PEEPS AT PARIS

Star (Christchurch), Issue 19240, 29 November 1930, Page 20 (Supplement)

PEEPS AT PARIS

SIMPLE BUT IMPRESSIVE MONUMENTS TO BE SEEN. (By M. S. PRIMMER.) 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 after all what is religion? At least there is no doubt that our Gallic friends 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 tlie dead. No distance is too long for the pious pilgrimage of children to parent’s tombs, and on these days all Paris is befiowered. 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 unparallelled joy, comparable only to New Year. Pere Lachaise. To me the visit to Pere Lachaise, probably the most famous ce?!!fetery 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 overfond 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 quite 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 careless 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 prayer books and placed in front of a email alter on which repose wreaths of beaded flowers. Military Pageants. 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 French 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 lialf-an-liour the function was over, making of cold stone a veritable bower. Less pretentious but more touching was a quiet 1 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 1 could make out this yearly homage is given to a Mr. Perdiguier for his work in connection with agricultural labourers, by the descendants of those who benefited from liis good deeds. This may not lie religion, but at least none can deny that it lias a religious influence. Nor are tlie unburied forgotten—those drowned at sea, lost at battle, or simply never found. Not far up the main alley I saw a few solitary figures throwing pathetic bunches gathered from the home garden, and, wondering why they did not lav them on the ground as usual, I wandered np 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 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 that there is no chance of a jostling crowd. May I perhaps be permitted to give a brief picture of two famous tombs? Tombs of Poets. Most of us know Alfred de Musset’s, who asked to have a weeping willow planted over him, and it is still lovely in its droopings. But what many miss is the even finer one just behind,*to his old, old 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 seated with her glasses and holding in her hand a book of her beloved brother's poems. Chopin’s simple monument, found up a short stone stairway, is still the Mecca of musician-poets, and never is he without some token of affection. Three young girls had just gently laid a bunch ol roses by him as I came up, and a couple of youths awaited their turn. Within the last few years some poet has carved in thi* old stone a verse, of which this is a translation— somewhat inadequate, I fear: “Here lies the soul of our being. Harmony ami suffering, such was thy life, Oh Chopin. But we have garnered your thoughts and piously still keep thy image in our hearts, and all your griefs too. Overcome with the beauty of your words, we will defend your teaching, and keep the sacred flame alive.”