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This selection from the writings of the late John F. Macdonald—between 1907 and 1913—finds, naturally, and without any arbitrary arrangement, its unity of character, as the middle volume of the book, in three parts, that it was this author’s ruling desire—rather than his deliberate and predetermined purpose—to spend many years in writing. The first volume of this book was Paris of the Parisians, the last was the posthumous volume recently published, under the title of Two Towns—One City. In order to convey a clear idea of the motive and ruling method that give literary and spiritual unity to this long book in three volumes, which stands for the accomplished desire of a brief life, let me quote the author’s own account of this desire given in his Preface to Paris of the Parisians, where, at twenty years of age, he described himself as “a student of human life, still in his humanities”:

“The purpose of these sketches is not political nor yet didactic. No charge is laid upon me to teach the French nation its duties, to reprove it for its follies. Nor yet is it my design to hold up Paris of the Parisians as an example of naughtiness, nor even of virtue, to English readers. A student of human life still in my humanities, my purpose is purely interpretative. I would endeavour to translate into English some Paris scenes, in such a way as to give a true impression of the movement, personages, sounds, colours and atmosphere pervaded with joy of living which belongs to them. These impressions which I have myself received, and now desire to communicate, are not the result of a general survey of Paris taken from some lofty summit. I have not looked down upon the capital of France from the top of the Eiffel Tower; nor yet from the terrace of the Sacré Cœur; nor yet from the balcony among the chimères of Notre Dame; nor yet from Napoleon’s column on the Place Vendôme; nor yet from the Revolution’s monument that celebrates the taking of the Bastille. No doubt from these exalted places the town affords an amazing spectacle. Domes rise in the distance and steeples. Chimneys smoke; clouds hurry. Up there the spectator has not only a fine bird’s-eye view of beautiful Paris: he has a good throne for historical recollections, for philosophical reveries, for the development of political and scientific theories also. But for the student of to-day’s life, whose interest turns less to monuments than to men, there is this drawback—seen from this point of view the inhabitants of Paris look pigmies. Far below him they pass and repass: the bourgeois, the bohemian, the boulevardier, all small, all restless, all active, all so remote that one is not to be distinguished from the other. Coming down from his tower the philosopher may explore Paris from the tombs at St Denis to the crypts of the Panthéon, from the galleries of the Louvre to the shops in the Rue de Rivoli, from the Opera and Odéon to the Moulin Rouge and sham horrors of the cabarets of Montmartre—leaving Paris from the Gare du Nord he may look back at the white city under the blue sky with mingled regret and satisfaction—regret for the instructive days he has spent with her, satisfaction in that he knows her every stone; and yet, when some hours later in mid-Channel the coasts of France grow dim, he may leave behind him an undiscovered Paris—not monumental Paris, not political Paris, not Baedeker’s Paris, not profligate Paris, not fashionable cosmopolitan Paris of the Right Bank, not Bohemian Anglo-American Paris of the Left Bank, but Paris as she knows herself—Paris of the Parisians.

“Virtues of which the mere foreign spectator has no notion are to be found in Paris of the Parisians. And the Parisian does not conceal them through mauvaise honte. Love of Nature, love of children, both absorb him; how regularly does he hurry into the country to sprawl on the grass, lunch by a lake, stare at the sunset, the stars and the moon; how frequently he admires the view from his window, the Jardin du Luxembourg and the Seine; how invariably he spoils his gosse or another’s gosse, anybody’s gosse, infant, boy or girl! He will go to the Luxembourg merely to watch them. He likes to see them dig and make queer patterns in the dust. He loves to hear them laugh at guignol, and is officiously careful to see that they are securely strapped on to the wooden horses. He does not mind their hoops, and does not care a jot if their balls knock his best hat off. He walks proudly behind Jeanne and Edouard, on the day of their first Communion, all over Paris; laughing as Jeanne lifts her snow-white skirt and when Edouard, ætat. 10, salutes a friend; and he worships Jeanne, and thinks that there is no better son in the world than Edouard, and he will tell you so candidly and with earnestness over and over again. ‘Ma fille Jeanne,’ ‘Mon fils Edouard,’ ‘Mes deux gosses,’ is his favourite way of introducing the joy of his heart and the light of his home. And then he knows how to live amiably, and how to amuse himself pleasantly, and how to put poorer people at their ease, as on fête days. He will go to a State theatre on 14th July (when the performance is free) and joke with the crowd that waits patiently before its doors, and never push, and never complain, and never think of elbowing his way forward at the critical moment to get in. He will admire the fireworks and illuminations after, and dance at street corners without ever uttering a word that is rude or making a gesture that is rough. He will trifle with confetti on Mardi Gras, and throw coloured rolls of paper on to the boulevard trees. And he will laugh all the time and joke all the time, and make Jeanne happy and Edouard happy, and be happy himself, until it is time to abandon the boulevards and go home. ‘La joie de vivre!’ Verily, the Parisian studies, knows and appreciates it.

“There is something else he appreciates also, and reveres. And here especially we find that his paternal affection for all children, his courtesy and good-fellowship with all classes, his sense of proprietorship and delight and pride in public gardens do not indicate only a happy and amiable disposition, but spring from a deeper sentiment. He is sauntering on the boulevards, it may be, with Edouard. The time is summer—there is sunshine everywhere; the trees are in bloom, the streets are full of movement and noise, fiacres rattle, tram-horns sound, camelots cry, gamins whistle. Suddenly there is a temporary lull. A slow procession passes, a hearse buried in flowers; mourners on foot follow, the near relatives, bareheaded, walking two by two; after them come, it may be, a long line of carriages; it may be, one forlorn fiacre. It does not matter. For the Parisian, a rich funeral or a poor one is never an indifferent spectacle; never simply an unavoidable, disagreeable interruption of traffic, to be got out of sight, and out of the way of the busy world as quickly as possible. Here is one of those ordinary circumstances when the Parisian’s attention to the courtesies of social life is the outward and visible sign of his self-respecting humanity and fraternal sympathy. His hat is off, and held off—so is Edouard’s cap, so are the caps of even younger children, for from the age of four upwards each gosse knows what is due from him on such an occasion. Cochers are bareheaded, boulevard loafers also; the bourgeois stops stirring his absinthe to salute; many a woman crosses herself and mutters a prayer. ‘Farewell!’ ‘God bless thee!’ The kind and pious leave-taking of the Parisian enjoying to-day’s sunshine to the Parisian of yesterday whose place to-morrow will know him no more, accompanies the procession step by step on its way to the cemetery of Père Lachaise or Montparnasse....

“A kind critic of some of these sketches here reproduced from The Saturday Review has said of them that their tendency is to ‘counteract the wrong-headed reports of French and English antipathies by which two sympathetic neighbour-peoples are being estranged and exasperated.’ If this be true—and to some extent I hope it may be—the result is surely all the more gratifying because it does not proceed from any deliberate effort on my part to serve that end, but, as I have said, from my endeavour to convey to others the impressions I have received. The immortal Chadband may be said to have established the proposition that if a householder, having upon his rambles seen an eel, were to return home and say to the wife of his bosom, ‘Rejoice with me, I have seen an elephant,’ it would not be truth. It would not be truth were I to say of the Jeunesse of the Latin Quarter that it is callous and corrupt, or to deny that beneath the madcap, frolicsome temper of the hour can be felt the justness of mind and openness to great ideas that will put a curb on extravagance and give safe guidance by and by. And again of Paul and Pierre’s little lady friends, Mimi and Musette, mirth-loving, dance-loving daughters of Mürger—it would not be truth were I to report them in any sense wicked girls, or to deny that taking them where they stand their ways of feeling are straight though, no doubt, their way of life may go a little zigzag. And of Montmartre and her cabarets and chansonniers—it would not be truth were I to say that only madness and perversion reign in her cabarets, or to deny that true poets and genuine artists may be found amidst the false and hectic glitter of the ‘Butte.’ And of the man in the street who is neither poet nor student, the average Parisian of simply everyday life—it would not be truth were I to repeat the hackneyed phrase that he would overthrow the Republican Government to reinstate a Monarchy, being a Royalist at heart. True, storms rage about him; scandals break out beside him; ministries fall; presidents pass—did these storms and scandals represent Republican principles it might be said with truth that he paid them little heed. What is true, however, is that the qualities and principles he takes his stand by do not change or fall with ministries or pass with presidents: cultivating still the art of living amiably, rejoicing still over the beauties of his town, and not merely rejoicing over them, but respecting and protecting them, believing still, and with reason, in the greatness of his country, he succeeds where his rulers often fail, not merely in professing, but in practising the doctrine of liberty, equality, fraternity.”

The point of view from which the author of Paris of the Parisians in 1900 studied French life remained the same down to 1915, when he died. Nor did he ever change his interpretative methods into didactic or political ones. But it was inevitable that, as years passed, fresh knowledge and enlarged experience would come to the student of French life who, at twenty, sought to convey his impressions as he at that time received them. His impressions were not altered, nor, as a result of his increased knowledge of life, did he ever become himself less appreciative of the special virtues he discovered in the serious, as well as in the joyous, sides of the French art of living. On his own side, he remained to the end of his life (as so many of his friends testify) the same unworldly, joyous being, of profound and tender sympathies, impatient of all rules and systems save those that derive their authority from human kindness. But as a result of his inborn power of vision and gifts of observation and expression, his impressions became more lucid and were given greater force by the exceptional opportunities he enjoyed. During his residence in Paris, throughout the years when most of the essays in criticism contained in this volume were written, he was dramatic critic of French life and the French stage for The Fortnightly Review, and as Paris correspondent, given more or less a free hand by other leading periodicals to which he was a contributor; so that he could direct his attention to the study of many aspects of Parisian life not exclusively bounded by political interests.

Looking through the list of subjects dealt with in these chapters, it will be seen that the criticism of French life carried through by John F. Macdonald (if by “criticism” we understand what Matthew Arnold defined as “an impartial endeavour to see the thing as in itself it really is”) covered, from 1907 to 1913, nearly all events in every domain of Parisian life during this critical period.

In other words, the present volume supplies the evidence which not only confirms the impressions that he sought to convey to his fellow-countrymen in Paris of the Parisians, but it lends the authority that belongs to a judgment founded upon a right criticism to the sentence which I may, in conclusion, quote from his article on the “Paris of To-day,” originally published in The Fortnightly Review, July, 1915, and reprinted (by the editor’s kind permission) in his posthumous book, Two Towns—One City.

“It has been repeatedly and persistently asserted, in hastily written articles and books, that the war has created an entirely ‘new’ Paris. Journalists and novelists have proclaimed themselves astonished at the ‘calm’ and the ‘seriousness’ of the Parisians, and at the ‘composed’ and ‘solemn’ aspect of every street, corner and stone in the city; and how elaborately, how melodramatically have they expatiated upon the abolition of absinthe, the closing of night-restaurants, the disappearance of elegant dresses, the silence of the Apaches, the hush in the demi-monde, and the increased congregations in the churches!

“‘A new, reformed Paris,’ our critics reiterate. ‘The flippancy has vanished, the danger of decadence has passed—and in place of extravagance and hilarity we find economy, earnestness and dignity.’

“Now, with these hastily conceived reflections and criticisms I beg leave to disagree. It is not a ‘new’ Paris that one beholds to-day, but precisely the very Paris one would expect to see. No city, at heart, is more serious, more earnest, more alive to ideas and ideals: no other capital in the world works so hard, creates so much, feels so deeply, labours and battles so incessantly and so consistently for the supreme cause of liberty, justice and humanity. Crises, and shocks, and scandals, if you like—but what generous reparations, what glorious recoveries! Stifling cabarets, lurid restaurants, rouge, and patchouli, and startling deshabille, if you please; but all those dissipations were provided for the particular pleasure and well-filled purses of Messieurs les Étrangers—at least twenty foreigners to one Frenchman on the hectic hill of Montmartre; and what a babel of English and American voices chez Maxim, until five or six in the morning, when the average Parisian was peacefully enjoying his last hour’s sleep! The statues and monuments of Paris, the free Sorbonne University, the quays of the Seine with their bookstalls, the incomparable Comédie Française, the stately French Academy, the Luxembourg Gardens, the Panthéon (with its noble motto: ‘Aux Grands Hommes, la Patrie Reconnaissante’), the Arc de Triomphe, Notre-Dame; do these (and innumerable other) illustrious institutions, so cherished by the Parisians, appear compatible with ‘flippancy,’ ‘incoherency’ and ‘the danger of decadence’? And the profound, ardent patriotism of the Parisians—how else could it have manifested itself save in the noble, supreme spectacle of courage, determination and self-sacrifice which we are witnessing to-day? No; it is not a ‘new’ Paris, but the very Paris one expected to see; hushed but proud; stricken yet self-confident; wounded, even stabbed to the heart after eleven months of war—but heroic, indomitable”—the Amazing City—the worthy capital of, as Mr Kipling says,

“the Land beloved by every soul that loves and serves its kind.”

Before closing my preface to this Selection from the sketches, essays and criticisms of Paris life, under its picturesque, popular, literary and social aspects that represents John F. Macdonald’s interpretation of the spirit of the “Amazing City,” between 1907 and 1914, I have to acknowledge the kindness of the several Editors, to whom these different articles were originally addressed; and who have allowed me to reprint them in the present volume. The Roué, In a Cellar, and The Affair of the Collars, appeared originally in The Morning Post. The three articles, On Strike, the two pictures of the historical Pension de Famille in the Rue des Poitevins (haunted by the memory of Gambetta), and of the other Pension de Famille in the Shadow of St Sulpice, saddened by the memory of the pathetic story of the gentle and pious old maids who died broken-hearted, as victims of the Rochette swindle, appeared in The Morning Leader, in the days before its association with The Daily News. The series of short sketches of French Presidents and Leading Statesmen, and Personalities, who have helped to make, and are still living influences in, French politics, were contributed, later, to The Daily News and Morning Leader. I have to thank the Editor of The Contemporary Review for consenting to the reprinting of the articles upon Henri Rochefort and Royal Visits to Paris; and the Editor of The Fortnightly Review for allowing me to reproduce from the series of articles on French Life and the French Stage, which appeared in this Review during several years, three special criticisms, illustrative of the typical French national “virtue,”—a fundamental understanding of the essential duty of man to be an intelligent and kindly human being—applied to the correction and sweetening of faulty rules of “Bohemian” morality and bourgeois respectability; and lending high ideals to what is generally described as the “realistic” spirit of the modern French drama. The articles descriptive of life in the Latin Quarter appeared originally in The Saturday Review.

Frederika Macdonald.

February 1918.