Peeps at Paris

Southland Times, Issue 21264, 10 December 1930, Page 18

Peeps at Paris

MEMORY OF THE DEPARTED.

(By

Melanie).

(Special to the Times)

I am still frequently asked, in a kind of informative query: “The French have no religion, have they?”—a question apparently simple but impossible to answer. For lifter all what is religion? At least there is no doubt that the French do earnestly keep up the traditions and ways of their forefathers, however much unbelief they may harbour. Two days of the year—November 1 and 2 —are consecrated to the memory of the dead. No distance is too long for the pious

pilgrimage of children to parents tomb, and on these days all Paris is beflowered. Trams and underground railways are congested with huge bouquets or pots destined to adorn some grave, young and old are laden with floral offerings to some departed friend, while to the seller on the boulevard these are days of unparalleled joy, comparable only to New Year. To me the visit to Pere Lachaise, probably the most famous cemetery in the world, was full of interest, not only for the continuous ceremonies but for the light it shed on the French mind—perhaps a little over-fond of pomp and its trappings, a sure eye for artistically dramatic effects, and withal the long memory of real affection. You enter this enormous park, .as one might well call it, though perhaps it hardly suggests numberless streets of graves, and you are at once relieved of your camera, for 'this is not a sight-seeing place for the thoughtless tourist, and though the Frenchman does not in the least mind showing emotion in public, he does resent a cold portrayal of it. The love of family life has here a curious result, for everywhere your

eye meets family vaults of such sizes as to be nothing less than private chapels; indeed, by looking through the small glass windows on the front wall one can often see marble statues of kneeling figures holding prayerbooks and placed in front of a small altar on which repose wreaths of beaded flowers. Of semi-military pageants there were many. A beautiful memorial has been erected to the Belgians who died in France during the war, and here yearly comes a high official of that country, followed by trench and Belgian officers, various flags and of course many wreaths. The chiefs of the two countries then give a short speech glorifying the deeds of the dead, and in turn all who care come forward to place their tribute. In half an hour the function was over, making of cold stone a veritable bower. Less pretentious but more touching was a quiet little procession of artisans dressed in their Sunday best, and many with long ribbons round their caps. In and out they wound among the graves, and at last halted beside a rusty iron bust of a youngish bearded man who died about fifty or sixty years ago. Of course, speeches, an official bouquet then a reverent bow from all. As far as I could make out this yearly homage is -Sven'to one M. Perdiguier for his work in connection with agricultural labourers by the descendants of those who

benefited from his good deeds. This may not be religion, but at least none can deny that it has a religious influence. Nor are the unburied forgotten—those drowned at sea, lost in battle or simply never found. Not far up the main alley 1 saw a few solitary figures throwing pathetic bunches gathered from the home garden, and wondering why they did not lay them on the ground as usual, I wandered up to find a kind of cave, its back decorated with a beautiful sculpture of a young woman looking tenderly at a young couple with a baby, and these words written large across the front: “On those who live in the country* of death, a light is shed.” To keep this a peaceful sanctuary a rail has been placed some half-dozen yards in. front, so there is no chance of a jostling crowd. I would like to give a brief picture of two famous tombs. Most of us know Alfred de Musset. He asked to have a weeping willow planted over him, and there it is, still lovely in its drooping.?. But what many miss is the even finer one just behind, to his old, old and devoted sister (1819-1905), who clung to him in .spite of all his follies. Here she is with her lace cap, a simple old lady sealed with her glasses and homing in her hami a oook oi her beloved brother's poems. Chopin’s simple monument, found up a short stone stairway, is still the Mecca of musician-poets, ami never is lie witnout some token ot attention, three young girls had just gently laid a buncn of roses b" him as’l came up, and a couple of youths awaited their turn. Within the last few years some poet has carved in the old atone a verse, of which this is a translation —somewhat inadequate 1 fear: “Here lies the soul of our being. Harmony and suffering such was ihy lite oil uuopm. But we have garnered your thoughts and piously still keep thy image in our hearts, and ail your griefs too. Overcome with the beauty of your words, we will defend your teaching, and keep the sacred flame alive.