Elfrida de Jaffa was born in Hamburg, Germany in 1874. While working as a stenographer in London, she traveled to Hamburg, Wiesbaden, Dieppe, and Paris. These are her travel journals.
CHAPTER I
(Sunday, December 21st, 1913)
It is night. The stars are gleaming in the French skies. We are approaching Paris. The terrific monster is foaming, spouting, whistling, and shaking, as it rushes through the silent country, its body boiling, its great nostril emanating smoke and sparks, its flaming mouth ever devouring, ever consuming the black food, its long, long, winding tail ever following, filled with so many palpitating human hearts, so many excited, anxious, and expectant minds! I wonder why we never give a single thought to the engine driver, the only being around us who can control and guide the monster. We sit comfortably in the train, we watch the various scenes as they fly past us, sometimes blinded by the thick smoke of the engine, sometimes hidden by walls and tunnels, we enjoy it all and never think of our leader. This is probably because we never see him. Sometimes a dark, besmirched face and greasy coat does appear over the engine, we turn our heads away, we do not want to look at him. On board ship, his majesty the captain is a welcome sight. In his fine nautical uniform of blue and gold braid we love to see him appear among us, a word here, a look there, we feel glad when he approaches us. But the engine driver, that unkempt, low-born, ignorant mortal, he is ignored, he is despised… I got up from my seat in the compartment and went into the corridor. I took my place at one of the large windows, and looked out. Above, the stars looked so bright and cheery, they all had tiny rays emanating round, they seemed to welcome me to French soil. The country was black, I could discern nothing. I turned to the right, and saw volumes of smoke blowing towards me, the flames of the engine made them look like clouds of gold; I felt quite exalted. I looked in front of me. The lights of the train were Illuminating the ground and the hedges and walls, and I could see the shadow of the train neatly designed, my own shadow looking gigantic as it rushed past, although at the same time it looked motionless only moving whenever I moved. I felt happy and expectant. Christmas in Paris! Whatever was going to pass during this fortnight? What would we all see, and hear, and enjoy? I began moving my feet in my boots, a lovely new pair, so soft and pliable… “Ugh, get along with your new boots!" I imagine I hear you saying. "We do not want to know what your toes did inside your boots, tell us something new, something interesting." Well, I cannot tell you anything before it has happened. I can only start narrating when it is passed. The train flew past a little country station. I noticed a clock which pointed to 3 minutes to 6 o’clock, exactly 24 hours since we left home. I shall not repeat what happened during these 24 hours, since we went exactly the same way I went in September last; still, I will repeat just a few incidents which might be worth mentioning. When we left home the evening before, as we went up the stone steps leading to the station, a dear little old man approached me, offering to carry my Japanese basket to the gate. As I spoke to him, I saw Mama looking at me rather surprised. I then told her that I knew this Father Christmas ever since we came to Wembley. He worked in the fields, and often saw me trot off to the City in the early morning, and always wished me good speed and other blessings. “One of my rustic acquaintances,” I added to calm her curiosity. Arrived at Victoria Station, we took a hackney, and the coachman when letting us down at the place where we were to pass the night (tomorrow being Sunday and the trains from Wembley not fitting with the Paris train) said in a sad voice: - “I am glad you came, ladies, I have been waiting since 12 o’clock." He was glad to give his horse a run, and himself a supper! I could not go to sleep, I felt so excited. Late at night I heard a chorus singing. I jumped up, and moving the curtains of the window behind the bed, saw a group of men and women just in front of the house. In the center was a little girl playing a sort of harmonium. They sang very sweetly their carols, and I was quite sorry when they disappeared. We had a pleasant crossing, although the wind was fierce at times. We remained on deck the whole time. After leaving Dieppe, I proposed we should have a meal in the train. So we entered the dining car, and they served us a dish of cold meats and coffee. The cups were blue, immense in size, quite round, they looked like balloons with the top blown off. Instead of teaspoons I smiled at the big dessert spoons with which I sipped the comforting beverage. English people who are so rigorous would not only have laughed at this breach of table etiquette, but they would have sneered at the ignorance of the foreigners. However, when the train began to shake and rock, and I found it rather difficult to eat and drink, I soon understood what this meant. The French are practical people, they don't want you to spill your coffee on the table or on your clothes; a good large spoon and a big round cup with only a small opening are the exact implements wanted under such circumstances.
6:30 p.m. The train now began to slower. We have reached Paris. It is the Gare St. Lazare. Past the usual unpleasant quart d’heure, our deferential porter stretches out his hand, looks into it, bows, vanishes, and we give the address to the cabman of the place we want him to drive us to:- CERCLE AMICITIA, 12, Rue du Parc Royal, 3me arrondissement. This name of CERCLE AMICITIA sounds rather strange, does it not? What does it mean? It is the name given to an establishment reserved wholly and solely for the beauties of my sex. We chose to live there, having often read and heard of it, indeed, a friend of ours to whom we recommended the place without ever having been there ourselves sojourned there for some days, and seemed delighted with it. Such a place is of course not as entertaining as a hotel or a pension where you meet men and women of all grades and nationalities, but it is a safe place to go to, and as we knew we would be out all day, it mattered little what kind of women we would have met, as we knew there would not have been much opportunity of mixing with them. I shall therefore call this place the farmyard (minus the cock) which we have chosen as our pied-à-terre, although when I participated my intention to the gentlemen of the office, one of them politely suggested that such a place would seem to him to be more fitted to be called a menagerie than a farmyard, because not only hens might be expected to live there, but vipers, vicious and creepy, cats, sly and false, and tigers, powerful and cruel. I laughed at this and told him that this did not discourage me, seeing that I would not be forced to mingle with them. Some years ago, when I first came to London, before we had started our home I lived in such a female establishment for some months, and I enjoyed it quite well on the whole. The hens got on very well together, and I liked reading their faces and their hands, and besides, being free to come and go, it was not an unpleasant place to live in. I remember one day Hedwig and her friend Elvire once (Hedwig was living in the house for a few days and Elvire came to see her) had dinner there, and Elvire thought it terrible, saying that she could not have existed in that atmosphere of femininity, surrounded by all those petticoats. Hedwig did not seem to like it much either. We females are not so anxious for each other's company. Men, I think, are on the whole different. I once read an article on the subject in an Italian book, wherein it was said that all over the world whenever men came together, however different their caste and upbringing might be, they always found something to discuss together, they always entertained one another, whereas women, what did women do when they met? Stare at each other, and nothing more. In an English book I once read that when men were together, they laughed and joked, they discussed the latest topics of the day, they talked politics, agriculture, machines, etc. Women, what did they talk about? Slander and gossip, gossip and slander. Perhaps dresses and cooking in between. We were now rolling along the Paris streets. I noticed English names and firms everywhere. You could have imagined yourself in London, except for the people who were laughing and gesticulating in a fashion not seen in the London streets. This is not my first visit to Paris. I know Paris, but like in every large town, there is always something new, there are always new places and streets to discover. You can live 20 or 30 years in London and never have had the opportunity of seeing Highgate Woods or Hampstead Heath. You can visit London ever so many times and never find the opportunity of seeing the Thames at Putney or those charming old houses at the back of the great shops around St Paul's Churchyard. It is the same in Paris. The quarter we were now going to live in was quite unknown to me. Rue du Parc Royal is situated in a part called Le Marais, near the Seine, the most historic part of Paris, of which I will speak again, as you must know that for some weeks before leaving London I read many books about the gay city, and this part most of all appeared very interesting, and I eagerly looked forward to the time when I would be walking in those streets associated with so many scenes of the past. The cab now entered the Rue du Parc Royal. How narrow, how old-fashioned, how strange it looked compared with the great boulevards in the west of the Paris. During our last visit some years ago we lived in a street quite near the Arc de Triomphe, and naturally kept to those parts, so this street looked quite provincial and different. We stopped in front of an immense porte cochère. I noticed a few windows over it, and on the wall on the left side a great marble slab for the Insignia in large blue capitals:- CERCLE AMICITIA
A man and a woman appeared from either side of the carriage, met face to face and indulged in a loud kiss. They then exchanged a few words and vanished. I smiled. This little incident made a pretty picture. Three young women were standing under the porte-cochère watching us. I jumped out and ran to the porter's lodge. “Sont-ce les dames de Jaffa?” a pleasant-looking woman asked us. “Oui,” I answered. She then said that her husband the porter would carry our things to our respective rooms. A typical French working man with mustache and pointed beard and blue apron now appeared on the scene, took up our trunk and told us to follow him. We now entered a large court with houses all round. One side of the ground floor consisted of window panes, I mean a large window, which I afterwards saw was the farmyard's dining room. Next to this glass wall a fine entrance which you reached by a flight of steps was reached, and we entered the house, fine and lofty. I was rather surprised to see that the Cercle consisted of the whole house, as you know that generally abroad, however large establishments are, they are mostly included in a flat. We reached the first floor, and our man opened the door of room No. 2, which was Mama's pied-à-terre. he then bid me go up a floor higher, and landed me in room No. 11, my pen at the farmyard. He then disappeared. All was silent around me. A terrible feeling of loneliness crept over me. I looked around and noticed that the room was not large but very nice and comfortable. The bed was placed on the left as you entered the door, an immense French window opposite, against the wall on the right a good sized wardrobe with a looking glass, against the other wall a night table and a kind of what-not, in the corner a washing basin built in the wall with a col and two chairs and a table in the middle. I opened the wardrobe and noticed a sheet of printed paper stuck inside the door. “Ugh, horrible, horrid”, I thought, as I read a list of rules for the benefit of the fluffy inhabitants of the farmyard. Each hen was expected to make her own bed, no water was to be left after use in the basins, the electric light would be regularly cut off at 10:30 p.m., no loud talk or noise to be heard after that hour, etc., etc. Why did we ever come to live in such a place? By taking rooms in an hotel things would be different. Was it to economize? Yes, it was, the prices were indeed very moderate, and in this way you could spend freely outside. Besides having only come to Paris for a fortnight and being out all day, it was quite useless to inhabit a fine hotel with grand salons and lounges. A comfortable bed, a morning and evening repast was just what we wanted. So there was no reason to complain. Besides, we must all admit that no establishment in the world without rules and principles of some sort is ever a happy place. So I took off my hat and cloak and rushed down to Mama. I found her looking rather miserable, she no doubt feeling the same as I did. She then proposed to go down and meet Madame la Directrice to show her that we had arrived and make her acquaintance. So we went downstairs, and I heard voices coming from the different rooms. I was however surprised to hear nothing else but French spoken, not a word, not a sound of another language. I had imagined the farmyard an international place, where hens of every coloring and description and countries came and went. This was however not the case as you will hear later. We entered a fine, square room. a subdued light was burning, green velvet seats were placed around the walls, and an immense Christmas tree was placed in a corner. I noticed a lady with spectacles and a prominent nose standing with her hat on, and seeing that we were strangers she looked wonderingly at us. Another lady was sitting at a table reading. She lifted her head, then dropped it again, went on with her reading and took no further notice of us. We asked for the manageress. The lady standing answered in French that she was at dinner but would arrive in a while. We then spoke to this lady, and I joked with her saying that the place made me think of a farmyard minus the cock, upon which the lady answered that there was however a cock in the place, it was the porter, really the only male in the whole establishment. An elderly lady now entered the room followed by a younger one. they both exclaimed:- “Je suppose les dames de Jaffa?” We then entered into conversation. It was Madame La Directrice and her niece who acted as her secretary. We told her that we liked the house, the only disappointment was that we could not have a room together, upon which the ladies answered that there were but few double bedded rooms in the place, the house not being as I had imagined it, a kind of pied-à-terre for ladies visiting Paris, like Mrs. D's house was for ladies visiting London, but that it was a real boarding-house for single ladies studying or having permanent employment or otherwise in Paris, and that rooms were only let when these ladies were away or when a room happened to be vacated. This establishment had been founded about 15 years ago by a rich lady who desired not to disclose herself. She bequeathed the house for the benefit of the lonely, and it was the first establishment of the kind in Paris. It had already been imitated by another establishment much larger and grander. Still, this charming house was the foundation, and I think it was a great act of kindness and reason on this unknown lady's part. The house had been built in the 16th century, no doubt many alterations will have been made since then, still, the large stairs and certain little dark hidden corridors here and there reminded me of bygone days, houses are no more built in this way nowadays. After having said good night to the two ladies, I helped Mama to unpack our box, carried my own belongings to my pen, then went in search of the hot water tap. A long, long corridor with doors on either side and windows over them to admit the light, each door being a bedroom, and right at the end, turning to the left you came to the hot water tap and the distilled water tap and on the right to the bathroom and other human blessings. I bid Mama good night and crept up to my room. To my surprise I entered a charming room all red and artistically draped exhaling a strong odor of perfume. I had entered the wrong room, but luckily the fluffy inhabitant was not in it. I went to the hot water tap for my own account and looked at the window. It faced the dining room and a very pretty scene met my eye. Many sweet ones of my sex were still at dinner, they looked very nice, with colored blouses, and neat maids in cap and apron serving at the different tables. I wondered would I make friends with any of them. Arrived back in my room, I locked the door, opened the window and pulled down the blind, which seemed terribly heavy and difficult to manage. whilst enjoying my well-earned ablutions. I heard steps and laughter and voices outside. The hens were no doubt going to their pens for the night. Then I heard in the room next to mine a voice begin to sing. Not very fine, but still, I could hear that the owner was well disposed and happy. She sang on and on, then stopped. One thing struck me. It was the extraordinary silence which reigned outside. I had been told that Paris was even more noisy than London. I heard no sounds of wheels or motor horns, nothing. It seemed to me to be shut up in a convent in the country. I felt strange and tried to sleep, but could not help fidgeting and tossing from one side to the other. I noticed that the bed was very comfortable and began to wonder who were the females who had slept in it since it began its career. As you know, a lonely woman always seems to have an interrogation sign behind her name, as I once read the opinion of an Italian, who said that a man alone is an indifferent being, whereas a woman alone is a mystery.
CHAPTER II (Monday, December 22nd, 1913.)
A bell rang at 7 o’clock. I was surprised to hear a piano start playing at the same time. I jumped out of bed after a rather disturbed night, slipped on my dressing gown and slippers, and flew downstairs to fetch hot water for Mama, knowing quite well that this would have been unpleasant for her. A disheveled, sleepy woman joined me at the tap, then seeing that I was a stranger, she turned round as if to hide herself. I laughed and told her that it was still very dark and that I would not look at her and hoped she would neither look at me, but that I should be pleased to see her at breakfast fresh and smart. She laughed too. Still, I never recognized her face, and this shows how we fair ones can improve ourselves with all our little adornments and embellishments. I looked out of the window. It was icy cold. I was now back in my room. everything looked white, as if snow had fallen. It was frost. The scene was lovely. I noticed what a fine, large garden was attached to the house, it was long and large, and the walls around were not like in London three or four feet high, but towering yards and yards, forming the walls of the houses, with creepers climbing right along them. Opposite other fine houses irregularly shaped rose about, not that ugly uniformity of London houses, but picturesque and artistic. Many, many windows with shutters, in some the lights were burning, and the whole scene pleased me immensely. Although the cold air cut me like a knife, I could not tear myself away. Why is London so uniformly built? The houses one like the other, all the roofs of the same height. The little French dickies were singing cheerfully. I closed the window, hurried over my toilet, and was surprised to find Mama at my door anxious to go down. It was 8 o’clock when we entered the dining room. Only very few hens were pecking at their breakfast. There were several tables, and at the end of the room behind another table covered with cups and saucers, cream colored with dark blue rings, sat a quiet looking woman dressed in black, who had the control of the coffee pot. On one side, were big baskets filled to overflowing with several kinds of little loaves and crescents, excellent bread like you only find it in France. The arrangement was excellent. In your weekly payment you are entitled to one cup of coffee and one loaf and the next thing you pay extra. So you can be economical or indulge in a lot of food at your own desire. We found a Postcard from Georgette and another from Peter among the group of postal missives scattered and one corner of the table. I noticed that as the hens entered, the first thing they did was to bend over this group, and eagerly grasp at the right missive. I saw only about half a dozen enter, they looked nice and trim, but none interested me, perhaps because I was so anxious to get out and see paris. I was surprised to find myself unconsciously breaking my bread and drop it into the coffee consume my portion, and desire nothing more. just fancy doing such a thing in england! why, you could not get over your breakfast without a plate of bacon and eggs, or some fish, or the like, and who would dream of Dipping one's bread in the tea! and yet, verily, verily, I say unto you, do you ever so conservative, do you ever so staunch in your ideas, when you go and live in a different country you will gradually find yourself adapting their ways and doings, you will end by sharing their views and opinions, you will Ascent to their assertions, you will live like they do. possessing four different languages, and having lived in the country's appertaining to them, it is quite natural that my ideas and opinions should be quadripartite, and that I can easily adapt myself to any place, perhaps quicker than those who have only lived in the same country, or those belonging to only one nation. in Italy I would never dream of taking anything else but a small cup of black coffee in the morning, in Germany I could not consume my early morning past without a generous helping of honey, and in France and England you know what is to be done. At 9:00 we found ourselves stepping out of the farmyard on our first Parisian outing. The first street I read was Rue de Sévigné. I at once remembered that in this street was the Musé Carnavalet, a highly interesting place, not only for all the marvels it contained but also for its having been the home of the famous Madame de Sévigné during the last 19 years of her life. This museum being gratis on Sundays, we naturally postponed our visit for that day. I was very very anxious to see the Place des Vosges, having read so much about this place, and knowing that our street was in its vicinity. Just as we were leisurely moving along I saw some arcades, lifted my eyes, and shouted:- Place des Vosges! A thrill of joy and excitement came over me. If you have never seen nor heard of the square, let me tell you that it has a history all its own. In the days of yore there stood a palace on the spot which was inhabited by royalty during several generations, it stood in a large park, and was called Palais or Chateau de Tournelles. In later days King Henri IV had the square built, and it was finished during the reign of Louis XIII. In one of the houses Madame de Sévigné was born (an insignia is attached to the house) in another house Cardinal Richelieu lived for a time, in still another house Marion Delorme lived and in that same house Victor Hugo also lived for 15 years. The famous actress Rachel lived also in one of these houses, and many beaux esprit had their salons in the same square, Corneil chose it as the scene of one of his masterpieces. With all this in my head, we walked right around the square. There are lovely old arcades all round. I noticed that the porte cochère were fine and grand, that the courts inside were large and handsome, that the houses round these courts were picturesque in the extreme, that the fronts facing the square were grand, that the gabled roofs were picturesque and of different heights preventing uniformity. We stepped into the garden in the center. A statue of Louis XIII on horseback graces the center, I noticed several fountains around, the water was frozen, and large blocks of ice lay about. The museum Victor Hugo also had to be left for next Sunday, as you know that in Paris land all the museums are closed on Monday for the cleaning but they are all open on Sundays, which I think quite correct, considering that so many people are only free that day. We reluctantly left this interesting place to go to the Place de la Bastille, where we intended to take the tram to the Madeleine, the churches being all open and the drive being long, we could see all the principal boulevards. What seemed to me a labyrinth the first two or three days till we reached the Place de la Bastille, I could have found with my eyes closed during the rest of our stay. How easy a thing is once you know it! The Place de la Bastille with its Colonne de Juillet and the golden figure of Liberty on the top is a grand square. Victor Hugo calls this column nothing else but a chimney-pot, in some ways he is right; still, it does look conspicuous. And to think that on this very square there stood the prison of the Bastille, the name of which alone brought terror into human hearts for several centuries! I always remember the story which was told me when I was a child, of the old man who was found in a cachot in the underground of the prison when it was destroyed. This old man was a nobleman who had been imprisoned in the Bastille for over half a century. When discovered he had a long white flowing beard and his soul occupation was playing with rats. He found the world so changed and all his friends dead and gone, that he ardently wished to be locked up again. There is a little chamber at Madame Tussaud’s illustrating this old man with the rats. The weather had now turned horrible. It was terribly cold and foggy, and we sat silent and not very happy in the tram. We passed the Place de la République. I noticed Dame Republic looming grand and black through the fog in the center of the square, hundreds of Christmas trees lay scattered about, and a lot of people were shouting and gesticulating. We entered the church of the Madeleine. It was a little after 10:00. Seeing from the guidebook that the inspection of the church was only allowed after two, we soon left it, and walked to the Place de la Concorde. Now you must know that this place is THE place par excellence of the gay city. It is supposed to be the finest place in Europe. When we reached it, the fog and mist were so thick that we could hardly discern the Obelisk of Luxor, sister monolith to Cleopatra's Needle. We could not discern the great statues representing the chief towns of France around the square. These towns are Lyons famed for its silky productions, Marseille famous for its grand port and its fish soup flavored with garlic which the Provençals called bouillabaisse, Bordeaux famous for its delicious wines, Nantes for its wonderful sardines, Rouen for its cathedral and its associations with Jeanne d’Arc, Brest for its grand naval station, Lille for its fortress and linen and cotton industry, and Strasburg for its wonderful goose liver pies and for its being Mama's birthplace. Strasburg is now of course German, it should therefore have been replaced by another statue, but the French do not seem to wish to part with their Strasburg as you will see presently. We tried to cross over in order to reach the center and walk around these statues and the grand fountains, but at each step there dashed a motor out of the fog. We felt cross and excited. A workman seeing our difficulty helped us over. We found ourselves landed in front of a statue covered with black wreaths on which were inscribed:- Alsace Lorraine, quand meme, quand meme! It was the statue of Strasburg. I have heard since that this statue was permanently kept in mourning. I thought it so strange. Mama saw nothing strange about it. Being an Alsatian, she naturally felt for her country. We stood there, not knowing what to do next. It was impossible to go on, we would have lost our way, the museums were all closed, the cold was such that it froze the marrow in your bones. For vanity’s sake I would not put on my big caracol cloak because I thought it did not make me look slim enough, but chose to wear a thin blue surge coat and skirt, for vanity's sake I would not put on my thickly lined gloves thinking they made my hands look too large but chose to wear a pair of thin kid gloves. I was surprised to hear Mama complain of the terrible cold although she was huddled up in a big fur cloak. So you can imagine how I felt. With difficulty we crossed over to the street again and began to wander aimlessly. “Horrible, horrible,” I thought to myself. I began looking about. I saw people hurry along with their mouths and noses hidden by scarves and shawls, you could only see their eyes, I have never seen this in London. I noticed some baggy blue trousers hurry past, some soldiers grinning under their red caps. I looked into the shops but could discern only a display of ugly, exaggerated hats with plumes sticking out from everywhere. How shabby the trams and omnibuses look in Paris compared to the spic and span vehicles in London. How unsmart the policeman look compared to the fine blue giants in London. They were pelerines and casquettes. I like the casquettes for the running man, I mean the porters and the postmen, but the law must look grand and dignified, the law must wear the helmet, like the dark ones in London, like the golden ones in Hamburg. “You don’t seem very pleased with what you see in Paris,” I imagine I hear you exclaiming. No. I hate everything. I hate everybody. my body is frozen, my soul is frozen, my mind is gone. What is going to happen now? Where shall we go to? What shall we do? It is not yet 11 o’clock, and we can come to no decision. Mama all of a sudden had an idea. She proposed to go to Dufayel. “What is that?” I asked. She then told me that Dufayel was a large establishment like Selfridge’s or Harrod's in London, there would be much to see and hear, the place would be warm and cheerful, and we could spend several hours there. I jumped at the idea. Upon inquiring about the way to get there, we were told that it was very far from where we were happening to be standing, that we should have to go by underground etc. Now, what we call the underground, no I am mistaking, what we call the tube in London, they call “Le Mètro” in Paris. It looks very much like the tubes in London, only that you reach it by a flight of steps, there are no lifts, this shows that it is not built so deep down like the tube is in London. We reached the great stores in good time, and I proposed to enter the lift and go right to the top and then gradually walk down and inspect each floor. Upon stepping out of the lift at the top of the gigantic building, a dapper young man in a uniform appeared before me and began to explain several things to us. I was highly interested. What an easy and intelligent flow of language these Latins have. “Now, Mesdames, " he said “please look over the balustrade. " I nearly gave a shriek. The abyss down which we looked made me quite giddy. He then said that the building had nine floors, and below the ground floor were three more floors. "Look at the wall opposite,” he said further, pointing across. I looked, and saw 4 clocks, a very large one in the center, one on each side, and one on the top. Upon further observation and listening to the explanation, I saw that the large clock in the center was an ordinary timekeeper, that the clock on the right was a barometer, that the clock on the left consisted of moons, and that the clock on the top had several hands; this was the most interesting one. It worked the days of the week, the days of the month, and the months of the year, so that at a glance you could see what day it was. “The needle showing the months of course only moves once every month,” he said. I looked and saw that the various needles pointed to Monday, the 22nd of December. This was really very fine, such a clock should be in every home. We wended our way gradually down the different floors. It was terribly hot all over the place. I could easily feel that no fresh air passed through the place. In England, be it ever so heated, an opening is always there to let fresh air enter. I noticed signs of a fine cinematographer but was told it would only begin at 2 o’clock. I noticed a large platform with a harp and several other instruments, but was told it would likewise only start at 2. The chairs in the auditorium were barred off till that hour, and I could find no seats about. I asked to enter the writing-room but again was told that nothing starts in the establishment before two. The Parisian ladies do not go out in the morning, which is on the whole quite natural, having enough to do at home. We felt cross and tired. It was only 12:00. Mama especially could not suffer the stuffiness of the place. So we decided to leave, and return to the Place de la Bastille to be nearer the farmyard in case we could do nothing further that day. Arrived at the Place, we entered one of the boulevards near it, and found a lovely patisserie where we indulged in a very tasty meal. We were served with a delicious pie, then pastries, then boiling coffee, three French specialties. Our good spirits returned, we felt gay and comfortable, and left the polite little manageress all smiles and graces. What shall we do now? It was towards 3:00, and we had walked a good deal for the first day. Let's look at the shops. We entered the Rue S. Antoine, which drops into the Rue de Rivoli, and flattened our noses at every window. I stopped before a shop teeming with sausages, and began to laugh. In the middle of the window three fat, smoked pigs sat round a table smoking and playing at cards. However, laughable pigs at the charcuteries, beautiful flowers at the florists, delicious looking heaps of marron glassés and petit fours at the confiseurs, funny looking hats and bonnets at the milliners only attracted our attention up to a certain point. In spite of the hot lunch, we both felt that if we did not go in, the marrow in our bones would turn to ice. So we looked up the Rue de Turenne, as I remembered that we had turned into it in the morning from the Rue de Parc Royal. Now, you must know that when I am in Paris I call every mortal Monsieur and Madame, having once read in an English book that if you call the people by that title you are sure of getting a ready answer, as you know, the French glory in their Republic, so they want to be all alike. Every, everywhere you read the insignia:- Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité. So it is flattering to hear them called that way. Mama did not at all approve of my calling every porter and every loafer Monsieur, still, she had to admit that they answered more promptly and anxiously than when I simply said “vous.” Also the policeman, whenever I wanted to know the way, I would call politely: - “Monsieur l’agent, s’il vous plait,” and Monsieur l’agent would touch his hat, and say:- “Madame?” Just fancy calling a policeman in London Mr. Policeman! It sounds like those funny stories in the joking papers of the street urchins calling Mr Perliceman. Wouldn't our blue man wonder at us, till he found out that we are foreigners! So a Monsieur L’agent directed us to the Rue Turenne. This street is famous for having once been inhabited by the great Turenne and by Madame de Maintenon. We sneaked into the farmyard, and Mama took a bath, whilst I indulged in ablutions in my room. I noticed that an additional comfort was a vessel which looked like a magnified doll's bath, and which came in very useful, the washing basin being built in the wall. The next thing we did, was to go downstairs into the drawing room, where we sat for a while. I reading aloud passages from an excellent book on Paris, which Georgette had lent to me and which I had studied a good deal before leaving London. This book, written by Augustus J. Hare, an English clergyman, is really wonderful. It is more interesting than a guidebook; it is an entertaining story-book. He describes every inch of Paris in such an easy way that you feel you want to peep into every corner and not miss anything. I also had Cook's guide book with me, and this I carried in my hand every day. Hare's book being rather too heavy, I only took the next day with me to the Louvre, still, I read out of it every evening, so as not to miss anything. We think we can see and find everything by ourselves. This is however a great mistake. Nothing makes me more cross than when it is all over and you read about it and you see you have missed this and that. Even if you keep your eyes and your ears wide open, some things will escape you if you have not been prepared to look for it, and why is this? simply because some sights, however grand and historic they may be, they do not strike the eye, and also because absorbed in one thing we often pass the next thing, or do not think of it. but such a book keeps you on the alert. It happened so when we went to visit the Pantheon. I eagerly returned to see the lovely frescoes on the walls and found them grander than ever. I however never thought of looking in the corner at the left, and only noticed the extraordinary fresco upon going another time, since Hare makes a remark about it which I will mention at the right time. Sitting in the drawing room, we watched Madame le Directrice and her niece unpacking boxes and boxes of toys, and ranging them in lines. They then told us that on Christmas Day there would be a feast for the poor children of the neighborhood in that room. I wanted to assist, and rejoiced to see the French children enjoying themselves. Later on we went upstairs again, and at 7 o’clock the dinner bell rang. We were almost the first in the dining room, and I thought to myself:- “Now, at last I shall see something of the hens.” In fact, they crowded into the room. They entered in twos and threes. They did look funny. Blue and shivering, they were nearly all wrapped in shawls, mufflers and jackets, but I could easily see that they were women of the world, I mean to say, women used to seeing a lot of people, used to living in the town. They hardly took any notice of us, it was no novelty to see us; they were used to seeing ever-changing faces. I too, during my sojourn in the farmyard, it seemed to me to always see fresh faces at table. I only got used to five or six faces, they kept changing every evening. I heard a few days later that the dining room was at the same time a restaurant, so that fair ones from outside could drop in for their meals, pick at the dishes, and drop out again. I also noticed later on the right side of the porte cochere a “mosaiquy” inscription of the place being a restaurant for ladies. There were so indeed many hens about me, some wore their hats on with wonderful feathers of every hue. One sweet one had three large edelweiss on her headgear. Near the door, sat an old lady at a small table. She was the sister of the Directtrice, and a dear old soul, jolly and pleasant. Upon entering she handed you a handful of coins, on each of these coins was the price of a dish up to one franc, the price of the dinner. The meal over, the maid took your coins away, if you had eaten of a dish less, she paid you back the amount of the coins, if you had consumed more, you had to pay her the extra. A very good arrangement indeed. Our extras generally consisted in beer the first day and wine the remaining days, France being the country for this beverage, and sometimes a further piece of bread, as the first piece was contained in the franc. Dinner over, we rushed upstairs, kissed good night, and dropped to sleep in our respective rooms.
CHAPTER III (Tuesday, 23rd December 1913)
7 o’clock. The bell rang, the piano started playing, and I jumped up. I had slept right through the night, and felt happy and excited at the prospect of the day before us. I was glad to see the sun shining, and hurried over my toilet. At 9 o’clock we left the farmyard and soon found ourselves on the pretty Place des Vosges. We walked under the dear old arches, funny little shops are to be found there, I wanted to linger about, so interested did I feel, but Mama reminded me that we still had several days to inspect the square, and as we wanted to spend the day in the Louvre we had better hurry on. The first thing we did arrived at the Place de la Bastille was to take the tram to Cook's Office at the Place de l’Opera to get some French money. This done, we wended our way to the Louvre. I love that long, long walk, likewise under arches, running on the other side of the Louvre, filled with such brilliant shops. Monsieur l’agent had told us that the entrance to the Louvre was opposite the church of Saint Germain l’Auxerrois. I was rather anxious to look up at the tower from whence emanated the sounds of the famous bell as a signal for the massacre of Saint Bartholomew on the right side of the river, like the bell in the tour de l’Horlage sounded on the left bank. I remember the story told me in my childhood of Admiral Coligny being the first to be murdered. I never forgot that name, not because it was the name of an important historical person, but because a little girl at school bore the name of Colignon, very similar to Coligny, so I could at once remember the name when it was asked. A little before we reached the church, we came upon a fine monument, big and glaring, standing in a little garden. It was Coligny. I looked and dreamt over it, then passed on. We next entered the church of St Germain l’Auxerrois. To speak frankly, nothing struck me inside, the outside is picturesque, and we both agreed during our whole visit to Paris we found all the churches very ancient and artistic outside, but not much inside. Indeed, some of them look wonderfully old and poetic, you would think of standing somewhere in the distant province. Before entering the Louvre we bought a bag of cakes to keep up our strength during our long inspection. The confiserie did not tempt us at that hour, but next to it there is an open window, where a neat looking woman constantly disposes of all sorts of brioche, etc., and humanity rushes past, throws a sou or two on the counter, snatches a brioche, and runs off. This happens all over Paris, and they are so practical, under the big trays containing these pastries there is always a heater, so the cakes never get cold, they are always hot and fresh. Now we entered the great art emporium. Are you going to be shocked with me if I tell you that I stood quite cold and indifferent before the world famed Venus de Milo? I stood for a while before her, then walked around her, then sat down before her, and felt nothing. Why do artists love her so? Because it is their duty to do so. Will you be disgusted with me if I tell you that I felt nothing at the sight of Raphael's La Belle Jardinière? Will you be horrified if I tell you that I hardly noticed his Saint Michael and the Dragon, that marvelous picture of whom it is said that when Milton's sight was quenched the “Winged saint” revisited him in darkness? Only upon reading standing before the picture the details of this masterpiece did it come home to me that the angel’s face is lovely, “that his form is a model of grace and majesty, that he fills the whole space - fills the eye - fills the soul - with its victorious beauty” - to quote a certain enraptured critic!! Will you be crossed with me if I tell you that I did not admire David's masterpiece of the beautiful Madame Récamier? Will you be surprised at my telling you that I nearly went into fits of laughter at Paul Veronese's 30 ft wide painting of the Feast of Cana? Why did I laugh? Because the painter introduced upon his canvas all the celebrities of his time, they are sitting at table, Eleanor Queen of France, King Francis I, Maria Queen of England, Soliman emperor of the Turks, they are all there, they have all been invited, and one fine lady is working at the inside of her royal mouth with a toothpick. Funny, funny, funny. This was in the famous “Salon Carré” from which two years ago the famous portrait of Mona Lisa, “La Gioconda,” was stolen. We all know that Mona has been found again, and before leaving London I read that next week it would be back in Paris. Still, I gave no hope of seeing the picture before the end of our stay, as no doubt it would have been placed back in the Louvre and we had no time to come a second time. But, as we frail mortals all know, the world famed proverb “Man proposes and God disposes” is a very true one, as you will hear later. We moved on, and came to a painting which I ardently wanted to see. This was the full length portrait of King Charles I of England with his horse. I remained a long time before this picture, which was purchased by the notorious Madame Du Barry, she kept it in her boudoir and would often ask the king to look at the portrait of Charles who had bent before his parliament when she saw that Louis was so uncertain about his own parliament, to quote Madame Campan’s narrative. and as to Louis XVI, he was often seen gazing at this picture, having some sort of presentiment that he was doomed like King Charles. I imagined myself to be Du Barry, Louis XV, Louis XVI, I imagined myself King Charles himself, I imagined myself the painter VanDyke, how different all those persons felt associated with that picture. It seemed to me to be looking out of the artist's eyes as he copied Charles's picturesque personality, a moment after I was looking out of Charles's eyes as he posed there so calm and composed, little did he know the fate in store of that handsome head of his which VanDyke was painting so carefully and minutiously. I looked through Du Barry's eyes as she gazed at the picture, little knowing herself at the time that her fate would be exactly the same as king Charles's, to breathe her last, her head separated from her lovely body! and what were Louis XV th's thoughts as he gazed at King Charles? Fate was lenient to this loose monarch. his followers’ fate should have been his. We are of course all free to give our opinions on art without being connoisseurs. Some pictures strike us as lovely and leave a deep impression on the mind, other pictures leave us quite indifferent till we hear the praises of others and by adopting their views, because we think it is a duty to art to repeat clever connoisseur's views. There is one picture in the Louvre which left an ineffaceable impression on my mind since I first saw it. I eagerly looked it up, and admired it all the more. You have probably seen it, if not the original, perhaps a copy or a photograph. It is Delaroche’s (or Delacroix, I don’t remember the real record) painting of a girl martyr whose body floats on the Tiber. The scene is dark, and the lovely figure gleams pure and saintly with her hands tied, her halo floating near her. It is really a lovely picture, subject, execution and all. I also admire immensely that painting of Ingres’s “La Source”. It represents a maiden in Nature's garb with an earthen pot on one shoulder out of which water flows. How fresh, how lovely, how natural that picture is! I stood a long while gazing at the series of huge canvases by Rubens depicting the life story of Maria de Medici, second queen of Henry IV. I liked best the painting portraying her education, where she sits learning out of a book held by a godlike figure. Also the Majority of her son, Louis XIII, is beautiful. The lovely youth seems to be floating in the air, his figure is so grand. What a difference there is between this gorgeous talent of Rubens and the simple, idyllic talent of Millet! And yet, I felt something at the sight of those sweet, poetic landscapes. The last time I went to the Louvre Chauchard had not yet given his collection to the nation. It was now the first time I would see the original of that well-known painting “l’Angelus”. Copies of it are seen everywhere, I also once had a sort of little carpet with the Angelus worked on it. It is just its simplicity and unpretentiousness which is so lovely. There are also several other pictures of Millet to be seen there, equally lovely. La fileuse is sweet. I must not forget to mention the works of Madame Lebrun, that clever lady who has left so many lovely works in different countries of Europe. The best known painting of hers at the Louvre is of course the one where she holds her little girl in her arms, and I need not say more about it, we all know what a sweet picture it is. Both mother and daughter seem to be alive, she speaks about the picture in her memoirs. It is so sad to think that whilst the mother had such a brilliant career, the daughter had such a pitiful destiny and short life. I am not going to tell you anymore about my views and opinions, as I do not wish to be tedious. I will only add that we did as much as we could to have a glimpse at every picture till our legs could carry us no farther. We left the Louvre at 3:30, body and brain rather exhausted. From poetry we rushed eagerly to prose in the shape of a dainty meal tea in the patisserie de St. Germain's l’Auxerrois, just opposite the Louvre, and stayed a good while there, recuperating our bodily and mental strength. What lovely pastry there is in Paris, so delicate, tasteful, and choice. Seeing that we had quite got over our fatigue when we left the patisserie, we decided to walk to the Avenue de l’Opéra, where we made some purchases. Twilight was now falling, and the scenes in the streets were grand and animated. You felt you were in the great city. The shops looked brilliant and gorgeous, and the people bright and animated. I watched humanity as it came and went. I noticed some nice looking women walking with charming children at their sides. I saw others glide past me, alone, or in twos and threes, beautifully dressed, the white of their eyes gleaming terrific and mysterious out of the black frame of their painted eyelashes. Arrived in front of the opera, the evening being fine and pleasant, we decided to have a look at the Place de la Concorde, it being the duty of every visitor to Paris to see this grand place at night. " Monsieur l’agent, Monsieur l’agent!” I could not remember the way since I was last in Paris, and besides, everything looks different at night. The polite Parisian protector of mankind pointed out the way to us. Now there we stood in the great square, that same square which witnessed the terrible calamity at the marriage of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette when over 1,000 persons met their deaths through a panic, that same square which witnessed some years later the execution of the royal couple and of over 2,000 of their subjects! As you know, the great Space is illuminated by thousands - I should say millions - of incandescent jets of gas, all at the same level. I looked up to the sky which was jet black, and through my veil these brilliant lights looked like so many stars with tiny rays all round, just as if they had fallen from above and were lingering halfway down, not knowing whether they should drop or rise up again. We reluctantly left this lovely scene, and wended our way to the Pont de la Concorde, the first bridge we were crossing since our arrival in Paris. We were thinking of walking back to the farmyard, we however soon remembered that such a distance was out of the question after our day’s labor. so we asked someone on the bridge how to get to the Place de la Bastille, and were told that after crossing the bridge we would find a tram just on the left which went straight there. The tram glided down the quai d’Orsay, Malaquais, Conti, etc. then crossed a bridge. It was the Pont de Sully. cutting its shape faintly in the starless and moonless sky, I could discern Notre-Dame. It looked pretty and picturesque, and I rejoiced to visit it, having read and heard so much about it since I last graced it with my presence. We got down at the Place de la Bastille, not so elegant and grand as the place de la Concorde, but fine in its way, so busy, so alive, so bright. It is the junction of many trams, and I should say many people; there you see the lower mortals moving about. It is also well lit up. “La Vie Lumière,” I thought to myself. I still had some difficulty to find the right boulevard which led us to our quarters. It is the Boulevard Beaumarchais, which leads you into the Rue Pas-de-la-mule. Here life changes its aspect. The busy boulevard is left behind, and we enter into a space which changes our feelings. Everything is quiet and peaceful. You start thinking of long ago. This street leads you straight into the Place des Vosges, and here you not only think but feel in another century. What a great difference this place is compared with the Place de la Bastille, and again with the Place de la Concorde. La Concorde immense, stately, stylish, the Bastille, vulgar, work-a-day, thronged, the Vosges silent, romantic, breathing the long ago. At the Place des Vosges I love especially those cloisters which run right round the place, I love the great porte cochère leading into spacious courts surrounded by such big, old houses, and then the gabled roofs. In the faint lights about me I imagined the dainty dames of long ago sauntering under the arches, I thought of all the celebrities who lived and died under the arches within those walls. It was Sully, Henri IVth’s factotum who imagined the construction of the place, and it was then christened the Place Royale. I imagined Madame de Sévigné as a tiny tot running in the garden in the center, little knowing that that tiny brain of hers would bring forth fruit which would give such pleasure to those born after her. Sitting that same evening at dinner, I started ardently criticizing the hens around me. They seemed quite happy together, they laughed and chatted, but I could easily see that if we did not start they would never approach us. They were used to being together, and in the evening some spent the last hours of the day in the drawing room or in one another's rooms. We who came to the farm yard so to say only to sleep, felt very little inclined after a long day in the open to sit in the drawing room and enter into conversation. We were but birds of passage at the farmyard, so I regretted a little that I would have no opportunity of making friends with any of them, but it was really not worthwhile. Sitting and thinking this over, I heard someone near me ask me to pass her the salt. It was a very small person, not bad looking, with a mass of lovely wavy reddish hair. I at once seized the opportunity of asking her whether she was French, “Autrichienne,” she answered. We then started talking to her. She was doing the same work as I, and had been 1 ½ years in London. She seemed to like London much better than Paris, and could not understand why we had come to Paris for Christmas, this feast being to her mind so much nicer in England than in France. She did not seem very enthusiastic over her life in France. She said she loved England, she liked so much English home life, “in France,” she added “there is no home life.” This made me think of a French lady who visits us and who seems to deplore English life, “ En France,” she once said "c'est la vrais vie de famille”. Now what do you think of that? Two totally different opinions of the same countries! I say, as I have said over and over again, we cannot, we may not generalize. We are of course free to give our opinion, but we all judge countries and places by the circumstances under which we live. Now this little Austrian girl had the luck when in England to find a happy home to live in, she probably found no suitable home for herself in Paris, contenting herself to live at the farmyard, which clean and comfortable as it was, was however not a home. So she judged simply as she saw it. The French lady had her destiny reversed in England and did not find it as she wanted, and judged the country as she saw it.