It is a rainy Sunday in Paris, a day when no one does anything, anyway. The city is quiet and most people stay home. I have a ticket to hear the Orchestre Colonne, a sort of "Paris 'Pops'" at five o'clock, again at the Theatre des Champs Elysees, but in the morning I go to Mass at Sainte Clotilde.
Sainte Clotilde is a famous French saint: it is she who is said to have forced the Huns to turn around, rather than ransack Paris. My French teacher in New York says that that is because when they arrived, Clotilde told them the plague was rampant in the city, so they prudently drew back.
Whatever the truth, the church of Sainte Clotilde, set in a small park in the 7th, not far from the Assemblee Nationale, has more than one thing to recommend it. It is the first neb-gothic church built in Paris in the 19th century, and renowned for its organ, which was built by Aristide Cavaille-Coll, the famous organ maker. The Cavaille-Coll organs are extraordinary machines, each one having at least fifty stops: Sainte Clotilde's has seventy-one.
Walking into the church twenty minutes before the eleven o'clock Mass, the nave is a buzz of activity. Thirteen children will have their first communion in a few minutes, and the church is chock-a-block with parents, siblings, relatives and friends jostling for seats.
However, this is France, so no one thrusts themselves forward. Rather, exercising their individual form of retenue (restraint), each person eyes hungrily the vacant seats in the front until, recognizing someone they know, they break the ice and enter the social circle.
Sainte Clotilde is a parish of the haute bourgeoisie, so everyone is carefully dressed, and the hair of the women gracefully coiffed, with many "French twists" and chignons, frequently ornamented tastefully. The men look immaculate whatever their age: well-shaven, their neckties rich and modest, their jackets well-cut. Everyone is talking at once, in the breathless way well brought up French do.
In France la sociabilite --a fondness for the company of others, and for festivity-- is still an important virtue. I have only been in Paris four days and I have already been the beneficiary of it many times. Friday, trying to find my way to my restaurant in the Latin Quarter, a woman I stop shows me the way, engages me in conversation, then offers to drive me there, as it's on her way, an offer I accept. It turns out we have in common an interest in human rights --she is the president of a committee fighting human trafficking. Today after Mass, the organist of Sainte Clotilde, Olivier Penin, welcomes my interest in the instrument and we chat at length about the "five great organs of Paris", new versus old organs, and what the great organs are in New York City. With the result that we exchange e-mail addresses, and assure each other to be in touch when I return to Paris in the Fall.
It is important here to be agreeable. It might be all pose, but it makes interactions with strangers easier. You begin with the formulas of politeness, Bon jour, excusez-moi de vous interrompre --Good day, excuse me for interrupting-- if you are coming upon people conversing, a simple Bon jour, excusez-moi-- otherwise. The language demands you use the formal "vous" in such circumstances. The distance between you and the stranger is respected and matters can proceed. The French still pride themselves on their poise in social situations and command of the rules of good behavior. In fact, from childhood on, a well-brought-up son or daughter learns to Dire 'Merci' a la dame --To say 'thank you' to the lady-- if they are given something, or shown some special attention. These are the bienseances --simple good manners-- that are part of civilized life.
Not for the French the frontal assault, the slap on the back, the presumptuous address. Depending on whether he believes that France needs "waking up" or not, a Frenchman (or woman), will find the unbounded affability of Americans welcome --or off-putting. From this American's point of view, it is good to remember that both our countries see themselves as having a "civilizing mission" --something to contribute to the betterment of the world-- and be glad we don't have to go it alone.
(I'll be off to Caunes-Minervois via Toulouse tomorrow, Beau in tow, so this will be my last post until I am settled there.)
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