you, tant pis, but you must conform to the paternal ideas of your Government. As another instance of rapacity, let me quote the doleful experience of a friend of mine, who, visiting France, brought with him a4d box of wax matches. ‘Rien a declarer,’ he replied to the douanier. But the mat hes were discovered, and he was fined two francs per match, a trifle of £BO. Expensive allumettes 1 There are endless other things that deserve notice,but there is a monotony of injustice, of sadness, about them which leads me to reiterate my opinion that Paris is one of the saddest cities in the world. To my mind, jf you would see a depth of pathos that no poet or painter could adequately describe, spend an hour or two in a chic Parisian cafe, say between two and three a.m , and afterwards say whether you think Paris is the place to come to for gaiety.