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VI FRENCH THRIFT FRANCE, more than any other of he great nations, is a land of thrift. The habit of economy is well-nigh universal. A French‑man saves as naturally and with as little effort as he breathes. Of course those who waste and the unprosperous are not wholly lacking, but they are a very small minority. In town and country the story is the same — every‑where savings gradually accumulating. Money never slips away carelessly, even for pleasures. It is said that the hotels at the resorts of fashion could not begin to sup‑port themselves on French custom. They depend largely on the inflocking of other nationalities; and among all these foreign seekers after health and recreation, none make the money fly and rejoice the hearts of the French landlords like the English and Americans. Except by those who have an eye to the profits, the expenses of the average Anglo-Saxon tourist are regarded as a sacrifice of good money without adequate return. Nor do the French quite believe that this lavish expenditure is a sure indication of wealth. “The Americans,” they say, “like to make a show. They would have us think they all possessed a fortune, and so they spend foolishly — far more than they can afford in many cases — and when they return they have to pinch to make up.” However
that may
be, we as a nation could well take lessons in the art of saving from
our
neighbors across the sea. To spend freely part of the time and, when
the “rainy
day” comes, to be obliged to stint and scrape to keep up appearances,
is too
apt to be the American way, but it certainly is not the ideal way. In
France
these violent fluctuations are for the most part avoided. Hard work,
careful
spending, and, more than all, the general possession of a bank deposit
tide the
people over personal reverses and carry the state unshaken through
trials that
at first seem to portend national disaster. The persistent economy, it
is true,
has a tendency to degenerate into selfishness and avarice, but it
necessarily
results also in habits of rigid sobriety and self-respect. The
savings of the
rural folk are largely deposited with the government. Interest is
allowed, and
on dividend day the people flock in such numbers to the local branches
of the
state bank that the countryside is depopulated. It is a motley crowd —
important
functionaries, fashionable ladies, laundresses, laborers, and artisans,
all
with their coupons awaiting their turn. Often
there will be
several bank accounts in a single ordinary farm family; and the
servants are
almost as likely to be depositors as the rest of the household, some of
them to
a considerable amount. You may find, for instance, an elderly woman
servant,
who has worked in the same family for fifty years, with money enough in
the
funds to live on without further labor if she chose. She began to work
at an
annual salary of thirty dollars. By the end of twenty years the
remuneration
had been increased to fifty dollars, and that is the sum she has
received ever
since. From this and the gifts it is customary to make the servants at
New
Year’s, she has laid aside steadily until she has a very handsome sum
to her
credit. There are
many like
her in the French country. I remember once when I chanced to inquire
about a
new house that was nearing completion on the borders of a village, I
was told
that it was being built by a coachman. Some time he would live in it,
but not
till his own working days were over. For the present it was to be
rented. The
wages of the coachman and his wife together were probably about twenty
dollars
a month and they each very likely had something left them by their
parents.
They spent little, for they lived in their master’s household, and the
donation
of their master’s and mistress’s old clothes saved them nearly all
expense for
wearing apparel. They not only could, but did, lay up a large part of
their
salary, and as a result they were becoming people of property. I do not
know that
there is anything in French character compelling to save, but it is the
habit
of the country, and from childhood the people grow up with that
dominant idea
in their heads. No hardships or reverses can quell it. Taxation in
France is
higher than in England or in Germany, yet the solvency and accumulative
thrift
of the French continue phenomenal. I could
not
discover that the farm folk in their work showed any marked tendency to
excessive labor. They are much less apt than we to worry their lives
short with
haste or with the weight of many cares; and, however humble, they are
almost
never involved in that steady, hopeless grind which for so many of the
English
laborers has the workhouse at the end. To a very great extent the land
is owned
by those who till it, the people are content with the plainest living,
and
every member of the family is a worker. Distribution of labor lightens
the
burden, but I thought it bore heavier than need be on the shoulders of
women.
In the lighter tasks it is all well enough, and it was pleasant to see
the
women helping in the hay-fields, working in the wheat, or in some byway
or
grassy pasture knitting while they watched a grazing flock of sheep.
One could
not but fancy that tasks like these, with their accompaniment of
sunshine and
air and exercise, were wholesome and invigorating. Yet when I saw women
bending
their backs all day long weeding, or caught glimpses of them blowing
the
bellows and helping in the blacksmiths’ shops, and noted how exposure
to the
sun and weather made their complexions as they aged turn leathery and
yellow,
it seemed a little too hard. A French farmhouse interior is an odd mixture of squalor and solid ease, if not comfort; and the housework is simple to the point of primitiveness. A farmer may be independently rich, and yet a fine house and a multiplication of wants and responsibilities are by no means a consequence, and the living-room may continue to be the big kitchen with its wide fireplace, its beds and wardrobes. The furnishings are rarely so elaborate as to require much time or attention. Neither is the cooking burdensome, though the food provided, even in the poorest families, is sure to be good and abundant. The French are clever in their cookery, and no people understand better how to prepare a palatable and satisfactory meal with infinitesimal expense. They never throw away anything. From what would be table waste in America they are always able to contrive some viand that agreeably helps out in meals following. Complicated dishes are avoided, and everything is served with only as much table-setting as is absolutely necessary. A FARMYARD GATE There is a
tendency
now among the well-to-do farmers to travel more than formerly, live
better, and
pattern after the gentry. Some have their fast horses, their valets and
grooms,
and they no longer closely supervise their farms and work with their
hands
among their laborers as was one time the universal habit. The wife has
jewels,
and the children acquire a polite education and extravagant tastes.
Such
farmers complain that they cannot make money as their fathers did, and
blame
the times or something outside of themselves. They do not consider
that they
neither work nor spend as the fathers did. Luckily for France, farmers
of this
species are as yet exceptional. Farms vary
greatly
in size. The humblest type of a peasant proprietor has only two or
three acres.
He keeps a goat, a pig, and some poultry, but in large part must depend
on
outside work for the family support. A man with a dozen acres, a
horse, and
two or three cows can spend his whole energies on his farm with the
prospect of
accumulating money. Any holding under 125 acres, however, is
considered small.
Medium-sized farms range from that to 250 acres. In some sections there
are
farms running up into thousands of acres, but in most districts the man
who
controls an area running above 250 acres is accounted a large farmer.
Statistics prove that small farms are the rule practically everywhere,
the
average size of holdings throughout the nation being only sixty-three
acres. In
England the average is 400 acres and in America the figures run still
higher. It
follows that as three-fourths of the French population is rural and as
the
agriculturists in the main own the land they till, the small farmers
constitute
the most vital and characteristic life of the republic. One of the
most
attractive agricultural regions I saw was in the fertile valley of the
river
Oise. The land spread away from the borders of the stream in a great
open plain
that stretched as far as the eye could see, unbroken, save by now and
then a
group of trees or a huddle of plethoric grain stacks. So fertile was
the soil
that, if report was correct, it had made all the farmers of the
district rich,
the little farmers as well as the large ones; and those who rented
their land
were often more wealthy than their gentry landlords. This being the
state of
affairs, I was curious to see what the villages of these rich
agriculturists
would be like, and I paid an investigating visit to one of them. It was
not at
all palatial, but a gray, sleepy old place presided over by an ancient,
mossy
church with a brazen weathercock looking down from its spire. The
houses were
big and antiquated, and there were high walls about the farmyards, and
the
entrances were hung with heavy gates, so that each home had the air of
being a
fortress built to repel invaders. On the top
of the
wall next every farm gate was fastened a withered bush, and tied to it
was what
appeared to be a few rags and a bedraggled handful of straw. This bush
was
reminiscent of the end of the harvest of the previous year. When the
last of
the hay and grain had been gathered into the ricks and barns, the old
bush, set
up a twelvemonth before, was taken down, and a new bush, full of
leaves,
trimmed with ribbons, and hung with a sheaf of yellow grain, was put in
its
place. The ceremony of installing the decorated bush on the walls at
the
portals of the farmyard occurs at noon, after a morning spent working
in the
fields. The afternoon is given up to pleasure, and the laborers and the
farmer’s family join in celebrating with feasting and a generous flow
of wine. The pay
received by
a French laborer is ordinarily not far from seventy to eighty cents a
day, but
in winter will hardly rise above sixty cents. A woman gets about half
as much.
During the six weeks of harvest time a good worker is allowed special
pay, and
can earn a dollar a day and his bread. The city has a strong attraction
for
those who do not themselves own or rent land, and it is not easy to get
good
help. In northern France much of the farm labor is done by Belgians.
They come
across the borders in great numbers each spring, and are hired for a
term of
six months. They are paid, however, not by the day or week, but by the
job — so
much an acre for hoeing the sugar-beets, so much for mowing, cutting
the grain,
etc. The farmer furnishes them all the cider they want to drink, and at
noon
serves them with vegetable soup; while at night he gives them a place
to sleep
in the barn. Otherwise, they take care of themselves. They buy bread,
and they
get bacon to use in making soup; and on Sundays they perhaps indulge in
a piece
of beef. They go barefooted; they work like slaves; and in economy of
living
they could give points to the Chinese. They come year after year to the
same
farms, and at the end of each six months of labor they take home a
goodly sum
of money. One thing
deterrent
to French thrift is the increase during recent years of alcoholism.
Formerly
the people drank almost no liquors save their mild wines. But the
devastation
of the vineyards by the phylloxera reduced the amount of wine produced,
and its
place was in part taken by highly alcoholized artificial wines, which
acted
disastrously on the habits and life of the people. At the same time,
science
was revealing new sources of alcohol. Corn, potatoes, and beet-roots
began to
yield it in large and profitable quantities. Some of the most fertile
agricultural districts were allured to alcohol making, and
distilleries sprang
up everywhere and placed their cheap and poisonous liquors within easy
reach of
the industrial masses. Self-interest, too, makes the public houses
encourage
the consumption of spirits; for their profit on them is very large as
compared
with that on wine. The number of saloons has multiplied, and
drunkenness,
which formerly was exceptional and individual, has grown common. But
the
country has awakened to the magnitude of the evil, and it is believed
that the
tide is now turning. Another
heavy
burden to the country is the military system. Up to 1872, lots were
drawn in
each commune every year to decide who of the young men should join the
army.
The highest numbers entitled the holders to total exemption; the lowest
meant
seven years’ service. Only sons, students at the seminaries, and
teachers
pledged to ten years’ public service, were free from obligation; but
immunity
could in any case be purchased. However, as the price of exemption was
in no
instance less than five hundred dollars, and often much more, this
means of
avoiding military service could only be taken advantage of by the rich;
while
the breadwinner of the poor frequently had to give up seven years of
his prime. After the reverses of the war with the Germans, the system was reconstructed. At present, every able-bodied citizen of the republic, beginning at the age of twenty, must serve his turn in the army. It is not possible to buy a substitute, and only the sick, disabled, and deformed escape conscription. Theological students, and those whose calling is art, science, or literature, are let off with one year, but practically all others must be in the army for three years. The pay of the common soldier is less than five cents a day, and none but those who must can keep their petty personal expenses within such a sum. Usually a soldier’s home folks furnish him with more or less pocket-money, according to their means. When the service is outside of France, the pay is higher. Such service is done wholly by volunteers, and these are never lacking, partly owing to the attraction of a larger allowance, but moved more by the chance to see foreign lands and to win glory, should there be fighting. CHURNING DAY Formerly,
it was
the custom to quarter the soldiers as far from home as possible, those
from the
north in the south, and vice
versa.
The idea was that they would put down local risings with more energy
than if
they were obliged to assert their military authority over their friends
and
neighbors; but now the comfort and convenience of the soldiers
themselves are
more consulted, and they are stationed as near home as is feasible.
This,
combined with the fact that the railroads are obliged to carry them at
one-fourth the regular fares, enables them to often return to the
parental roof
for short visits. At best
the
soldier’s life is a hard one, and most men gladly withdraw when they
have
served their time, to take up their work where they left it off. Their
interests
during their term in the army are by no means all military, and on a
market day
you may see soldiers examining as minutely as any of the country folks
the
displays of agricultural implements. The fascination of the ploughs and
harrows
lies in the fact that the soldiers are looking forward to the day when
they
will be released and back on the farm. After the
one or
three years of continuous service the ex-soldiers — peasants, priests,
artists,
doctors, and all the rest — have to give twenty-eight days from each of
the
following two years to military drill, and thirteen days from each of
the two
years after that. Then they are finally free, except that in case of
need they
are liable to be drafted until they are forty-five. One of the
most
noticeable ambitions of the French commercial class is the desire to
acquire a
competence and then retire from business and live on the income of
their
investments. That end attained, they are members of the “bourgeois”
class, the
French gentry. and they really enjoy doing nothing to a degree quite
incomprehensible to one from a land where the men of affairs, no matter
what
their age or wealth, are never content to be wholly separated from
their
business, and usually die in harness. The
associates
which a person may have among the French bourgeois are largely
determined by
income. A man in receipt of a thousand dollars a year is looked down on
by the
man whose income is twice that amount, and the latter in turn is
regarded from
above by the person who has annually a still greater sum at his
disposal. To a
considerable extent this is the way of the world anywhere; on the
amount of
income largely depends one’s manner of life and interests, and hence,
also,
one’s associates. But the separation which money makes, rather than
brains and
character, is much more marked in France than with us. When a
French son
or daughter marries, the parents are expected to provide for him or
her, as the
case may be, a good start in life. There is nothing haphazard about
it.
Everything is figured out and all parties know just where they stand
beforehand. A Frenchman does not marry for love alone. He is never
blind to the
worth of his bride, — her financial worth, — and some flaw in that will
keep
him long hesitating. The more money he has himself; the more he wants
his
intended should have. He is anxious to live as well in the future as in
the
past, if not better. He must have money — he must have a home. Married
life in
a boarding-house, which we Americans undertake all too cheerfully, he
thinks
impossible. A happy-go-lucky future of that sort he would not
contemplate for
a moment. As to the
women,
financiering plays less part in their love. The young ladies are
acutely
sensitive to the undesirabilility of becoming and staying old maids.
They are
romantic and ready to love and to be loved. But the woman who lacks the
lucre
which other girls of her class have, no matter how clever or handsome
she may
be, has small chance of marrying. A man of
exceptional intelligence with whom I talked on this subject took pains
to warn
me against accepting the life found in French novels as a true picture
of
national character. “Courtship with us,” said he, “is very commonplace.
There
is little glamour about it, and the novelists in order to give their
stories
interest add spice without limit, and lug in all sorts of wickedness
that have
little or no foundation in reality. They give foreign readers a very
distorted
impression of us.” As an
example of
the very unsentimental character of French wooing he related to me this
story
of his village grocer, who had recently wedded. The grocer, it seemed,
had
passed his thirtieth year and was beginning to feel alarmed to see his
youth
slipping away and he still single, and likely to remain so if he did
not bestir
himself. But what gave him most concern was the need of having some one
to
assist him in his business. How was a man to get on all alone in a
grocery
store? But what could he do? — he knew of no woman who seemed to him
exactly
eligible and suited for a grocer’s assistant. So he informed his
neighbor,
Madame S., of his quandary, and she said she would help him. In Paris, which was some twenty miles distant, lived a friend of madame’s who had two daughters, and they were poor, and it was difficult to find good mates for them. Here was perhaps a chance to dispose of one of the maidens. She mentioned the matter to their mother, and as the grocer was entirely respectable and industrious she was quite willing he should become her son-in-law. Then madame explained the progress she had made to the grocer, but warned him there would be no dowry. However, considering the pressing needs of his grocer’s shop, he was ready to waive the matter of dowry if the girls were of the right sort. Madame informed him that they were having some work done at her dressmaker’s in the village, and that they would be out to see about it the following Sunday. He could call at the dressmakers while they were there if he chose, and make their acquaintance. EVENING VISIT The young
man met
the two young women as planned, and he told madame afterward that the
tallest,
the elder one, pleased him very much, but he liked her sister, too. He
did not
wish to decide between them rashly, and he desired to know when he
could see them
again. She replied that they would next be in the village on Thursday
of that
week. The grocer
made
arrangements this time, not only to meet the two young ladies he was
courting,
but to see them back to Paris. “And I shall take with me a white rose,”
said he
to madame, “and the one to whom I give the white rose will be my
choice.” Thursday
came, and
the trip to Paris was made — a party of four — the two girls, their
mother, and
the grocer. From the Paris railway station to the home of the ladies
they rode
in a public omnibus, and it chanced that the omnibus they hailed had
but two
vacant seats inside. The mother and younger daughter took those, and
the grocer
and the elder girl climbed to the roof of the vehicle; and there, as
they rode
through the Paris streets, he gave her the white rose and told her of
his
ardent affection and his sincere desire to make her his assistant in
the
grocer’s business. Six weeks later they were married, and they are
living
together now as happily and with as few differences as fall to the lot
of most
married couples, while the improvement at the shop is manifest to all
observers. With the
beginning
of wedded life French young people take up their work, not only with
the intention
of making it yield them a living, but a steadily increasing surplus.
Some time
they hope to retire, and they must besides have the money to give their
children respectable dowries when they grow up and marry. The
responsibility
the parents feel in the matter of providing adequately for themselves
and their
families makes them desire that their children shall be few. This is
not
because they are French, but because they are thrifty. The thrifty
everywhere
regard large families as detrimental to the accumulation of wealth,
and to its
intactness after it is accumulated. Thus, in France, large families
are common
only among the propertyless poor, who have no need to think of
providing
dowries, and who have no hope of a leisure and independence in old age
that a
numerous progeny might imperil. That the almost stationary population of the country is due to racial degeneracy I think very doubtful. To a great extent, at least, financial reasons furnish the true explanation. It is not wholly agreeable to find the commercial idea such a controlling factor in all the affairs of life; yet, leave it out altogether and wreck is inevitable. Certainly luck and sentiment would hardly be safe substitutes. |