Most of the historic cities of Europe have a distinct local
color, a temperament, if one may be allowed the expression, of
their own. The austere calm of Bruges or Ghent, the
sensuous beauty of Naples, attract different natures.
Florence has passionate devotees, who are insensible to the
artistic grace of Venice or the stately quiet of
Versailles. In Cairo one experiences an exquisite bien
être, a mindless, ambitionless contentment which,
without being languor, soothes the nerves and tempts to indolent
lotus-eating. Like a great hive, Rome depends on the
memories that circle around her, storing, like bees, the
centuries with their honey. Each of these cities must
therefore leave many people unmoved, who after a passing visit,
wander away, wondering at the enthusiasm of the worshippers.
Paris alone seems to possess the charm that bewitches all
conditions, all ages, all degrees. To hold the
frivolous-minded she paints her face and dances, leading them a
round of folly, exhaustive alike to health and purse. For
the student she assumes another mien, smiling encouragement, and
urging him upward towards the highest standards, while posing as
his model. She takes the dreaming lover of the past gently
by the hand, and leading him into quiet streets and squares where
she has stored away a wealth of hidden treasure, enslaves him as
completely as her more sensual admirers.
Paris is no less adored by the vacant-minded, to whom neither
art nor pleasure nor study appeal. Her caprices in fashion
are received by the wives and daughters of the universe as laws,
and obeyed with an unwavering faith, a mute obedience that few
religions have commanded. Women who yawn through Italy and
the East have, when one meets them in the French capital, the
intense manner, the air of separation from things mundane, that
is observable in pilgrims approaching the shrine of their
deity. Mohammedans at Mecca must have some such look.
In Paris women find themselves in the presence of those high
priests whom they have long worshipped from a distance. It
is useless to mention other subjects to the devotee, for they
will not fix her attention. Her thoughts are with her
heart, and that is far away.
When visiting other cities one feels that they are like honest
married women, living quiet family lives, surrounded by their
children. The French Aspasia, on the contrary, has never
been true to any vow, but has, at the dictate of her passions,
changed from royal and imperial to republican lovers, and back
again, ruled by no laws but her caprices, and discarding each
favorite in turn with insults when she has wearied of him.
Yet sovereigns are her slaves, and leave their lands to linger in
her presence; and rich strangers from the four corners of the
earth come to throw their fortunes at her feet and bask a moment
in her smiles.
Like her classic prototype, Paris is also the companion of the
philosophers and leads the arts in her train. Her palaces
are the meeting-places of the poets, the sculptors, the
dramatists, and the painters, who are never weary of celebrating
her perfections, nor of working for her adornment and
amusement.
Those who live in the circle of her influence are caught up in
a whirlwind of artistic production, and consume their brains and
bodies in the vain hope of pleasing their idol and attracting her
attention. To be loved by Paris is an ordeal that few
natures can stand, for she wrings the lifeblood from her devotees
and then casts them aside into oblivion. Paris, said one of
her greatest writers, “aime à briser ses
idoles!” As Ulysses and his companions fell, in
other days, a prey to the allurements of Circe, so our powerful
young nation has fallen more than any other under the influence
of the French siren, and brings her a yearly tribute of gold
which she receives with avidity, although in her heart there is
little fondness for the giver.
Americans who were in Paris two years ago had an excellent
opportunity of judging the sincerity of Parisian affection, and
of sounding the depth and unselfishness of the love that this
fickle city gives us in return for our homage. Not for one
moment did she hesitate, but threw the whole weight of her
influence and wit into the scale for Spain. If there is not
at this moment a European alliance against America it is not from
any lack of effort on her part towards that end.
The stand taken by la villa lumière in that
crisis caused many naïve Americans, who believed that their
weakness for the French capital was returned, a painful
surprise. They imagined in the simplicity of their innocent
hearts that she loved them for themselves, and have awakened,
like other rich lovers, to the humiliating knowledge that a
penniless neighbor was receiving the caresses that Croesus paid
for. Not only did the entire Parisian press teem at that
moment with covert insults directed towards us, but in society,
at the clubs and tables of the aristocracy, it was impossible for
an American to appear with self-respect, so persistently were our
actions and our reasons for undertaking that war misunderstood
and misrepresented. In the conversation of the salons and
in the daily papers it was assumed that the Spanish were a race
of noble patriots, fighting in the defence of a loved and loyal
colony, while we were a horde of blatant cowards, who had long
fermented a revolution in Cuba in order to appropriate that
coveted island.
When the Spanish authorities allowed an American ship
(surprised in one of her ports by the declaration of war) to
depart unharmed, the fact was magnified into an act of almost
ideal generosity; on the other hand, when we decided not to
permit privateering, that announcement was received with derisive
laughter as a pretentious pose to cover hidden interests.
There is reason to believe, however, that this feeling in favor
of Spain goes little further than the press and the aristocratic
circles so dear to the American “climber”; the real
heart of the French nation is as true to us as when a century ago
she spent blood and treasure in our cause. It is the
inconstant capital alone that, false to her rôle of
liberator, has sided with the tyrant.
Yet when I wander through her shady parks or lean over her
monumental quays, drinking in the beauty of the first spring
days, intoxicated by the perfume of the flowers that the night
showers have kissed into bloom; or linger of an evening over my
coffee, with the brilliant life of the boulevards passing like a
carnival procession before my eyes; when I sit in her theatres,
enthralled by the genius of her actors and playwrights, or stand
bewildered before the ten thousand paintings and statues of the
Salon, I feel inclined, like a betrayed lover, to pardon my
faithless mistress: she is too lovely to remain long angry with
her. You realize she is false and will betray you again,
laughing at you, insulting your weakness; but when she smiles all
faults are forgotten; the ardor of her kisses blinds you to her
inconstancy; she pours out a draught that no other hands can
brew, and clasps you in arms so fair that life outside those
fragile barriers seems stale and unprofitable.
