THE question most frequently asked upon one’s return from Continental Europe is, “Which city did you enjoy the more, Paris or London?” I could say which I enjoyed the more, but that would not be just to Paris; for, with the continued sight-seeing of months prior to our arrival at Paris, we, in a limited time, could not see Paris; then add to its innumerable charms and interests the Exposition of 1900, and it would be more honest to say what we did not see than to relate what we really saw; which, to tell the truth, was little, compared to its wealth of treasures and sights unseen. You are not there long until you realize that the cities disagree morally and physically. The disagreeable English Channel may cause the ill feeling between the two coasts. When we were taken for English people by the less observing public servants, we received scarcely civil attention; the contrast was quite marked when we were known as Americans, a fact apparently hard to disguise, it seems. The contrast between these two countries, lying so close together, could not be greater than between different continents, and the contrast between their capitals is even more decided. They cannot be called rivals, for each is so great in its own way. As we came into Paris from Lucerne it was early in the morning, before fashion’s hour. The country showed the highest state of cultivation; in fact, the whole of Europe appears as a beautifully kept park. We noticed attractive roads leading everywhere through France—magnificent distances, with artistically formed shade trees, as trim and clean as though they adorned a delightful park, when they are, to all appearances, mere public highways. The French foliage is thin and a little sparse, the grass light in color, their landscape resembling our own in spring tone; a striking contrast to the massive English trees, which have a look of solidity in substance and color; the grass thick and as green as emerald. Their vegetable wealth seems as if it were tropical in luxuriance, hardened and solidified by northern influences. We had been told we had made a mistake by seeing the Continent first and England later, but I don’t agree, and felt again we could congratulate ourselves, as we did, in seeing the Rhenish provinces before the Swiss Alps. A striking contrast in the habits of the people is shown in their eating and drinking. Paris is brilliant with cafÉs, and the whole world seems to be out in one grand dress parade, sipping wine, coffee, and, very often, absinthe. They have what is known as the “absinthe hour,” when almost everyone you meet seems to be under its influence or some other.

Every American on his maiden trip to Europe turns his mind in friendly delight and expectation to Paris with almost childlike confidence. “See Paris and die,” causes many Americans to approach it with no lukewarm feeling. If you do not rave over it, something is the matter with you, not Paris; but with us it was, as in exaggerated expectations, more in the anticipation.

My chief regret being no time to realize my fondest hopes, as I must confess, my expectations were more joyous and confiding concerning Paris than any other spot. The rush of the Exposition caused the first disappointment, all hotel rates far in advance. It was in our everlasting search for an abiding-place that we discovered the size of Paris and its smells, where garlic fought for supremacy over other less desirable odors, resembling very closely the odors of the far East Side of New York. Then add to this the terrors of their language. We had stumbled through Germany with our German with American accent, but were sadly “up against it” here. Laboring under these disadvantages we could save neither time, money, nor energy; for the most of the last-named article was exhausted in our effort to make them understand where we wanted to go, and how.

We were centred in the most fashionable part of the city—Hotel Deux Monde, on Avenue de l’Opera, which is midway between the Palais Royal and the Louvre. We have frequently stood on this and other avenues for one half-hour waiting for an omnibus to stop: they pay no attention to the flourishing of an umbrella. Finally, wishing to reach some remote district, you call a carriage to your assistance out of the thousands anxiously waiting the job, when every cab-driver for squares starts after you, and you can imagine yourself added to the long list of unclaimed dead, who, I imagine, receive about as much attention as one of the many horses you see lying dead during a short ride. On the other hand, we could be driven in state almost anywhere for, say, thirty cents apiece, and only three dollars for a seat at grand opera, which you pay five for in New York. Or you can visit the Louvre, and feast your eyes without hindrance upon treasures which kings cannot buy. You can drive in the Bois or walk up the Champs ÉlysÉes—that magnificent avenue—nowhere else is the eye more delighted with life and color. At the fashionable hour of the day, the Champs ÉlysÉes its entire length is crowded with people. There could not have been less than ten miles of spectators in triple rows who took their place to watch the turnout of fashion and rank; vehicles of every description, splendid horses, and magnificent liveries. Any place else but Paris would be a jam. Whenever the sun shines all Paris is out, no matter what part of the city you happen to be in. At the entrance to the Exposition a sight greets your overstrained optics that opens them wide. We enter the Rue de Rivoli, with its Corinthian colonnade—the longest in the world. Here an opportunity is afforded to peep in on the original Redfern. We passed on to the Place de la Concorde, the largest and most beautiful in Paris, the memorable spot where Louis XVI. was beheaded. In the centre rises the obelisk, between two majestic fountains, whose springing jets, a quivering pillow of water, matched the stone shaft of Egypt. As you look down the avenue you have the dancing column of water, the obelisk, the Arc de Triomphe, all in a line, and the trees and the golden sunset beyond. At this point (the Arc de Triomphe) twelve beautiful avenues meet, which I could name if I called in the assistance of a guide-book. On the top of this edifice a splendid view is obtained. The Champs ÉlysÉes, with its myriads of gas-lights, is a unique sight. It is right here that we sat down one evening and discussed whether we would visit the Exposition, with its great pyrotechnic display, or sit and watch the people enjoying themselves in their own characteristic way. We chose the latter.

When you compare the delicious cooking of the French with that of the Germans (which becomes quite monotonous after many weeks), it is in favor of the French, if you don’t know exactly what it is, with its odds and ends. You realize a great deal for your money in variety and quantity, and it seems to satisfy your hunger. None of it is as good as our own home cooking, no matter what the epicurean may say to the contrary. One of the pleasant things of Paris is the exquisite gentlewomanhood that is shown you everywhere in the shopping district: no matter how tired they may be, the customer never sees it. A tact and delicious gaiety shown by the saleswomen called forth my lasting gratitude. Then, too, you “kinda” like Paris, when for fifty cents you can buy the glove you must pay two dollars for in our land of great industries. These and many other things make you repel the idea that we excel in everything. Far from it. Paris is wide awake when more puritanical cities are fast asleep. They seem not to want to be rushed to bed, nor hurried out in the morning. It is all less a moral affair with them than a physical and mental one; they move slowly, go to bed late, and consume equally as much time getting up. The crowded midnight streets, with their loud and singing parties driving by at every hour, affects one, if you have often heard it. The streets at eight o’clock in the morning have such a blank look that you think they have all left on a holiday. We had seen so much in Germany, where everything was bedecked and bepainted, that the Exposition had not the charm that it should have had, simply because it was a repetition on a larger scale of what we had been feasting on for weeks; even a thought of a palace, or the faintest hint of a museum or art gallery, caused a panic in our “household.” There is truly such a thing as having too much of a good thing. My chief delight was to visit the most fashionable shopping districts, and cut out art entirely. Although the whole city seems to be given over to fashion (and upon good authority I hear that these originators and designers of fashion make some change every six weeks in some part of the feminine wardrobe) as a means of filling its coffers, yet there is always one particular part or street that is the most exclusive, and where the most exclusive things are made and sold. The Rue de la Paix seems to be the headquarters for the most fashionable dressmaking and millinery. I think it was on this street that at least six hats were being trimmed for my inspection, which I never inspected. They are so willing and anxious to trim one exclusively for you, that, rather than disappoint them, I assented. “English spoken here,” as you see quite often in their shops, means this—“Do you speak English?”—“Yas, a leedle,” and here it ends. I visited Felix, the greatest of all designers, whose fame and work is enjoyed by the royalty of Europe, and extends as far as some of the Sultan’s favorites and a few of the Mikado’s court. He is on Rue de Honore. We learned when in company at Wiesbaden with the ex-President of the Argentine Republic and his wife and daughter for several weeks, that South American belles are among some of his most extravagant patrons, and it is certainly true, if they were fair representatives. Paquin’s is one of the most imposing places, as so many modistes have little shops or a corner of a shop that has no resemblance to our business establishments. With or without ostentation, Paris can justly lay claim to being the capital of the world of dress.

The Exposition suffered only by comparison with our Fair of 1893, on account of the crowded condition of the buildings, and the necessary absence of the landscape beauty, which so greatly enhanced our Chicago Fair. The United States building (as has been frequently remarked), was especially unfortunate in this respect. The very best view of it, from the Alexandria Bridge was entirely shut off by the Turkish building, which stood directly in its way. The thing that I thought the most unattractive, was the treatment or color-scheme of the mural decoration on its portal; an unfortunate cold, slate-blue tone, as I remember it, against the severe white building made it lack warmth, and repelled rather than invited. The German and British buildings were much more imposing and artistic; especially is this true of their interiors, as both countries have priceless art treasures to draw upon. Valuable tapestries were hung upon their walls, and the best in their national museums were transferred to their buildings. Of course we had no such fund to draw upon. The part of the Exposition that impressed us most strongly was the two Art Palaces, which are to be permanent buildings, and are well worth a visit to the Exposition. No words could express the beauty and grandeur of these Art Palaces and the treasures they contained. We experienced deep gratification as we lingered near the statuary of MacMonnies and St. Gaudens, whose “grand prix” were as numerous as on the paintings in the United States exhibit. In front of this beautiful palace we listened to the harmonious strains of the national French air, which seemed to touch the heart of every born Frenchman, who not only uncovered his head, but arose to his feet and joined loudly and feelingly in his national hymn. As the last strain died away, leaving a pleasant and happy feeling with all, I was both glad and thankful for this privilege, and had a greater respect for the Frenchman.

Whistler’s paintings at the Exposition are dreams of color; it is said “they are the pink of Fragonard, the brown of Rembrandt, the amber of Titian, the gray of Whistler”; that undefinable gray called “the gray of mist and of distance,” is made of all the shades—a little white, a little blue, a little green. He is called the “symphonist of half tints,” the “musician of the rainbow.” “No other painter has understood as well the mysterious relations of painting to music—seven colors, as there are seven notes—and the way to play them with what might be named the sharps and flats of the prism. Even as a symphony made in D or a Sonata in A, Whistler’s pictures are orchestrated according to a tone.” “The Lady with the Iris,” for example: the mauve flower placed in the hand of the woman is a note signifying that the portrait is a colored polyphony of lilacs and violets. The Luxembourg has Whistler’s greatest work,—the portrait of his mother. A French art critic says concerning the picture: “What a bold and novel line is the one of that long body, hardly perceptible in its black gown! What a psychological penetration is in the face! The mind of the sitter colors with the pink of a sunset her cheeks that age has made pale. The whites of the picture—the white of the lace bonnet, the white of the handkerchief held in the hand with the gesture of a communicant—are infinitely chaste. Does not old age bring me back to initial purity? The deep black of the drapery, studded with small flowers, is significant. Behind it the entire life of the woman palpitates but disappears. To make an accord of those whites and blacks—the gray that adheres to the walls floats in a mist, extends the softness, makes uniform its tint of pale ashes, as if it were the ashes of years fled from a material heart.” Whistler and Poe, it is said, are the greatest men of genius in Art that America has produced. The figures that they have created have the same haunting effect—apparitions emerging from the twilight of backgrounds. They are enigmatic personages. One does not know if they are entering life or going out of it.