COMING
OF THE PARIS METRO
Begun
in 1898, Line 1 of the Paris Metro opened in 1900
as part of France’s Exposition Universelle. Running
between Porte Maillot and Porte de Vincennes it connected
the various sites of the World Fair. This original line
followed a route under what was known as the ‘monument
axis’ from the Concorde up to Etoile and, eventually,
as far a La Defense, when, in November 1936, Porte Maillot
station was rebuilt in order to allow a further extension
to the west. In this passage from her delightful
memoirs, The Pope, My Brother and I, Penny Howson tells
how the coming of the Metro affected life inside her home.
e did not go to sleep and something did happen though I had nothing to do with
it. Before Jean-Paul could leave my bed a big black something hit us with a terrible
crash. Flattened to the mattress, we lay there too stunned to be frightened at
first. My head hurt. We were in complete darkness. We were buried alive under
something heavy.
I shrieked and Jean-Paul took his cue and joined me. Chairs scraped below on
the terrace, a door slammed, there was a pounding of feet on the stairs and excited
voices burst into the room. "What on earth? What was that noise? I can't
see the children. Turn on the light, somebody."
Then exclamations of surprise. "Mon Dieu, how did it happen?" Then
Mother's voice: "Stop! Stop that yelling. It's all right. We'll help you!"
Jean-Paul and I were still flat on our backs with something musty pressing down
on our nostrils. We changed from shrieks to gulping sobs.
"Here, Miss Monday. Don't stand there like the Rock of Gibraltar," Maman's
voice commanded. "Help me lift this off." Then, to us, "All right,
I think you're all right."
Tozy, my sixteen-year-old sister, yelled over the balcony in a voice quivering
with excitement, "Papa, Papa, call an ambulance. I can't see any blood yet,
but they must have a concussion at least. That big picture of yours fell on them!" Then
Maman and Miss Monday lifted the black weight that pinned us like two moths to
the bed.
We sat up, pale but unhurt, except for a bump on Jean-Paul's forehead and a cut
on my lower lip. Maman pressed a cool washcloth to Jean-Paul's face and scrutinized
my cut. "It's all right, nothing at all really. You were lucky. Tozy, will
you stop being Sarah Bernhardt? You are going to be the one hurt, hanging over
the balcony."
Tozy stepped away from the window. "For once I thought something really
interesting had happened, and not one drop of blood. You," she said to me
accusingly, "never do anything right."
Maman called down to Papa in a sobering voice. "Don't worry, Paul, they're
not hurt, just scared."
Papa replied, "Oh, that's good, that's good, but tell me the worst. Did
their heads pierce the canvas? I'm coming up to see for myself and I'll bring
some port; best thing for scares and shocks of all kinds. In the meantime, you
women, don't touch that picture."
Papa brought the wine on a tray in a crystal decanter with one large glass and
two silver egg cups and handed the whole thing to Miss Monday who looked disapproving;
strong tea was her remedy for anything.
"Sir," she said as if she had swallowed an umbrella, "this painting
is hardly suitable for a nursery; I told you so, if you recall."
"Yes, Paul, if you'll recall I also told you so," Maman chimed in. "It's
much too big for the room and your wire must have been too thin."
"Not suitable, nonsense, since when has a genuine, if unsigned, Fragonard
not been suitable anywhere? Just wish I had room to hang it in my study. Look
at
that beautiful translucent flesh, that thigh."
I
agreed with Papa and so did Jean-Paul. It was a nice painting
and it told a story. The huge eight-by-ten-foot canvas
depicted a fat, pink and pretty lady as she sat on a mossy
bank testing with her feet the temperature of what appeared
to be a river on a pond. The folds of an old damask bedspread
made her barely decent. With one hand she cupped her small
breast, with the other high above her head she held a bunch
of grapes. She was not alone by her pool and you could
tell she knew it by the pleased smile at the corner of
her mouth. Behind her, in a clump of marsh reeds, she had
sensed the presence of the creature with the pointed ears
and horns, who seemed ready to pounce on her. Jean-Paul
and I often imagined what would happen when he did. "He's
after those grapes," Jean-Paul deduced. Somehow I thought
the satyr might want the old bedspread.
Papa
had been inspecting his picture closely, and satisfied
it was unharmed, pulled the painting away from the wall.
"The wire didn't break," he said, "I don't know what could
have done it." Then he clapped a hand to his forehead.
"Nom de Dieu! Les vaches! that's it. It's
that damn metro train. I knew it." He lit a cigarette
from the stub he already held, took a long quivering breath
and exhaled a billowing cloud of smoke that completely
hid his face and shoulder from view. Then, looking like
Zeus
on Olympus, he began to pace the floor with hands clasped
behind his back.
Some weeks before, the subway had been extended from the
Arc de Triomphe to the gate of La Defense, all along the
wide Avenue de Neuilly that ran at the back of our house. This
had been hailed as progress by all members of the family.
Mother and my sister
loved it. Just think, now one could get to the Printemps, their favorite
department
store, in ten minutes. The maids loved it-they could go to the cinema
on their afternoon off and be back before dark; and we children
loved
it because the
underpass had a fascinatingly repulsive stench
and an echo that bounced three times. But
Papa didn't love it at all. He said it would ruin our Bois de Boulogne
and he added he had no intention of ever using it.
The trains brought crowds to the park just as Papa
feared.
Every warm Sunday since its opening, the invading
hordes ascended the stairs, blinking in the sudden
light,
armed with a grim determination to have a good
time and sword-thin loaves of bread, sausages and wine bottles in fish-net
shopping bags.
The men stripped down to their undershirts, the women rolled down their
cotton stockings, the children used the bushes for informal pissotieres,
and everybody
set up house-keeping for the day. They played soccer, ate, drank wine,
then snored spread-eagled in the grass with handkerchiefs over their
faces. They
enjoyed
themselves hugely and left greasy papers and empty bottles in their wake
to prove it.
Now, as Papa faced the silent and gathered household, his eyes were glazed
with concentration while he paced to and fro, hands behind his back.
Papa was composing
a letter. "Your Honor," he roared, "Non, just plain Monsieur Ie
Maire: Three times I have written your office and have yet to get an answer.
Tonight your confounded metro nearly killed my two children and hurled a most
valuable painting to the ground. Paragraph," he said, pirouetting on the
heel of his thin-soled English shoe. "The time for words is past
to defend my rights to the barricades. . . ."
I really did not listen but I relaxed
and enjoyed the rest of the show. Such an outburst was not unusual and
as long as Papa ranted and raved, there was nothing to worry about; however,
when he
simmered with well-contained rage-those were the times when I quaked with
fear. A perfect example of this had taken place the day the first metro
ran
under
our house.
We were finishing lunch when a deep rumble was heard, something like an
approaching ocean breaker, which became louder and quickly ebbed away.
We all sat there
motionless, then turned around when the crystal chandelier in the draw-ing
room tinkled and
sang like a pretty Chinese wind chime.
Father rolled his napkin into its silver ring (something he had never,
never done before) stubbed out his cigarette and announced between clenched
teeth,
''I'm going to the cellar to wait for the next train."
Under the pretext of homework I excused myself, ran out and caught up
with Papa going down the cellar stairs. Down I went into the very bowels
of
the earth,
with Orpheus leading the way and only the faint glow of the furnace
fire shining through two evil slitty eyes in the boiler door to light
a path.
To get to
the wine cellars, you had to walk right through that furnace room into
the very mouth
of Hell. I would not have gone down there alone even for the best game
of hide-and-seek, and I held on to Papa's coat for the rest of the way
through
a maze
of corridors until we reached a big wooden door. From his key chain Papa
took the
smallest key and turned it easily in the well-oiled delicate lock. The
door opened with a rich muted sound, like a bank vault. A 25-watt bulb
hung from
the high
vaulted ceiling, barely lighting the great square room with its racks
upon racks of wine bottles. It was an ideal cellar with a constant temperature
of 55 degrees, and
one of the reasons Papa had bought the house. It was a tranquil and orderly
place, with labels and sections for each wine, so that Papa didn't really
need any light
but knew where each precious bottle was and never trusted anyone but
himself
to fetch une grande bouteille.
Now Papa walked slowly around the big room, his feet crunching on the
fine gravel that covered the floor. Twice he struck a match to light
a particularly
dark
comer and peered at the rows of prone, dusty bottles, with the loving
intentness of a mother checking on her slumbering brood. I followed close
behind him,
reading the labels as I went. "Batard Montrachet," "Chateau
Saint Julien," "Clos
St. Denis," "La Chapelle," "Saint Emilion," "Nuits
St. George." All of a sudden it struck me what an active part the
clergy took in the wine industry, and I was even more impressed when
I read "Chateauneuf-du
Pape." Mon Dieu!
Even the Pope was busy squeezing grapes. The church had practically cornered
the market and I was ready to ask Papa about this cartel when he held
up a bottle for me to admire. "Clos Vougeot, such a fine wine they give the vineyards
military honors whenever troops happen to march by. Did you know that?" He
put the bottle down and took up another one. "1923, a great year for most
wines, especially burgundy; here is a great Clos Vougeot. You were born in a
great wine year you know; you should be proud." He looked at me
over the rim of his tortoise-shell glasses to see if I were proud. I
smiled coquettishly.
I was proud, proud and happy too, because Papa was never vague about
my birthday as he often was with his other offspring. I was the second
daughter when he had
hoped for a son but I had redeemed myself in his eyes by being born in
such a great year.
"These bottles should be about ready when you reach fifteen," he said, "and
if I can get you a good man, when you are nineteen or twenty, we will
drink this Clos Vougeot Blanc at your wedding and it will be an occasion you'll
never forget."
Just as he finished talking we heard a faint rumble. The metro train was
approaching. Strangely enough, the noise seemed less down here in the depth
of the cellar,
but as it faded away the steel racks that cradled the wine began to hum
and vibrate like so many tuning forks.
Papa stood staring straight ahead, holding tight to one of the wine racks
as if it were a subway strap. He stood perfectly still and didn't say
a word for
what seemed to me a long, long while. Then he did speak. He called the
Lord's name in vain -three times-in crescendo. I put my index fingers
in my ears
since I wasn't supposed to hear such sinful swearing. Swearing seemed
to relieve
him greatly and bring him out of his trance. He took a fine linen handkerchief
out
of his breast pocket and wiped his forehead and his hands. "Well, ma
cocotte, it's only a matter of time for your Clos Vougeot.
It is doomed and so are all the finest heavy wines in my cellar. Every
time that damn metro rumbles by, it
decants one more liter. We won't drink any Clos Vougeot
for your wedding unless we marry you off in the next year or so." He
put his handkerchief back in his pocket and walked to the door.
Papa was so calm
in the face of this tragedy, I was dumb-founded. He disappeared into his
study and that was all I saw of him that day.
From that time on, Papa tried to save his best bottles before they turned
sour, sharing them with his friends. It wasn't really fun for him; you
should not hurry to drink wine. It was hard on Maman organizing so many
dinner
parties,
and sheer
hell for the cook who had to concoct menus with dozens of dishes to set
off the wines.
In
the Spring of 1939 Penny Howson moved to the U.S.A never
to live again in Paris where she was born. Her American
husband’s, overseas assignments led them to residing
in New York, Rio de Janeiro, Lisbon, Tokyo, London and
Jeddah. When working in New York, she attended “The
New School” and its writing workshops; one of them
under the tutelage of Kay Boyle helped her to finish the
book The Pope, my Brother and I (recollections
of a French childhood). It was published by St Martin Press
in 1966. A German edition of the book, published by Rex-Verlag.
Munchen, came out in 1970 under the title Reifepafz
zum Himmel. The book enabled Howson to freelance articles
for newspapers and magazines whereever she settled through
the years. She
is again a resident of Portugal and drawing on her past research
and interviews is working on a book about life in that country
from 1963 through the 1974 Revolution.
This delightful book has finally been republished and is now available through Amazon as a quality paperback.