June 19, 1880.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
277
“a PROPOS DE BOTTES.”
Elderly Adonis. “ By the bye, Frank, I wish you ’d give me the
ADDRESS OF YOUR BOOTMAKER. I NEVER SEEM TO GET HOLD OF A FELLOW
WHO CAN MAKE MY FEET LOOK DECENT WITHOUT PINCHING THEM ! ”
OUR REPRESENTATIVE ALL ABROAD.
At Aix-les-Bains—The Season—Adjectives—The Future—The Present—The
Casino—The Country—The Bains—The Director—The Doctor—Douche—
Sarah B.—Sarcey—Mistakes— Gush—Be Gaulois— Tout- Paris—Snoring—
Starvation—Plenty—A Delusion—Remonstrance—Promise—An Plaisir.
Slr,—I write this to you from .... a Casino! No, Sir, Your Representa-
tive has not gone wrong, and yet he spends his days and nights at a Casino—
the Casino d’Aix-les-Bains (Savoie)—a Casino, you see, quite out of the reach of
the Middlesex Magistrates, and, as I myself am, quite out of the smoke, and fog,
and dust, and heat, and whatever else you have, including les odeurs in London.
This is a Casino, pur et simple, and includes billiard-rooms, cercle, cafe, salons
for music and dancing, and a prettily laid-out garden, where we walk, smoke,
and read; and where, when we’ve been very good for a week or so, the Director
treats us to fireworks, and the National (English) Anthem.
Once a week there is a ball; and later on, when the more serious have finished
their course, and returned to their several native lands, there will be balls on a
more festive scale, and a second Casino open, called the Villa des Fleurs, where
there will be theatrical performances, Concerts, and tables dejeu—the “ jeu ” en
question being baccarat. Such is the prospect for the Parisian Season at Aix-les-
Bains ; and, no doubt, judging from the commencement, it will be very gay, very
brilliant, very hot, and chalkily dusty, enchanting, delightful, magnifique, pyra-
midal, and, in fact, worthy of any other laudatory epithets. For as long as a
language possesses adjectives, why not employ them ? As, for instance, when I
read of the Villa des Fleurs being surrounded by a “ pare immense,” and I walk
round it in something under ten minutes. “Well,”! say to myself—-“there are
adjectives : use them while you can.”
Our motto here is, “ Go it, you cripples! ” But I am glad to record that after
a very few weeks the sticks and crutches disappear; but then the people who
used them also disappear; and so “ the Cure ” is not danced ; and the dancing is
but a poor affair at the beginning of the season. When the French arrive, how-
ever, it is quite another pair of shoes; in fact, several other pairs of shoes, with
quite different feet in them, and nimble legs to match. They don’t come here,
Les Parisiennes, et les Parisiens, bless you ! for the benefit of their health, but
simply pour s’amuser, pour se distraire.
But even in this present serious time, when my compatriots are here, like
hams in a pickle-tub, solely and only to be “ cured,” it
is impossible to be dull at Aix. There are excursions for
every day in the year ; endless beauties in every direction;
and the more you see, the more you would wish to see,
and the longer you would like to remain.
M. Jaquinot is the very King of Directors, or I should
say President, and the employes, the Doucheurs, the
Porteurs, Commissionnaires, one and all, most civil, at-
tentive, and obliging. M. Jaquinot himself, returning to
his native land after nineteen years of exile in England,
is a model Republican, rightly comx>rehendiDg the mean-
ing of Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite; generous, considerate,
only anxious to grant to all that freedom which he asks
for himself. The Directorship at Aix is a Government
appointment, and in these unsettled times it is at least one
good sign that the right man should be put in the right
place. Were the Senators and Deputies all like M. Jaqui-
not, a modus vivendi could soon be found, Extreme Right
could shake hands amicably with Extreme Left, and all
live happily ever after.
But this letter is not meant to be either a disquisition
of the political situation, nor a Guide to Aix-les-Bains,
as, for full details of the place, I refer anyone to Docteur
Bertier’s Blue Book—I mean his book with a blue cover
—and to Doctor Bertier himself, who will send anyone
to the Douche in less than no time. By the way, were
Messrs. Halevy & Co. and M. Offenbach here, I would
suggest to them the libretto for a new bovjj'e opera to be
called La Grande Doucheuse.
No ; far from the madding crowd of London, I am
particularly interested in reading French accounts of
Mile. Sarah Bernhardt’s second visit to the Gaiety;
not that I am inclined to rave about her, but because 1
am curious to ascertain whether the generally sharp and
intelligent critics belonging to the French papers know
anything more about London and Londoners—not to say
English—than they did ten or fifteen years ago. The
“ sportsmen ” as a rule do ; but the French journalists,
whether it be M. Francisque Sarcey, M. Yith, or
Monsieur Anybodyelse, certainly do not.
That the “gushers” of the English Press should excite
M. Sarcey’s derision is perfectly intelligible, and we
have a great deal too much of this criticism in excelsis ;
but in supposing that only the Parisian critics possess
the art of writing so as to be read between the lines,
M. Sarcey is quite wrong, and only right when he
admits that his inability to detect this subtlety in his
English confreres may possibly arise from his want of a
thorough acquaintance with the English language.
The “ niceties ” of the English language are as various
as the “nastinesses” of modern French literature, of
which Nana, Le Nabab, and L’ Assoinmoir are specimens.
Now here, at Aix, on our Club table I find Le Gaulois,
an excellent journal. The correspondent signing himself
“ Tout-Paris,” in giving an account of the difficulties
which Mile. Kalb had to encounter before she could get
a lodging, describes the English sleeping in the hall of
the Langham Hotel “ ronjlant comme les Anglais seuls
savent ronflerP
Oh, dear! Haven’t I a night-mare, or night-mail re-
collection, of a fat Frenchman, one hot summer’s night,
grunting like a pig, blowing like a grampus, as he slept
the sleep of the unjust from Calais to Paris, only awaking
to relieve his throat, and to growl at the admission of
any air into the carriage. But should I therefore conclude
that he was snoring comme les Francais seuls savent ron-
fler ! Exuno disce omnes? Certainly not. Of course, it’s a
sore point with every one : no one owns to snoring. As to
the cuisine, M. “Tout-Paris,” seems to be still under the
delusion that we only eat “roast beef ”—he actually spells
it correctly—boiled potatoes, and “ mutton-shopsP
He says, “ L^eur estomac parisien he is speaking of
the unfortunate French actresses condemned to serve out
their time in London—“ Ne se fait guere d la cuisine
Anglaise. Le roast beef et des pommes de ter re cuites a
I'eau, e'est le fond de la cuisine, comme ‘ god-dam’ est le
fond de la langue ’’—and then meeting Mile. Kalb in
Regent Street, “ En quote de nourriture moins substan-
tielle et plus varies f he can only pity her as “ la pauvre
affameef but, evidently, does not know his London au
bout des ongles, and so is unable to inform her that at
the Cafe Royal, in this very Regent Street, the poor
starved artiste could procure as good a French dinner
as she would find at any Parisian Restaurant;—that the
hospitable Yerry’s was open to her; that there was
within hail Kettner’s, in Church Street, Soho; and,
277
“a PROPOS DE BOTTES.”
Elderly Adonis. “ By the bye, Frank, I wish you ’d give me the
ADDRESS OF YOUR BOOTMAKER. I NEVER SEEM TO GET HOLD OF A FELLOW
WHO CAN MAKE MY FEET LOOK DECENT WITHOUT PINCHING THEM ! ”
OUR REPRESENTATIVE ALL ABROAD.
At Aix-les-Bains—The Season—Adjectives—The Future—The Present—The
Casino—The Country—The Bains—The Director—The Doctor—Douche—
Sarah B.—Sarcey—Mistakes— Gush—Be Gaulois— Tout- Paris—Snoring—
Starvation—Plenty—A Delusion—Remonstrance—Promise—An Plaisir.
Slr,—I write this to you from .... a Casino! No, Sir, Your Representa-
tive has not gone wrong, and yet he spends his days and nights at a Casino—
the Casino d’Aix-les-Bains (Savoie)—a Casino, you see, quite out of the reach of
the Middlesex Magistrates, and, as I myself am, quite out of the smoke, and fog,
and dust, and heat, and whatever else you have, including les odeurs in London.
This is a Casino, pur et simple, and includes billiard-rooms, cercle, cafe, salons
for music and dancing, and a prettily laid-out garden, where we walk, smoke,
and read; and where, when we’ve been very good for a week or so, the Director
treats us to fireworks, and the National (English) Anthem.
Once a week there is a ball; and later on, when the more serious have finished
their course, and returned to their several native lands, there will be balls on a
more festive scale, and a second Casino open, called the Villa des Fleurs, where
there will be theatrical performances, Concerts, and tables dejeu—the “ jeu ” en
question being baccarat. Such is the prospect for the Parisian Season at Aix-les-
Bains ; and, no doubt, judging from the commencement, it will be very gay, very
brilliant, very hot, and chalkily dusty, enchanting, delightful, magnifique, pyra-
midal, and, in fact, worthy of any other laudatory epithets. For as long as a
language possesses adjectives, why not employ them ? As, for instance, when I
read of the Villa des Fleurs being surrounded by a “ pare immense,” and I walk
round it in something under ten minutes. “Well,”! say to myself—-“there are
adjectives : use them while you can.”
Our motto here is, “ Go it, you cripples! ” But I am glad to record that after
a very few weeks the sticks and crutches disappear; but then the people who
used them also disappear; and so “ the Cure ” is not danced ; and the dancing is
but a poor affair at the beginning of the season. When the French arrive, how-
ever, it is quite another pair of shoes; in fact, several other pairs of shoes, with
quite different feet in them, and nimble legs to match. They don’t come here,
Les Parisiennes, et les Parisiens, bless you ! for the benefit of their health, but
simply pour s’amuser, pour se distraire.
But even in this present serious time, when my compatriots are here, like
hams in a pickle-tub, solely and only to be “ cured,” it
is impossible to be dull at Aix. There are excursions for
every day in the year ; endless beauties in every direction;
and the more you see, the more you would wish to see,
and the longer you would like to remain.
M. Jaquinot is the very King of Directors, or I should
say President, and the employes, the Doucheurs, the
Porteurs, Commissionnaires, one and all, most civil, at-
tentive, and obliging. M. Jaquinot himself, returning to
his native land after nineteen years of exile in England,
is a model Republican, rightly comx>rehendiDg the mean-
ing of Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite; generous, considerate,
only anxious to grant to all that freedom which he asks
for himself. The Directorship at Aix is a Government
appointment, and in these unsettled times it is at least one
good sign that the right man should be put in the right
place. Were the Senators and Deputies all like M. Jaqui-
not, a modus vivendi could soon be found, Extreme Right
could shake hands amicably with Extreme Left, and all
live happily ever after.
But this letter is not meant to be either a disquisition
of the political situation, nor a Guide to Aix-les-Bains,
as, for full details of the place, I refer anyone to Docteur
Bertier’s Blue Book—I mean his book with a blue cover
—and to Doctor Bertier himself, who will send anyone
to the Douche in less than no time. By the way, were
Messrs. Halevy & Co. and M. Offenbach here, I would
suggest to them the libretto for a new bovjj'e opera to be
called La Grande Doucheuse.
No ; far from the madding crowd of London, I am
particularly interested in reading French accounts of
Mile. Sarah Bernhardt’s second visit to the Gaiety;
not that I am inclined to rave about her, but because 1
am curious to ascertain whether the generally sharp and
intelligent critics belonging to the French papers know
anything more about London and Londoners—not to say
English—than they did ten or fifteen years ago. The
“ sportsmen ” as a rule do ; but the French journalists,
whether it be M. Francisque Sarcey, M. Yith, or
Monsieur Anybodyelse, certainly do not.
That the “gushers” of the English Press should excite
M. Sarcey’s derision is perfectly intelligible, and we
have a great deal too much of this criticism in excelsis ;
but in supposing that only the Parisian critics possess
the art of writing so as to be read between the lines,
M. Sarcey is quite wrong, and only right when he
admits that his inability to detect this subtlety in his
English confreres may possibly arise from his want of a
thorough acquaintance with the English language.
The “ niceties ” of the English language are as various
as the “nastinesses” of modern French literature, of
which Nana, Le Nabab, and L’ Assoinmoir are specimens.
Now here, at Aix, on our Club table I find Le Gaulois,
an excellent journal. The correspondent signing himself
“ Tout-Paris,” in giving an account of the difficulties
which Mile. Kalb had to encounter before she could get
a lodging, describes the English sleeping in the hall of
the Langham Hotel “ ronjlant comme les Anglais seuls
savent ronflerP
Oh, dear! Haven’t I a night-mare, or night-mail re-
collection, of a fat Frenchman, one hot summer’s night,
grunting like a pig, blowing like a grampus, as he slept
the sleep of the unjust from Calais to Paris, only awaking
to relieve his throat, and to growl at the admission of
any air into the carriage. But should I therefore conclude
that he was snoring comme les Francais seuls savent ron-
fler ! Exuno disce omnes? Certainly not. Of course, it’s a
sore point with every one : no one owns to snoring. As to
the cuisine, M. “Tout-Paris,” seems to be still under the
delusion that we only eat “roast beef ”—he actually spells
it correctly—boiled potatoes, and “ mutton-shopsP
He says, “ L^eur estomac parisien he is speaking of
the unfortunate French actresses condemned to serve out
their time in London—“ Ne se fait guere d la cuisine
Anglaise. Le roast beef et des pommes de ter re cuites a
I'eau, e'est le fond de la cuisine, comme ‘ god-dam’ est le
fond de la langue ’’—and then meeting Mile. Kalb in
Regent Street, “ En quote de nourriture moins substan-
tielle et plus varies f he can only pity her as “ la pauvre
affameef but, evidently, does not know his London au
bout des ongles, and so is unable to inform her that at
the Cafe Royal, in this very Regent Street, the poor
starved artiste could procure as good a French dinner
as she would find at any Parisian Restaurant;—that the
hospitable Yerry’s was open to her; that there was
within hail Kettner’s, in Church Street, Soho; and,