bout de papier, Vol. 9, No. 1 (1992) — Winter 1992 // Hiver 1992, pp. 13–15
The editors of bout have scored a fine coup in securing for publication this personal letter written in February 1947 from Paris by Charles Ritchie to the then Under-Secretary Mike Pearson, relating his incredibly humorous vicissitudes in finding lodging in the early post-war years in the French capital. Charles, then still a bachelor, had been posted to Paris at the beginning of 1947, to serve as Number Two — with the rank of Counsellor — to Ambassador Georges Vanier.
This was long before the days of Crown leases or government ownership of residences to be assigned to staff on arrival. In those earlier days, when you were posted abroad you were quite on your own, and you were lucky if you could get advice, let alone a few leads, from your new mission. And, to communicate, this was long before the days of word processors, facsimiles or Cosics. Charles’ 2,500 word letter appears to have been typed up on a machine similar to the 60-year-old Royal on which I typed this note.
When Charles finally found accommodation in Paris, it was for three months only and he wrote Mr. Pearson that before two months would be over “I must begin again my endless search. You will readily appreciate that it will be at least a year before I can devote any of my time to my official duties…” And he expressed the hope that “my experiences may be of benefit to other members of the service proceeding to European posts.”
Charles Ritchie’s wonderful letter about housing in Paris, unearthed for bout de papier by Don Barry and John Hilliker, co-authors of the second volume of the departmental history, surely equals in tongue-in-cheek humour the finest and funniest of his writings in the four volumes of his Diaries already published.
Imagine an officer in today’s External writing to Under-Secretary Reid J. Morden about housing the way Charles Ritchie wrote to Mike Pearson in 1947.
Paris, 24th February 1947
Dear Mike
It is about time that I gave you the first instalment of my Parisian adventure, which is comprised almost entirely under the heading of “Apartment Hunting”. The last month has certainly been a liberal education for me. I arrived here fresh, innocent and unsullied; now you would find me aged in corruption and wise in all the stratagems required to support life in Paris. I trust that my experiences may be of benefit to other members of the service proceeding to European posts.
I started out naïvely enough with the idea that all I had to do was to find an apartment, move in, and pay the rent. That was my initial mistake. I did not realize that every business transaction in this city involves one in a labyrinth of intrigue. At first, things looked exceptionally bright for me. A French businessman I had met during the Paris Conference rang me up on arrival and asked me whether I wanted a flat or a house. He owned, he said, a house which he thought might just suit me. He would take me out to see it. On the way out in the car I was somewhat surprised by my friend’s altruistic attitude.
Rent, he said, was to him a matter of little or no importance. He would let me have the house free of rent, unless I found that embarrassing, in which case I could pay a nominal rent. He would, he said, like to do something for Canada, something to show his appreciation for the many kindnesses he had received in the past from Canadians. I was surprised and touched. I said that it would not embarrass me not to pay any rent at all.
I was still more surprised when I arrived at the house. I had thought it might have some conspicuous flaw. Instead, it was a charming small 18th Century house, directly in the Bois, surrounded by a courtyard and set in a very pretty little garden. It was only as we were crossing the courtyard to approach the house that my friend mentioned that there was one minor difficulty concerning the house, which he should perhaps bring to my attention. It had been requisitioned at the time of the Liberation by the Chinese Military Attaché. The Military Attaché was still established in the house. He was, however, away in Washington for the time being. He had not proven a good tenant. If, however, I were to put in a requisition order with the Protocol Division of the Quai d’Orsay, he was quite convinced that they would be willing to expel the Chinese Military Attaché and install me.
The truth then broke upon me that, under the present regulations, the only hope which the owner of the house had of expelling his undesirable tenant was to get another diplomat to put in a requisition. A rapid mental picture of the result of such intervention on my part rose before my eyes. Civil war between the Chinese and Canadian Embassies, and an infuriated Chinese Ambassador coming to call on General Vanier to complain of the treatment accorded to his Military Attaché and probably a distinct cooling in Sino-Canadian relations over a period of years. “No,” I said to the owner of the house, “certainly not. Nothing would induce me.” But, by that time, we had reached the front door, which was opened by an extremely pretty Chinese girl in a kimono.
Then ensued one of the most embarrassing five minutes in my life. The Chinese Military Attaché is a bachelor. Far from being in Washington, he was in his house in Paris, in his dressing gown having breakfast in his bedroom. His charming girl friend in the kimono had been having breakfast opposite him when we burst in upon him. I could not but feel that this was an awkward beginning to my relations with my Chinese colleague. I hastily whispered to the owner of the house not on any account to introduce me. He for his part made a rapid but ruthless tour of the house, pointing out in caustic language the various forms of damage which the Military Attaché had inflicted on his furniture and possessions. The Military Attaché and the girl friend trailed after him apologetically.
1, for my part, had decided to assume the role of business agent to the owner of the house as there had to be some excuse for my presence. I did not speak, but restricted myself to tapping the wall and furniture in a professional manner as though I were some kind of furniture appraiser hired for the occasion. At last we escaped, but not before the owner of the house had heightened the general embarrassment by observing sourly to the Military Attaché that he had not realized that he was a married man. This malicious dig appeared to be the only revenge which he could take for the destruction which had taken over a good deal of his valuable 18th Century furniture. When we got away, I politely but firmly explained the impossibility of my proceeding further in the matter of the house. The next day at the diplomatic reception at the Élysée, as luck would have it, I found myself standing directly beside the Chinese Military Attaché. He gave me a startled and open look of recognition which I met with a blank and glassy eye.
During the course of the next two weeks, a number of minor incidents took place which I have not the time to record in the detail which they deserve. Each had its own peculiar aspect. Every variety of black market operation, payment in every conceivable currency and combination of currencies, was suggested to me by various apartment owners who had seen my advertisement in the papers or who had been told that I was looking for a flat.
There was the proposal that I should pay for the flat (30,000 francs a month) in American dollars, plus the privilege of the owner using the diplomatic bag to import such goods as he might require from across the Atlantic. There was the suggestion that I should pay 40,000 francs a month for a flat with no kitchen, but that the bathroom could be converted into a kitchen in a few months if I could get the priorities and labour and materials. There were numerous invitations to pay fantastic sums for the privilege of keeping people’s houses or flats heated and occupied while they had the use of one, two or three rooms in them. There were kind and pressing invitations from members of the French aristocracy, derelict baronesses and fading marquises, to make room in their hotel particulier at a rent which would pay the up-keep of the entire house and share the amenities of their distinguished social existence.
Then came something serious. An English spinster, long resident in Paris, telephoned to tell me that she could let me have her flat at a very remarkably reduced rate. I went to visit her. She gave me weak tea and chatted about the weather. I reflected on the wonderful power of the English character to withstand foreign influences. I might well have been taking tea with the Vicar’s sister in rural England. We arranged the details regarding the flat (I was to take possession the following day). As I was leaving she dropped the remark (ominous, although I did not realize it at the time) that she had always been much interested in psychic phenomena and that if I were interested in dreams, table turning, or thought transmission, I would find an interesting collection of books on the subject in the flat.
The next day, having packed all my possessions and made my arrangements to leave my hotel, I arrived key in hand to take possession of the flat. What was my surprise and mounting irritation when the lady told me that during the preceding night she had had a particularly impressive dream in which she had been distinctly warned by a voice coming from “the other side” not on any account to leave her flat. In the circumstances, she knew that I would not wish her to go against her psychic guide. I can only bow before a Higher Force and withdraw.
Very different was my experience with an Hungarian Lady resident in the Avenue Bugeaud. I called to see her flat one morning about I and was greeted by an aging beauty, clad in trousers, over which she wore a long embroidered coat. She wafted me graciously into a large salon hung with portraits of herself at various stages of what appeared to have been a highly successful career. 40,000 francs per month was the sacrifice price at which she was willing to let me have her flat. This, she explained, did not include the sheets, indicating a luxurious upholstered Louis XV bed, she pointed out to me that the sheets were of black silk. On alternate weeks she employed black silk and pink silk sheets. I would understand that she could not let me have the use of either. I eagerly agreed.
A little further conversation revealed that the lady was an Hungarian. Her life, she told me, had been full of adventure but had of late become rather sad. It would be a convenience, however, it I could let her retain one room in her flat. She could then let me have the entire apartment at a much reduced rent. Moreover, if she were in the flat while I was settling in, she could help in many little ways. Perhaps I did not know, she said, that women of the higher aristocracy in Hungary were taught to cook, but such indeed was the case. She, for example, could whip up very good pastry, if she had a mind to, and she would do that for me. She could even assist me at presiding at any dinner parties which I might give.
At this point I rose poised for flight, when looking at me earnestly she said “There is one very delicate question which I think I should mention. You certainly do not intend to live here long.” She took my silence for consent. “In that case” she said, “the arrangement which I am going to suggest depends on your character and I have not had time to learn what your character is. (Not surprising, as I had only been there for eight minutes). If you have great need for change in matters of love, the proposal which I am about to make to you will not prove satisfactory, but it you do not require many women in your life you could always depend on me. I should always be here — ’Comptez sur moi’.” All this was said in a business-like manner as if the facilities which she was offering went with the pastry, as extra comforts supplied with the flat. As I was leaving, however, she imparted her final touch. “If we could come to the arrangement” she said “which I have just suggested to you there would of course be no further difficulty over the sheets — they would be available.
I know there may be scepticism about the truth of some of these experiences but I can only assure you that they are a literal record of what took place.
Well, my dear Mike, I am not living between black silk sheets and eating Hungarian pastries, nor have I involved the Canadian Government in any black market transactions. I have, however, found a flat — too expensive for me; too large for me; too cold for me; but, all the same, a very attractive flat on the left bank in the Boulevard St. Germain. But, there is a snag about that too. I only have it for three months, so that before two months are over I must begin again my endless search. You will readily appreciate that it will be at least a year before I can devote any of my time to my official duties; but I shall keep you in touch with my unofficial activities by means of further low level communications.
Yours,
Charles
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 9, No. 1 (1992) — Winter 1992 // Hiver 1992, pp. 13–15. Read the rest of this issue →
