PARIS—If exclusivity describes the obstacles posed to those seeking access, then the library of the Institut de France is one of the most exclusive spaces in the world, and Harvard allows its students to practice one of the most exclusive forms of tourism in existence.

Upon entering the Institut for the first time, I peered at the hall of assembly, where 40 “immortal” members meet to give speeches in praise of one another and to do whatever it is that such a large group of aged but exceedingly learned men and women do when left behind closed doors unsupervised. Glowing marble busts of members from generations past covered the walls.As the age-old parquet floor creaked sonorously under my feet, I couldn’t but think of what an unlikely set of circumstances had landed me in this most rarefied of spaces, a haunt solely dedicated to members of France’s five most elite academies—the first of which was founded in the 17th century by Cardinal Richelieu, and all of which are now grouped under a gilded cupola facing the Seine, ironically just steps away from where noisy tourist masses gather near the Saint Michel fountain.

In Paris for the summer just like so many of my American college peers, I found my alibi for being here in a certain senior thesis on French history that remains entirely to be written. Generously funded by Harvard’s Minda de Gunzburg Center for European Studies and the Weatherhead Center for International Affairs, I was endowed not only with the necessary pecunia to keep me in a tiny flat off the Boulevard Diderot, but also with something more immaterial, yet of crucial value: a letter beginning with “To Whom it May Concern.”

On fancy Veritas-watermarked paper, this short message was my admittance ticket to a number of locations that the average visitor to Paris is never to see.

To enter the Institut, if one is not an immortal oneself, a personal recommendation from one of the elect is required. Yet, not counting among friends or acquaintances any member of the academies, I gingerly proffered my Cantabrigian parchment. After a series of formal exchanges in my very best (but still quite mediocre) French, I found myself with a flowery endorsement by the secrétaire perpétuel of the Academy of Moral Sciences.

I was soon part of a world of emerald tapestries, of rooms where one can admire the handcrafted handles of the swords that each academician receives upon election. Suddenly, the much-vaunted French “defense of high culture” gained new meaning.

One visit to a prestigious and well-guarded institute hardly constitutes a new form of travel, and in fact the Academy was not my only coup. More prosaically, in the manuscripts division of the French National Library, I enjoyed peeking at the illuminated pages of my medievalist neighbors. Even better, I applied to enter the French National Assembly, which boasts a small but gloriously frescoed library. After being allowed permission to enter while France’s legislative body was in session, I wandered past well-tended flower beds. As passionate French politicians were broadcast live on myriad flat screens, also surrounding my trail were busts of Marianne, that feminine, immortal, omnipresent personification of la République française.

Meanwhile, other Harvard friends kicked down inner doors at the National Opera and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Although none of us was invited to dine with parliamentarians, sopranos, or immortals, we undoubtedly penetrated the façade, if not (yet) the innermost sanctuaries, of some of the elite cultural institutions that Paris boasts in such abundance. Armed only with our Veritas watermarks, we found that institutions conceived by long-buried French kings were delighted to have us around.



Admittedly, Harvard-sponsored cultural tourism is not for everyone. Our letters were singularly unsuccessful in getting us first-row places at the large open-air concerts held in Paris over the summer. Nightclubs and first-class travel compartments are similarly indifferent to the enthusiastic words of the Center for European Studies’ executive director.

More importantly, to participate in this Harvardian opportunity, one must be able to take pleasure in the gloriously pompous and refined traditions of France, such as the subtle art of formal letter-writing and the oligarchic conviction that true science can only be accomplished within damask walls and under frescoed vaults. It is preferable also to hold an abiding interest in personalized swords and marmoreal likenesses.

Still, for those Harvard students pondering the many ways our tuition payments can pay dividends, the cost of this most exclusive and, one might add, priceless angle on Paris may well be—apart from the munificent support of one of our research institutions—just a little ink and some standard-sized envelopes.



Alexander Bevilacqua ’07, a Crimson editorial editor, is a history concentrator in Leverett House. France has left him with an irrepressible desire for customized dueling equipment.