Parisian Pastimes
I The Advantages of a Polite Education
“Take it from me,” said my friend from Kansas, leaning back in his seat at the Taverne Royale and holding his cigar in his two fingers—“don’t talk no French here in Paris. They don’t expect it, and they don’t seem to understand it.”
This man from Kansas, mind you, had a right to speak. He knew French. He had learned French—he told me so himself—good French, at the Fayetteville Classical Academy. Later on he had had the natural method “off” a man from New Orleans. It had cost him “fifty cents a throw.” All this I have on his own word. But in France something seemed to go wrong with his French.
“No,” he said reflectively, “I guess what most of them speak here is a sort of patois.”
When he said it was a patois, I knew just what he meant. It was equivalent to saying that he couldn’t understand it.
I had seen him strike patois before. There had been a French steward on the steamer coming over, and the man from Kansas, after a couple of attempts, had said it was no use talking French to that man. He spoke a hopeless patois. There were half a dozen cabin passengers, too, returning to their homes in France. But we soon found from listening to their conversation on deck that what they were speaking was not French but some sort of patois.
It was the same thing coming through Normandy. Patois, everywhere, not a word of French—not a single sentence of the real language, in the way they had it at Fayetteville. We stopped off a day at Rouen to look at the cathedral. A sort of abbot showed us round. Would you believe it, that man spoke patois, straight patois—the very worst kind, and fast. The man from Kansas had spotted it at once. He hadn’t listened to more than ten sentences before he recognized it. “Patois,” he said.
Of course, it’s fine to be able to detect patois like this. It’s impressive. The mere fact that you know the word patois shows that you must be mighty well educated.
Here in Paris it was the same way. Everybody that the man from Kansas tried—waiters, hotel clerks, shop people—all spoke patois. An educated person couldn’t follow it.
On the whole, I think the advice of the man from Kansas is good. When you come to Paris, leave French behind. You don’t need it, and they don’t expect it of you.
In any case, you soon learn from experience not to use it.
If you try to, this is what happens. You summon a waiter to you and you say to him very slowly, syllable by syllable, so as to give him every chance in case he’s not an educated man:
“Bringez moi de la soupe, de la fish, de la roast pork et de la fromage.”
And he answers:
“Yes, sir, roast pork, sir, and a little bacon on the side?”
That waiter was raised in Illinois.
Or suppose you stop a man on the street and you say to him:
“Musshoo, s’il vous plait, which is la direction pour aller à le Palais Royal?”
And he answers:
“Well, I tell you, I’m something of a stranger here myself, but I guess it’s straight down there a piece.”
Now it’s no use speculating whether that man comes from Dordogne Inférieure or from Auvergne-sur-les-Puits because he doesn’t.
On the other hand, you may strike a real Frenchman—there are some even in Paris. I met one the other day in trying to find my way about, and I asked him:
“Musshoo, s’il vous plait, which is la direction pour aller à Thomas Cook & Son?”
“B’n’m’ss’ulvla’n’fsse’n’sse’pas!”
I said: “Thank you so much! I had half suspected it myself.” But I didn’t really know what he meant.
So I have come to make it a rule never to use French unless driven to it. Thus, for example, I had a tremendous linguistic struggle in a French tailors shop.
There was a sign in the window to the effect that “completes” might be had “for a hundred.” It seemed a chance not to be missed. Moreover, the same sign said that English and German were spoken.
So I went in. True to my usual principle of ignoring the French language, I said to the head man:
“You speak English?”
He shrugged his shoulders, spread out his hands and looked at the clock on the wall.
“Presently,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, “you’ll speak it presently. That’s splendid. But why not speak it right away?”
The tailor again looked at the clock with a despairing shrug.
“At twelve o’clock,” he said.
“Come now,” I said, “be fair about this. I don’t want to wait an hour and a half for you to begin to talk. Let’s get at it right now.”
But he was obdurate. He merely shook his head and repeated:
“Speak English at twelve o’clock.”
Judging that he must be under a vow of abstinence during the morning, I tried another idea.
“Allemand?” I asked, “German, Deutsch, eh! speak that?”
Again the French tailor shook his head, this time with great decision.
“Not till four o’clock,” he said.
This was evidently final. He might be lax enough to talk English at noon, but he refused point-blank to talk German till he had his full strength.
I was just wondering whether there wasn’t some common sense in this after all, when the solution of it struck me.
“Ah!” I said, speaking in French, “très bong! there is somebody who comes at twelve, quelqu’un qui vient à midi, who can talk English.”
“Precisément,” said the tailor, wreathed in smiles and waving his tape coquettishly about his neck.
“You flirt!” I said, “but let’s get to business. I want a suit, un soot, un complete, complet, comprenez-vous, veston, gilet, une pair de panteloon—everything—do you get it?”
The tailor was now all animation.
“Ah, certainement,” he said, “monsieur desires a fantasy, une fantaisie, is it not?”
A fantasy! Good heavens!
The man had evidently got the idea from my naming so many things that I wanted a suit for a fancy dress carnival.
“Fantasy nothing!” I said—“pas de fantaisie! un soot anglais”—here an idea struck me and I tapped myself on the chest—“like this,” I said, “comme ceci.”
“Bon,” said the tailor, now perfectly satisfied, “une fantaisie comme porte monsieur.”
Here I got mad.
“Blast you,” I said, “this is not a fantaisie. Do you take me for a dragon-fly, or what? Now come, let’s get this fantaisie business cleared up. This is what I want”—and here I put my hand on a roll of very quiet grey cloth on the counter.
“Très bien,” said the tailor, “une fantaisie.”
I stared at him.
“Is that a fantaisie?”
“Certainement, monsieur.”
“Now,” I said, “let’s go into it further,” and I touched another piece of plain pepper and salt stuff of the kind that is called in the simple and refined language of my own country, gents’ panting.
“This?”
“Une fantaisie,” said the French tailor.
“Well,” I said, “you’ve got more imagination than I have.”
Then I touched a piece of purple blue that would have been almost too loud for a Carolina nigger.
“Is this a fantaisie?”
The tailor shrugged his shoulders.
“Ah, non,” he said in deprecating tones.
“Tell me,” I said, speaking in French, “just exactly what it is you call a fantasy.”
The tailor burst into a perfect paroxysm of French, gesticulating and waving his tape as he put the sentences over the plate one after another. It was fast pitching, but I took them every one, and I got him.
What he meant was that any single colour or combination of single colours—for instance, a pair of sky blue breeches with pink insertion behind—is not regarded by a French tailor as a fantaisie or fancy. But any mingled colour, such as the ordinary drab grey of the business man is a fantaisie of the daintiest kind. To the eye of a Parisian tailor, a Quakers’ meeting is a glittering panorama of fantaisies, whereas a negro ball at midnight in a yellow room with a band in scarlet, is a plain, simple scene.
I thanked him. Then I said:
“Measure me, mesurez-moi, passez le tape line autour de moi.”
He did it.
I don’t know what it is they measure you in, whether in centimètres or cubic feet or what it is. But the effect is appalling.
The tailor runs his tape round your neck and calls “sixty!” Then he puts it round the lower part of the back—at the major circumference, you understand,—and shouts, “a hundred and fifty!”
It sounded a record breaker. I felt that there should have been a burst of applause. But, to tell the truth, I have friends—quiet sedentary men in the professoriate—who would easily hit up four or five hundred on the same scale.
Then came the last item.
“Now,” I said, “when will this ‘complete’ be ready?”
“Ah, monsieur,” said the tailor, with winsome softness, “we are very busy, crushed, écrasés with commands! Give us time, don’t hurry us!”
“Well,” I said, “how long do you want?”
“Ah, monsieur,” he pleaded, “give us four days!”
I never moved an eyelash.
“What!” I said indignantly, “four days! Monstrous! Let me have this whole complete fantasy in one day or I won’t buy it.”
“Ah, monsieur, three days?”
“No,” I said, “make it two days.”
“Two days and a half, monsieur.”
“Two days and a quarter,” I said; “give it me the day after to-morrow at three o’clock in the morning.”
“Ah, monsieur, ten o’clock.”
“Make it ten minutes to ten and it’s a go,” I said.
“Bon,” said the tailor.
He kept his word. I am wearing the fantaisie as I write. For a fantaisie, it is fairly quiet, except that it has three pockets on each side outside, and a rolled back collar suitable for the throat of an opera singer, and as many buttons as a harem skirt. Beyond that, it’s a first-class, steady, reliable, quiet, religious fantaisie, such as any retired French ballet master might be proud to wear.