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pubOne.info present you this new edition. One of those sights in which most horror is to be encountered is, surely, the general aspect of the Parisian populace- a people fearful to behold, gaunt, yellow, tawny. Is not Paris a vast field in perpetual turmoil from a storm of interests beneath which are whirled along a crop of human beings, who are, more often than not, reaped by death, only to be born again as pinched as ever, men whose twisted and contorted faces give out at every pore the instinct, the desire, the poisons with which their brains are pregnant; not faces so much as masks; masks of weakness, masks of strength, masks of misery, masks of joy, masks of hypocrisy; all alike worn and stamped with the indelible signs of a panting cupidity? What is it they want? Gold or pleasure? A few observations upon the soul of Paris may explain the causes of its cadaverous physiognomy, which has but two ages- youth and decay: youth, wan and colorless; decay, painted to seem young. In looking at this excavated people, foreigners, who are not prone to reflection, experience at first a movement of disgust towards the capital, that vast workshop of delights, from which, in a short time, they cannot even extricate themselves, and where they stay willingly to be corrupted

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	06 novembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819933823
Langue	English

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THE GIRL WITH THE GOLDEN EYES
One of those sights in which most horror is to beencountered is, surely, the general aspect of the Parisianpopulace— a people fearful to behold, gaunt, yellow, tawny. Is notParis a vast field in perpetual turmoil from a storm of interestsbeneath which are whirled along a crop of human beings, who are,more often than not, reaped by death, only to be born again aspinched as ever, men whose twisted and contorted faces give out atevery pore the instinct, the desire, the poisons with which theirbrains are pregnant; not faces so much as masks; masks of weakness,masks of strength, masks of misery, masks of joy, masks ofhypocrisy; all alike worn and stamped with the indelible signs of apanting cupidity? What is it they want? Gold or pleasure? A fewobservations upon the soul of Paris may explain the causes of itscadaverous physiognomy, which has but two ages— youth and decay:youth, wan and colorless; decay, painted to seem young. In lookingat this excavated people, foreigners, who are not prone toreflection, experience at first a movement of disgust towards thecapital, that vast workshop of delights, from which, in a shorttime, they cannot even extricate themselves, and where they staywillingly to be corrupted. A few words will suffice to justifyphysiologically the almost infernal hue of Parisian faces, for itis not in mere sport that Paris has been called a hell. Take thephrase for truth. There all is smoke and fire, everything gleams,crackles, flames, evaporates, dies out, then lights up again, withshooting sparks, and is consumed. In no other country has life everbeen more ardent or acute. The social nature, even in fusion, seemsto say after each completed work: “Pass on to another! ” just asNature says herself. Like Nature herself, this social nature isbusied with insects and flowers of a day— ephemeral trifles; andso, too, it throws up fire and flame from its eternal crater.Perhaps, before analyzing the causes which lend a specialphysiognomy to each tribe of this intelligent and mobile nation,the general cause should be pointed out which bleaches anddiscolors, tints with blue or brown individuals in more or lessdegree.
By dint of taking interest in everything, theParisian ends by being interested in nothing. No emotion dominatinghis face, which friction has rubbed away, it turns gray like thefaces of those houses upon which all kinds of dust and smoke haveblown. In effect, the Parisian, with his indifference on the dayfor what the morrow will bring forth, lives like a child, whatevermay be his age. He grumbles at everything, consoles himself foreverything, jests at everything, forgets, desires, and tasteseverything, seizes all with passion, quits all with indifference—his kings, his conquests, his glory, his idols of bronze or glass—as he throws away his stockings, his hats, and his fortune. InParis no sentiment can withstand the drift of things, and theircurrent compels a struggle in which the passions are relaxed: therelove is a desire, and hatred a whim; there's no true kinsman butthe thousand-franc note, no better friend than the pawnbroker. Thisuniversal toleration bears its fruits, and in the salon, as in thestreet, there is no one de trop , there is no one absolutelyuseful, or absolutely harmful— knaves or fools, men of wit orintegrity. There everything is tolerated: the government and theguillotine, religion and the cholera. You are always acceptable tothis world, you will never be missed by it. What, then, is thedominating impulse in this country without morals, without faith,without any sentiment, wherein, however, every sentiment, belief,and moral has its origin and end? It is gold and pleasure. Takethose two words for a lantern, and explore that great stucco cage,that hive with its black gutters, and follow the windings of thatthought which agitates, sustains, and occupies it! Consider! And,in the first place, examine the world which possesses nothing.
The artisan, the man of the proletariat, who useshis hands, his tongue, his back, his right arm, his five fingers,to live— well, this very man, who should be the first to economizehis vital principle, outruns his strength, yokes his wife to somemachine, wears out his child, and ties him to the wheel. Themanufacturer— or I know not what secondary thread which sets inmotion all these folk who with their foul hands mould and gildporcelain, sew coats and dresses, beat out iron, turn wood andsteel, weave hemp, festoon crystal, imitate flowers, work woolenthings, break in horses, dress harness, carve in copper, paintcarriages, blow glass, corrode the diamond, polish metals, turnmarble into leaves, labor on pebbles, deck out thought, tinge,bleach, or blacken everything— well, this middleman has come tothat world of sweat and good-will, of study and patience, withpromises of lavish wages, either in the name of the town's capricesor with the voice of the monster dubbed speculation. Thus, these quadrumanes set themselves to watch, work, and suffer, tofast, sweat, and bestir them. Then, careless of the future, greedyof pleasure, counting on their right arm as the painter on hispalette, lords for one day, they throw their money on Mondays tothe cabarets which gird the town like a belt of mud, hauntsof the most shameless of the daughters of Venus, in which theperiodical money of this people, as ferocious in their pleasures asthey are calm at work, is squandered as it had been at play. Forfive days, then, there is no repose for this laborious portion ofParis! It is given up to actions which make it warped and rough,lean and pale, gush forth with a thousand fits of creative energy.And then its pleasure, its repose, are an exhausting debauch,swarthy and black with blows, white with intoxication, or yellowwith indigestion. It lasts but two days, but it steals to-morrow'sbread, the week's soup, the wife's dress, the child's wretchedrags. Men, born doubtless to be beautiful— for all creatures have arelative beauty— are enrolled from their childhood beneath the yokeof force, beneath the rule of the hammer, the chisel, the loom, andhave been promptly vulcanized. Is not Vulcan, with his hideousnessand his strength, the emblem of this strong and hideous nation—sublime in its mechanical intelligence, patient in its season, andonce in a century terrible, inflammable as gunpowder, and ripe withbrandy for the madness of revolution, with wits enough, in fine, totake fire at a captious word, which signifies to it always: Goldand Pleasure! If we comprise in it all those who hold out theirhands for an alms, for lawful wages, or the five francs that aregranted to every kind of Parisian prostitution, in short, for allthe money well or ill earned, this people numbers three hundredthousand individuals. Were it not for the cabarets , wouldnot the Government be overturned every Tuesday? Happily, byTuesday, this people is glutted, sleeps off its pleasure, ispenniless, and returns to its labor, to dry bread, stimulated by aneed of material procreation, which has become a habit to it. Nonethe less, this people has its phenomenal virtues, its complete men,unknown Napoleons, who are the type of its strength carried to itshighest expression, and sum up its social capacity in an existencewherein thought and movement combine less to bring joy into it thanto neutralize the action of sorrow.
Chance has made an artisan economical, chance hasfavored him with forethought, he has been able to look forward, hasmet with a wife and found himself a father, and, after some yearsof hard privation, he embarks in some little draper's business,hires a shop. If neither sickness nor vice blocks his way— if hehas prospered— there is the sketch of this normal life.
And, in the first place, hail to that king ofParisian activity, to whom time and space give way. Yes, hail tothat being, composed of saltpetre and gas, who makes children forFrance during his laborious nights, and in the day multiplies hispersonality for the service, glory, and pleasure of hisfellow-citizens. This man solves the problem of sufficing at onceto his amiable wife, to his hearth, to the Constitutionnel ,to his office, to the National Guard, to the opera, and to God;but, only in order that the Constitutionnel , his office, theNational Guard, the opera, his wife, and God may be changed intocoin. In fine, hail to an irreproachable pluralist. Up every day atfive o'clock, he traverses like a bird the space which separateshis dwelling from the Rue Montmartre. Let it blow or thunder, rainor snow, he is at the Constitutionnel , and waits there forthe load of newspapers which he has undertaken to distribute. Hereceives this political bread with eagerness, takes it, bears itaway. At nine o'clock he is in the bosom of his family, flings ajest to his wife, snatches a loud kiss from her, gulps down a cupof coffee, or scolds his children. At a quarter to ten he puts inan appearance at the Mairie . There, stuck upon a stool, likea parrot on its perch, warmed by Paris town, he registers untilfour o'clock, with never a tear or a smile, the deaths and birthsof an entire district. The sorrow, the happiness, of the parishflow beneath his pen— as the essence of the Constitutionnel traveled before upon his shoulders. Nothing weighs upon him! Hegoes always straight before him, takes his patriotism ready madefrom the newspaper, contradicts no one, shouts or applauds with theworld, and lives like a bird. Two yards from his parish, in theevent of an important ceremony, he can yield his place to anassistant, and betake himself to chant a requiem from a stall inthe church of which on Sundays he is the fairest ornament, wherehis is the most imposing voice, where he distorts his huge mouthwith energy to thunder out a joyous Amen . So is hechorister. At four o'clock, freed from his official servitude, hereappears to shed joy and gaiety upon the most famous shop in thecity. Happy is his wife, he has no time to be jealous: he is a manof