I felt I was entering the Proust-Tissot cercle

“Work” in the morning (except that it wasn’t work at all). We started at one big hotel to consider Economics and then moved on to yesterday’s hotel to talk about Society. So far the Summer School was proving to be far more interesting than I had expected. I also think my enjoyment was heightened by the fact that I wasn’t paying for anything! It is easy to see how “European” money has seduced those who are invited into the Union’s programmes. The experience brought to mind Christina Rossetti’s Goblin Market, where just a taste of the goblin wares damns you forever.


During the morning one very idealistic Belgian said: “Exactly as Marx predicted, globalisation is creating a global class defined in terms of their relation to production rather than any temporary attachment to a national territory.” This reference to Marxist thought caused a flurry. Someone looked up the exact quotation on Google (“Here it is, here it is, page thirty seven of the Communist Manifesto: the need of a constantly expanding market for its products chases the bourgeoisie over the whole face of the globe").


Mid-morning we walked the short distance to yesterday’s hotel venue, passing the other team going to the room we had just vacated.


In the second half of the morning we considered society. This session really amazed me, so that I felt I was learning something completely new. We looked at the ways in which “societies” come into existence and how they can be influenced by a relatively small number of people (surprisingly these are generally not politicians or journalists who usually only reflect society).




Above: before going out into the courtyard I paused for a moment and took this photograph - out of sight, to the right of the cream coloured fountain, the “cercle” were talking, and I felt a familiar fear (Sarte’s nausea of the threshold) before forcing myself to join them.



After the sessions I stayed for the pre-lunch drinks. Everyone gathered in the hotel courtyard garden to wait for the other group to join us. I felt a sort of déjà vu related to the Tissot painting Le Cercle de la rue Royale. Charles Frappe had gone on at some length about this painting and how it is central to Proust’s “ideology” (supposedly you cannot really understand the whole work without reference to the Tissot image). Entering the hotel courtyard, where our seminar group was waiting in the half-hour before lunch, I felt I was entering the Proust-Tissot cercle. Except that our group was larger (thirty, including one woman), younger, and tended to wear dark grey flannel suits rather than black ones.


You can see Tissot’s painting here: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Image:Tissot_cercle.jpg

I drank some iced mineral water. A French economist fell into the chair opposite me (he literally threw himself down). He had been working the room, ten minutes with each person then moving on.


Recently graduated, he was now working at a bank in London. Green eyes, very delicate straight nose (not the usual trapezoid shape that French men have), short black hair. There was iPod in the top pocket of his suit jacket, an overt smell of male cologne, and an English pronunciation to his voice that was so perfect there was hardly any trace of an accent.

He asked me what I thought about Blair’s resignation, just announced (I told him how pleased I was that Blair was finally going, although I also feel apprehensive about what is going to come next).


A German economic historian joined us, and began talking about the European constitution. He wanted Europe to be like the Holy Roman Empire - a polyglot assemblage of electorates, bishoprics, free states, kingdoms, quasi-republican cities, marcher lands etc. Out of this compromise over time the process of constitutional natural selection would lead to the creation of a unitary state, perhaps taking a hundred years.






Leaving before they went into lunch, I went out the hotel by the back door, turned left, and found myself on the corner of the Rue Duphot (which has Proustian associations, although I couldn’t remember exactly what). As you can see (above), there was nothing particularly significant about the corner on the day I took this photo. I think the narrator of A la recherché waits there to meet Charles Swann (just as Proust once waited there to meet Charles Haas and, more prosaically, I waited to meet Robert Leiper and Charles Frappe).




Over the road I saw, in a façade, the dark square shape where a large door had been opened. This blue-black space had a compelling quality to it, so that I went over to take a closer look. I was reminded of the mysterious doorways in the Arnold Bocklin painting The Island of the Dead.






I went through the door and found myself in a cavernous nineteenth-century church (a very ponderous style of architecture). Banks of flowers were set before an altar that was as elaborate as an operatic stage-set. At various points in the building young women were kneeling in prayer, their faint whispers clearly audible.





Outside again, a juggler appeared by the church steps and began his street performance. I thought of what might be happening back in England, at the office, where a high-level delegation was arriving from Croydon to assess whether the operation was still viable. The thought occurred to me that I might get back to find everything closed, and the contents of my desk dumped in a skip.

Eventually Robert Leiper and Charles Frappe arrived.




Election graffiti in a Metro station. Why has the protestor used an English expletive? Was this an English or American commentator voicing an opinion on a French presidential candidate? Or was this a French commentator writing for an international audience (it was a very prominent Metro station used by thousands of tourists). Or are English expletives in vogue in Paris? These were the sorts of trivial thoughts that filled my head as I tagged along behind Robert Leiper and Charles Frappe.



Above: Charles Frappe ordered lavish cakes and cups of lime tisane.

From the Place de la Concorde we walked along the Champs Elysées and into the parallel Allée Marcel Proust. This way went through a sort of park, dusty and full of noise from the traffic on the main road. We stopped at the Café Lenotre for a very late lunch.

Because it was a warm day we sat outside in a tree-shaded cordoned-off enclosure overlooking the Champs Elysées. There were not many customers in this area, but the waiters bunched everyone together, so there was no privacy and we could hear everything that was said on the next table only a few inches away. This table was occupied by a bespectacled middle-aged woman and what was obviously her teenage daughter. The middle-aged woman was fairly plump, sensibly dressed in neutral-coloured clothes, and with lush, curly (bordering on frizzy) chestnut coloured hair streaked with grey. Her daughter was aged about seventeen, slim and pretty, her manner subdued. They were both English, and from the mother’s accent I judged they came from a refined area of the Midlands (Biddulph perhaps).

Charles Frappe gave our order - cakes and (in a self-consciously Proustian gesture) lime tisanes.

At the table next to us the woman ordered coffees for her daughter and herself.

“With cream?” asked the black-uniformed young waitress (petite brunette, hair in a bob, darting way of moving around the tables).

“Yes” the woman replied.

The coffees were brought to the table, and the waitress was smartly walking off when the woman called her back.

“I asked for cream” she said.

“This is cream.”

“This is milk. I asked for cream. Please bring me some cream.”

The woman smiled across at her daughter, the smile implying infinite reserves of personal superiority. The daughter looked back impassively. The waitress walked back into the café, the heels of her shoes clicking on the stone path, a slight wiggle to her hips the only indication that she might be annoyed.

The waitress returned with a young waiter and what looked like the original jug.

“Madam, this is cream” the young waiter said (very uncertainly) to the woman.

“This is not cream, this is milk” said the woman. She leaned across and whispered to her daughter who suggested a French expression that I couldn’t quite catch. This vernacular phrase was repeated to the waiter.

The waiter and waitress went back into the café. The trees above us waved in a breeze, the birds sang, the traffic moved past on the Champs Elysées. The waitress returned with a jug.

“This is not cream” the woman snapped (as if she were tired of their games).

“It is cream” the waitress said, a tiny wail in her voice.

“Hot!” (I cannot adequately convey the layers of contempt and incredulity the woman managed to pack into this tiny word).

“Yes” the waitress said, not bothering to hide her irritation.

“Oh, bit of attitude there” the woman said to her daughter. The daughter sat absolutely still. The jug was sent back yet again.

We finished our lime tisanes and got up from the table (although I would have preferred to have stayed to see how the episode ended).

“Only Katherine Mansfield could do justice to the awfulness of that woman” said Charles Frappe in a low voice as we went into the café to pay the bill.

In the evening we went to a production at the Comédie Francais. This august institution is devoted to classical French theatre, and is housed in a building next to the Palais Royal. We bought the tickets in advance. Charles Frappe spoke to the counter clerk in French, with much gesticulating and extraneous commenting in what was clearly meant to be an authentic Parisian accent, but as he turned to go the clerk said to him helpfully “Have a nice day!” Charles Frappe winced as if he had been stabbed and gave the clerk a sort of disgusted grimace. I felt like laughing (but I didn’t).

In the evening we returned to the theatre which was packed with young people - obviously students. We had very good seats and could see the stage perfectly. Although I didn’t understand the eighteenth-century play the scenery and costumes were very vivid and the acting was very animated, so I wasn’t really bored. Partly I suspected Charles Frappe had suggested going to the Comédie Francais to expose my poor language skills, as opposed to his own command of the French language, which is why I enjoyed the Have A Nice Day! incident (rereading this sentence it sounds as if I am paranoid, but all the time I was in his company I felt as if he was trying to trip me up).

After the play we walked down to the Seine and along the lines of houseboats until we reached the Frappe residence. Getting onto the boat in daylight was worrying enough, but at night-time it was downright chancy. In particular, the little leap you have to do from one boat onto the other, both vessels moving, the black water washing backwards and forwards.

Charles Frappe poured us all glasses of Bordeaux. I just took a couple of sips from my glass, not wanting to drink anything (the boat was swaying and the motion made me feel ill). As soon as I could, I made an excuse and left.

As I was climbing up the ladder-stairs I noticed on a ledge Robert Leiper’s rollerblades. In the past I had tended to ridicule Robert’s rollerblading efforts, comparing him to a character in Father Ted (especially as he wasn’t very good at it), but the sight of them seemed a reminder of happier pre-Frappe times.

“Do you still go rollerblading?” I called down to Robert in the deep room.

“No” answered Charles Frappe. “I’ve banned it. It’s far too dangerous on the quayside.”

I went back to my hotel (getting off at St Lazare and walking the rest of the way) wondering what to do about the Charles Frappe problem. Eventually I decided to do nothing. Robert Leiper was old enough to look after himself.