T.J.  Clark,  The Painting of Modern Life

A Feeling of a Lost Paris

The   critics  said  that  they  had  lost  Paris  and  were  living  in  someone else's  city.  This   was  a figure  of speech,  and  people  were  not necessarily meant   to  take  it  seriously.  The   playwright  Victorien  Sardou   put  on  a comedy, Maison  neuve [New House] in  1866, and  seemed  to make  light  of  the  fears  of an  elderly   haberdasher  in  the  face  of  progress.  The   character's nephew and  niece are intent  on moving to the Boulevard  Malesherbes and  ask him, laughing, what  it is he has against  the  new Paris.  what he thinks   will be lost  by changing places.  He  replies  in a grand  speech:

Dear  child! It is the old  Paris  that  is lost, the was narrow, unhealthy, insufficient, but picturesque, varied, charming, full of memories. We had  our favourite walks a step  or  two away,  and  our  favourite sights, all happily grouped together! We had our little outings with  our  own  folk:  how  nice it was!... Going for a stroll  was not  something that  tired  you  out.  it  was a delight.  It gave birth to that eminently Parisian compromise between laziness and activity known as flanerie! [There is no English equivalent to this term, but it means something like a stroller through the city.”] Nowadays, for the least  excursion, there are miles to go!  A muddy thoroughfare which  women   cross  without grace,  since  it  no  longer   has the elasticity  of the old  paving  stones  to support them! An eternal sidewalk going on and on forever!  A tree, a bench, a kiosk! ..
And  on  top  of all  that,  the  sun!  the  dust,  the  mess!  the  dirt! A crowd  of people of all shapes  and  sizes, cosmopolitans jabbering away  in every language, decked  out  in every conceivable colour.  Nothing left of the things  which once constituted our own little world,  a world apart; a world of expertise, judgement and  refinement, an  elite  of  wit  and  good   taste. -- What is  it  we  are  losing,   by God?  Everything! This is not Athens any longer, it is Babylon! It is not the capital of  France, but  of  Europe! A  wonder, we  shall  never  see  the like – a world! – agreed . . . Nevertheless, it isn't  Paris  and  there  are  no  Parisians any  longer.
CLAIRE, in reply: Come  now,  uncle. don't you  understand how grand it is, how comfortable, how  hygienic?
GENEVOIX, again: But  haven't I told  you  that  I admire it! It was inevitable; they had  to do  it, they  did  it!  They did  well!  and  altogether, things  have  turned out for  the  best!  Long  live  the  city!  I applaud it heartily-and beg leave  to think  it fortunate that  God  himself  was ignorant of this marvellous municipal system,  and did  not  choose  to arrange the  trees  in  the  forest  in  rows  ... with  all  the  stars above  in  two  straight lines.

We are  presumably meant  to laugh,  and  sympathize, and  have more  than a sneaking feeling  that  Genevoix may  be right.  And  so it proves:  the  new house on the Boulevard Malesherbes turns  out  to be a financial (and  moral) disaster, and  the comedy  ends  with  the  family  chastened and  reunited  in the  draper's shop  on the  Rue  Saint-Denis. Sardou   knew his vaudeville audience well: he contrived the denouement he thought they  wanted.