For Paris The
Lily Stands, The Conventionalized, Feminized Lily; But London Is
A Lion, A Shag-Headed, Heavy-Pawed British Lion.
One thinks of Paris as a woman, rather pretty, somewhat regardless
of morals and decidedly slovenly of person; craving
Admiration,
but too indolent to earn it by keeping herself presentable; covering
up the dirt on a piquant face with rice powder; wearing paste
jewels in her earlobes in an effort to distract criticism from the
fact that the ears themselves stand in need of soap and water.
London, viewed in retrospect, seems a great, clumsy, slow-moving
giant, with hair on his chest and soil under his nails; competent
in the larger affairs and careless about the smaller ones; amply
satisfied with himself and disdainful of the opinions of outsiders;
having all of a man's vices and a good share of his virtues; loving
sport for sport's sake and power for its own sake and despising
art for art's sake.
You do not have to spend a week or a month or a year in either
Paris or London to note these things. The distinction is wide
enough to be seen in a day; yes, or in an hour. It shows in all
the outer aspects. An overtowering majority of the smart shops
in Paris cater to women; a large majority of the smart shops in
London cater to men. It shows in their voices; for cities have
voices just as individuals have voices. New York is not yet old
enough to have found its own sex. It belongs still to the neuter
gender. New York is not even a noun - it's a verb transitive; but
its voice is a female voice, just as Paris' voice is. New York,
like Paris, is full of strident, shrieking sounds, shrill outcries,
hysterical babblings - a women's bridge-whist club at the hour of
casting up the score; but London now is different. London at all
hours speaks with a sustained, sullen, steady, grinding tone, never
entirely sinking into quietude, never rising to acute discords.
The sound of London rolls on like a river - a river that ebbs
sometimes, but rarely floods above its normal banks; it impresses
one as the necessary breathing of a grunting and burdened monster
who has a mighty job on his hands and is taking his own good time
about doing it.
In London, mind you, the newsboys do not shout their extras. They
bear in their hands placards with black-typed announcements of the
big news story of the day; and even these headings seem designed
to soothe rather than to excite - saying, for example, such things
as Special From Liner, in referring to a disaster at sea, and
Meeting in Ulster, when meaning that the northern part of Ireland
has gone on record as favoring civil war before home rule.
The street venders do not bray on noisy trumpets or ring with bells
or utter loud cries to advertise their wares. The policeman does
not shout his orders out; he holds aloft the stripe-sleeved arm
of authority and all London obeys.
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