Part 6

One great difference between Germans and Americans is the regard in which they hold the law. Unfortunately, our new civilization has brought about a general feeling that the law is meant for the other fellows and we obey it if we have to. For that reason it is easier for a German municipality to manage business than it is for an American--and especially for a Kansan. Imagine what would happen in Hutchinson if the city owned a couple of breweries like the city of Düsseldorf. The next spring election the candidates would be running on the beer issue, and there would be all kinds of opinions. In Düsseldorf they hire expert brewers, sell the product, and the city takes a good profit. In Hutchinson the First Ward would be kicking because they didn’t like the head brewer, the Sixth Ward would demand a reduction in the price of beer, and the Third Ward would make the candidates pledge themselves to another beer garden in the south part of town, where it would be poor business. The final result would be that Mayor Vincent and Dr. Winans and the rest of the commission would be charged with favoritism and defeated for reëlection, and their successors would make beer at a loss and nobody would be satisfied. The curse of American municipal affairs is this playing of politics with every petty question. The Germans take the wiser method of cutting out politics, selecting their best men for public office, giving great respect to them personally, and accepting the laws they enact. When the mayor of Düsseldorf comes out for a walk everybody he meets takes off his hat and salutes. In our country everybody the mayor meets has a kick about something, and as for taking off his hat to the mayor--the American citizen would see him in Halifax first.

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A Kansas man, Clarence Price, of Pittsburg, stirred up all kinds of trouble in the German empire recently. Price has a moving-picture show, travel scenes and such, and is in Europe to get some of the best and see the local color. He thought it would be a fine thing to compliment the German army with a picture; so he had his machine at one of the forts of Berlin taking views of the drill of an artillery squad. The police saw him, and he nearly spent the night in the Hotel de Jail. It was all the American Consul and the Associated Press could do to save him, for the police believed he was a French spy, and as they could not understand the Pittsburg language and Price could not talk their German, it was only with difficulty that he got word to his friends and was finally released. A German jail is not fitted up for pleasure and comfort, but to make people sorry they get there, and as the picture machine had been confiscated there was not even the consolation for the Kansas showman of being able to present to the American public the sight of German justice administered on the spot.

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Everywhere in Germany the load the people are carrying is militarism. The young men of the country lose several of the best years of their life in their army service, and heavy taxes burden business and industry. The people are patriotic, and this army is necessary, for there is always the prospect of a war, and of course they want to lick the other fellow. But the newspapers are praising Taft and urging that arbitration and disarmament are practicable if the course marked out by the United States is followed. It makes an American really proud of his country and his President when he hears the praise that is everywhere bestowed on both for taking the lead in the most important movement of the times. There has been a marked change in sentiment toward Americans among the educated and upper classes the last few years. The poor people always were strong for us. But the business men and the newspapers, as well as the brass collars, sneered at Americans as mere money-makers. McKinley brought the change when the United States jumped into a war with Spain to help Cuba. Dewey at Manila pounded it into their heads with language the Europeans could understand. Roosevelt’s dashing policies and his stand for peace between Japan and Russia impressed them wonderfully. And now Taft’s policy of arbitration instead of war is receiving the commendation of uppers and lowers, and they recognize the statesmanship in the treaties. To use one of Roosevelt’s favorite words, it is bully to be an American and travel in Europe, just to see how much better it is at home and to feel the respect paid to our great nation and its leaders.

Arriving in Paris

PARIS, August 11.

Paris is a good deal like a circus, a three-ringed one which strains the rubber in your neck trying to see all you can before the acts change. Even the arrival is theatrical. As the train pulled into the Gare du Nord, after making the last forty-five miles in fifty-five minutes, I passed our hand baggage out through the open car window to a porter, and, going out the door myself, told him in a confident tone “voiture,” which is the foolish French word for cab. He understood, piloted us through the big station and called a little victoria with a seat for two. The driver wears a white celluloid plug hat and a red face. He drives a horse which probably fought with Napoleon. He nods assent to the name of the hotel as I mispronounce it, takes our three grips on his seat, and away we go down the street, the Lord and the cabby only knowing where. On the sidewalks are busy people talking French, walking French, and gesturing French. The stores and shops are attractive, for the French shopkeeper puts his best stuff in the front window, whether he is selling hats or sausages. Big busses, with people on top as well as inside, motor cars and motor busses with horns and honks, loaded wagons drawn by heavy Norman horses, street sweepers with brooms, policemen in red-and-blue uniforms, maids in cap and gown, porters with their work shirts outside their trousers, restaurants and little cafés with tables and chairs on the sidewalk and French men sipping absinthe or cold coffee, buildings almost uniformly six stories high, built with courts in the center which are often seen through open doors, and everybody talking, gesticulating and screaming in a language you cannot understand,--that is the confusion through which we drive for two miles and for which journey the cabman takes off his hat when I pay him 35 cents, which includes a 4-cent tip for himself. The hotel porter, or chief clerk, the head waiter, the pages, the manager and several assistants meet us at the hotel door, and in response to inquiries assure us that there is a bath-room in the hotel and that they have a “very nice” room. As an additional and decisive argument why we should stop there the chief clerk asserts that they have ice-water, and the entire company falls back in an ecstatic gesture which evidently means “What do you think of that?” We examine the room, agree upon a price, and then and not till then do we dismiss the cabman and proceed to get settled. We are in Paris, the dirtiest and prettiest city in the world.

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Of course the first thing to do is to get out and see the sights, but of course it is not. The first thing is to get the mail and the next is to clean up. After traveling eight hours on a fast train through a country which has had no rain for two months, one really does not care for the wonderful things which the world talks about. Then comes the French dinner, which is something of an affair. A dinner in France goes like this: Soup, fish or eggs, veal, beef or mutton, and a vegetable and salad, cakes or tarts, fruit or ice. No coffee is served with the meal, but it is usually taken later and is an additional charge. Any attempt to vary this bill of fare is regarded as insane. I tried my best to get string beans served with my veal course, but I couldn’t. The waiter said “Oui,” then went and called the other waiters, and I could see them looking at the crazy American. That made me persistent, and I sent for the head waiter and told him I wanted beans--and I knew they had them ready. The head waiter said “Oui” and disappeared, and soon the clerks from the office strolled by and looked in. By this time the veal was cold, and I realized that any further attempt might result in calling the police, so I gave it up. No one refused to get my beans, but each time I was told “oui,” which means “yes” and is pronounced “we,” and each time nothing further happened except the sympathizing and curious mob. Once I traveled in Europe with a friend named McGregor, who wanted his coffee served with his meal, as it is in Illinois. He was willing to pay any price and he would put in his order hours ahead of mealtime. Did he get it? Certainly not. Coffee is not served with the dinner in France, and that is all there is to it.

American travelers have won on one point--ice. Every hotel and restaurant which caters to American trade advertises ice-water. No Frenchman will drink it, but in some way the managers found that ice could be procured in the summer-time, and as a special favor to Americans, at a small increase in rates, the hotels give us ice-water.

No real French hotel has a bath-room, to say nothing of a room with bath. I suppose the French, who look clean, either go to the creek or swim in the washbowl. Again the American influence is felt. First-class hotels now have bath-rooms, or a bath-room, and when it is used the charge appears on the bill, so much for a “grand bath.”

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After dinner we went for a walk on the boulevards, just as every Frenchman who can, does every evening. The boulevards are the wide streets which run through the city in different directions, and were constructed at first for military purposes. In the little narrow streets of old Paris it was easy to start a revolution by merely throwing a barricade across a “rue,” prying up cobblestones for weapons and stationing a few old women on the housetops with pots of scalding water, which are harder on soldiers than leaden bullets. The revolution habit got so strong in Paris that the boulevards were constructed so the soldiers could march through the city without being stopped by barricades and mobs. They are likely to be used for that purpose again sometime, but just now the boulevards are largely for parades in which French millinery and hosiery are placed on exhibition every afternoon and evening. The sidewalks are occupied by cafés, miles of them it seems to me, and for the price of a drink, from one cent up, and in substance from coffee down, a Frenchman can occupy a comfortable seat and observe the wonders of art and glimpses of nature which pass by. An American can do the same, only a real American can never put in a whole evening consuming one small cup of coffee or whatever other beverage he can call for in the French language.

So when I say we “went for a stroll,” we did so in the Parisian sense. We went for a sit, and let the promenaders do the strolling. Here and there an orchestra was playing some frivolous air, the street lights flashed from the lamp-posts, old ladies sold newspapers and post-cards, and the chattering but musical French language filled the air with a suggestive touch of the bohemian accent. The later the hour the larger the crowd, until midnight came, and then the Parisians went to the dances and parties and the American visitors to the hotels.

The French Character

PARIS, August 13.

It is a little hard to take Paris seriously, because Paris refuses to take herself that way. There is a cheerfulness and a playfulness about the French folks that is hard to appreciate from the calm viewpoint of an Englishman or American. Our standards are different along so many lines that comparisons are unfair without explanations; and who cares for long-winded explanations? According to all the rules that are laid down in the books of American etiquette, the people of this city should be behind the rest of the world in all the serious and necessary works of life. And yet French generals have fought and defeated larger armies with their French soldiers, French engineers have performed marvelous feats, French scientists are authority, French musicians command the highest prices, French business men do great things, the French people are wealthy, and when it comes to literature and art we in America are really small potatoes. The fact seems to be that the Frenchman who promenades the boulevard and the French lady who startles the Puritan in us, are accomplishing just as much with somewhat limited resources, as we do, and we are the greatest people on earth as we admit ourselves.

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The show place in Paris is the parallelogram along the Seine, consisting of the Champs-Élysées, the Place de la Concorde, the Tuileries gardens, and the Louvre art gallery. This district is about three miles long and averages a quarter of a mile wide. It contains the Champs with beautiful gardens and woods intersected by wide avenues, then the Place de la Concorde, one of the most beautiful squares in the world, the Tuileries’ commodious public playgrounds, with ponds and fountains; palaces with pictures, statues and monuments historical and allegorical; and the end is in the Louvre, which is said to be the greatest collection of art in existence. There is not a chord in the human mind and heart which is not touched beautifully and effectively by some part of this magnificent public place, which belongs to the people and is used by them. The more one thinks over this feature, the more he must realize that although the French do not conform to our methods they are certainly able to reach many of our best ideals, and whether they go around or cross-lots to get there depends upon the viewpoint of the critic.

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The old Bourbon kings of France understood their people. While they made it hard for the common people to get a living they made it easy for them to have a good time. Whenever the public kicked on taxes, the king laid out a new park and gave a fête with free drinks and fireworks. The Bourbons would probably be reigning yet if Louis the Sixteenth and his wife, Marie Antoinette, had had any sense. Antoinette was German and did not understand the French ways, Louis was a poor politician, and when a storm came they lost their heads figuratively and then lost them actually. The republic lasted a few years and then Napoleon, who was as great a player to the grandstand as he was a general, became emperor, and only his foolish desire to conquer everybody lost him his job. The Bourbons came back as kings, but they had no sense. The French people want to be fooled, and these kings couldn’t fool anybody. So there was another republic, and then Napoleon the Third came to the front on the reputation of his uncle, the great Napoleon. He worked the French people to a finish, built palaces, boulevards and playgrounds until he had everybody for him, and then got captured by the Germans, lost his reputation and throne, and France became a republic for the third time. This was in 1871, and the republic has lasted forty years, much longer than expected, but in fact the government has been wisely conducted and has understood the French character well. There is another Napoleon, by the name of Victor, who is likely to come back, and sometime when the government does an imprudent thing the people will remember the good old times of Napoleon and return to a monarchy. Victor married the daughter of the old Emperor of Belgium, and has a big campaign fund.

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Of course everybody knows these facts, and I have recited them to illustrate the French national character. The French are not false, but they are fickle. They like a change, a novelty, an excitement. A revolution, or a new government, appeals to their sense of enjoyment just as does a new picture, a new hat, or a new coiffure. In spite of this trait they have done great things in all the great lines of advancement and progress. Theoretically they should be failures, but in fact they are successful. They consider Paris the greatest city of the world, and the way the people of other countries come here and add to the circulating medium seems to prove they are right. They practically refuse to learn any other language, but all other countries study French. Thousands of English and American Puritans come to Paris every year, but the Frenchman who travels for pleasure is unknown. Why is it? I give it up, unless we have some French tastes along with our English standards.

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The French people are the most temperate, most economical and most saving of any of the peoples of Europe--or America. With all their fun they love money, and never forget the necessity of having some in their old age. Get off the Parisian boulevards, which are spoiled by visitors, and you see the French, pure and simple, though not so very pure and not at all simple. They will bargain and figure down to the “sou,” the popular coin, worth two American cents. Every French family figures on spending less than it makes, and does it. There are practically no savings banks and no one much has a bank account, but as soon as a little money is saved it is invested in government bonds or municipal or railroad bonds, which bear four per cent interest. Every family has government bonds, and this habit of investing in securities is the reason which makes France so great and strong financially. The people pile their savings into the government treasury, the only bank they know. The family, which is always small in France, must save for the daughter’s dot, or she will never be married, and for the last years of the parents’ lives. There are practically no abjectly poor people in France. It is not fashionable to be poor, and French men and French women must be fashionable.

The Place de la Concorde is a wonderful square, larger than a couple of our city blocks. In the center is an obelisk, presented by Mohammed Ali when he was viceroy of Egypt and before the bargain sale of obelisks took place. It is a block of red granite, 75 feet high and covered with hieroglyphics which tell the deeds of an Egyptian gentleman named Rameses. The obelisk is surrounded by large fountains with mermaids and Tritons and dolphins spouting water into lower basins. Around the square are statues representing the eight principal cities of France. Since the monuments were erected one of these cities, Strassburg, has been taken by the Germans. This was forty years ago, but the monument still stands, and it is draped in mourning. In any other country the statue would have been quietly removed, but the French are not built that way. They hang their wreaths around Strassburg, swear vengeance on the Germans, and have a good time.

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This mourning habit is very popular in Paris. The ladies who are called upon to mourn do so with proper regard for appearances. As near as I can figure it out the death of a second cousin puts all the female members of a family into deep black. A mourning-gown with a very hobble skirt, with the hoisery and millinery to match and with plumes and décolleté neck to strengthen the effect,--well, it does not detract from the human interest one naturally takes at such a time.

The Latin Quarter

PARIS, August 15.

As everyone knows, the city of Paris is cut into two parts by the river Seine, which runs through it from east to west and with its curves is about seven miles in length within the town. The river is crossed by many bridges, all stone and substantial, many ornamented by statues. Little steamboats run up and down like street cars, and the banks are covered with massive stone walls. About half-way through the city are two islands, one called the Cité and the other the Isle of St. Louis. The Cité is the most ancient part of Paris, and was a town in the time of Cæsar. The coming of Christianity was marked by the erection of a church, and about the 12th century by the present cathedral Notre-Dame, one of the famous buildings in Europe, but not one of the finest cathedrals. By this time the city had spread out on the banks, and the organization of France into a kingdom with Paris as the capital was followed by a removal of the royal residence and of most of the activities to the sides of the stream. On the south side developed the university, the artists’ studios, and eventually the military establishments. Big business, the large residences and industrial enterprises went to the north bank. The Latin Quarter, as the educational and artistic section is known, on the south, while equipped with large stores, palaces and public buildings, is a most interesting and quaint place, and though still Bohemian is very respectable, from a Parisian viewpoint.

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The University of Paris, the original part of which was the Sorbonne, now an immense structure, has about 15,000 students. It differs from American universities in many respects. There are no recitations. The instruction is given by lectures, and a famous authority on law, or philosophy or science, can lecture to hundreds as easily as to a small class. There are no dormitories, no fraternities, no football clubs, no spring parties, no classes, no sports, no colors, no badges, none of the essential parts of American higher education. Students of any age or previous training may enroll and become members of the University, go to the lectures they desire, or not go at all if they prefer. The public can attend the lectures and the University is open to women, though the proportion of women students is not large. The most efficient instruction and the greatest sources of information are open to the students--if they desire. The Sorbonne was erected in 1629 by Cardinal Richelieu, and named for Robert de Sorbonne, who started a school for the education of poor boys in theology about 1250. It has been rebuilt and enlarged until it is a vast pile 800 feet long and 300 feet wide. This building houses the schools in literature and science, the schools of law and medicine occupying buildings near by.

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