Stephen Sondheim, the American composer and lyricist, died recently. From “Company” to “West Side Story,” he was a potent force in American musical theater in the latter half of the twentieth century. Of the many accolades and remembrances expressed after his death, I was struck by those in Metropolitan Diary, a weekly column in the New York Times where past and present New Yorkers relate “odd fleeting moments” in astoundingly lyrical prose and, sometimes, poetry. This week’s Diary anecdotes were all about Stephen Sondheim. What struck me were the accounts of his small acts of kindness. Those told me more about the man than anything I read in his obituary.
Coincidentally, I’ve been thinking about kindness. It pushed itself into my consciousness, first in reading a few unrelated essays and then in receiving two separate Paris email newsletters. Whether the subject was a play, a composer, a scientific study, or something else, the same question arose: what has happened to common decency?
I’m just back from a month-long, fact-finding, soul-restoring stay in Paris. It always takes me a little while to readjust stateside; until I do, I’m in limbo between two different cultures, two different languages. Eventually, words and expressions that are second nature in Paris, fade.
Pardon takes a little longer. Pardon is a word on Parisians’ lips, at the ready. Pardon bears the weight of French culture: old, formal, a bit old-fashioned, and, to be fair, rule-bound. If you so much as inadvertently brush up against someone, it’s de rigueur to say pardon, usually accompanied by making eye contact as further acknowledgement of the transgression. The practice is so pervasive that I know instinctively if someone bumps me and does not say pardon, they are most likely not French. Like saying bonjour before launching into conversation when you meet someone, it is just what you do.
The French are nothing if not polite. You need look no further than the proper usage of the pronouns tu and vous, which goes well beyond number. And France, despite its myriad complexities and problems, nevertheless feels civil, underpinned by a framework of common decency. I think it’s the reason the French can indulge in discussing, arguing, and debating with verve and still love you when it’s over. Spend a day watching French television and you’ll see what I mean. Better yet, stand on line outside a boulangerie or movie theater and watch people’s behavior. Even strikes are announced before they happen, making it possible to plan a plan B. There still persists an unspoken set of rules—though at times they may seem to be hanging by a thread—that everyone plays by. The mystery is how all this gets passed along from generation to generation.
A few years ago, I extended my stay in Paris on short notice and decamped to the house of longtime family friends in the suburbs. I’d stayed with them several times before, but this time it was just me and the two twenty-something sons, whom I have known since they were in elementary school and welcomed into my home in Minneapolis. During the week, we went our own ways, back and forth into Paris for school and work. Then the weekend came. Weekends, like meals, are family time. Sacrosanct. At least one day, usually Sunday, there is a big meal where everyone gathers à table. So I should not have been surprised when the younger of the two young men said on Sunday morning that he’d be cooking and we’d be eating at one o’clock. But surprised I was. And not only that. I am still ashamed when I remember that I hadn’t planned on being there because I assumed that without their parents, all bets were off. I was wrong: The mice did not play while the cats were away, they carried on. I was there at one o’clock. To have not, would’ve been an affront, unkind, rude.
Under the umbrella of civility, kindness, politeness, and courtesy are among the spokes; their evidences, often subtleties. Spending time in Paris as I do, I see the subtleties. The contrast feels stark.
At the end of the day, we have a choice: are we at that table at one o’clock, or not? Few of us will leave behind a legacy as notable as Stephen Sondheim’s; but we can all leave behind small acts of kindness and let that be our legacy.
It can begin with pardon.
Joyeuses fêtes de fin d’année