Not about the Dordogne
Richard Cobb
THAT SWEET ENEMY: A PERSONAL VIEW OF FRANCE AND THE FRENCH by Christopher Sinclair-Stevenson Cape, £12.95 France is a big country, so there is plenty to choose from. The choice is up to any individual English or Scottish fran- cophil; so are the omissions. I am sure the present author is right to start off with Boulogne, a much better place than Calais; and there is indeed much to be said for approaching Paris through the chalky hills of Picardy, the many glimpses of the Oise and of small lakes with islands dotted with huts for duck-shooting. The Gare du Nord is the right point of entry, and I share with Christopher Sinclair-Stevenson a deep dis- like of the rue Lafayette. One could, of course, make an equally good case for Dieppe and the Gare Saint-Lazare, though I suppose the latter belongs by right to the American visitor.
I suppose Paris has to be included in any evocation of France, and I am glad the author has made such good use of E.V. Lucas's A Wanderer in Paris, a wandering done on foot, first published in 1909. Thanks to him, I reread it and found it full of observant insights. Poor Lucas could not see into the future: 'One of the great charms of Paris', he writes, 'is that it is always the same. I can think of hardly any shop that has changed in the last ten years...'. Just as well he was spared seeing what happened to Paris in the 1960s and the two following decades! The author has a soft spot for the slightly melancholy Palais-Royal, the last refuge of medal shops (Decorations Frangaises et Etrangeres), and he shares with Queneau a feeling for the poetic and bizarre names, especially twin ones, of metro stations, and for the mysteries of la Grande Ceinture. He notes the vulgarity of the Champs-Elysees, but has a kind word for Fouquet's.
The inclusion of the Valley of the Loire in his evocation of France is, if a bit conventional, quite understandable, as, like so many English public school boys, he went there to learn French, in his case, to Blois, his teacher a Madame Sallier du Pin, a real person, not a character in a novel by Anthony Powell. As he has such a strong appreciation of that strange river, of its many tributaries, and its châteaux (of Loches, he has this to say: 'dungeons and small dark rooms smelling of blood and fear'), I think he would derive much pleasure; as well as a feeling of familiarity, from the novels of Julien Gracq.
I do not share his enthusiasm for the South-East, though I am glad he has plenty to say about Marseille. I suppose there is still something to be said for Aix. I would not be prepared to follow him along the ruined coast east, but then he likes the sun, and I don't.
This delightfully evocative book has many merits, not the least a negative one: it is not about the Dordogne. What is it about the Dordogne? I would not know, having always given the place a pretty wide berth. I believe it is almost entirely colo- nised either by Oxbridge academics or by awful women characters in the novels of Penelope Lively. A ne pas visiter.
How wise to have chosen Henri IV! Or, even better, more familiarly, 'HIV', the name of the best lycee in the whole of France. Voltaire too has earned his place in the author's mini-Pantheon. If he could have run to the luxury of a trinity, I would have made a strong plea for Diderot.
I find it very difficult to write about food and wine as such — the latter I just drink, without a glance at what is written on the bottle — but much easier to write about restaurants and eating in terms of sociabil- ity and habit; but the author seems a reliable authority not only on where to eat and drink, but on the various properties of different mineral waters (Contrexeville pour les reins), a truly heroic exploration. And how well he conveys the monumental sadness of Versailles, a place best seen in the frozen silence of a February afternoon, in the declining, livid light. The sad little story about Mrs Mackenzie's second will is pure L. P. Hartley. There is a bit more to faire chabrol than he makes out. Yes, indeed, you lap up the soup from the bowl, but first you pour a glass of red wine into it. The grandfather of one of my French friends died (eventually) of this inventive practice.
An altogether delightful evocation, and one that should accompany every British traveller, even on the rather impersonal TGV as it heads south. Thank you, Christ- opher, for such a very good trip.
The People's Armies, by Richard Cobb, is published this month by Yale at £30.
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