Is Polite Society Polite? Part 3

The other work which I have now in mind is Meyerbeer's opera of "The Huguenots," which I mention here because it brings so vividly to mind the features of another period in the history of Paris. It represents, as an opera may, the frightful days in which a king's hospitality was made a trap for the wholesale butchery of as many Protestants as could be lured within the walls of Paris,--the ma.s.sacre which bears the name of Saint Bartholomew. n.o.bles and leaders were shot down in the streets, or murdered in their beds, while the hollow phrases of the royal favor still rang in their ears. I have seen, near the church of St. Germain l'Auxerois, the palace window from which the kerchief of Catherine de Medici gave the signal for the fatal onslaught. "Do you not believe my word?" asked the Queen Mother one day of the English amba.s.sador. "No, by Saint Bartholomew, Madam," was the st.u.r.dy reply.

Meyerbeer's opera is truly a Protestant work of art, vigorous and n.o.ble.

Through all the intensity of its dramatic situations runs the grand choral of Luther:--

A mighty fortress is our G.o.d.

So true faith holds its own, and sails its silver boat upon the b.l.o.o.d.y sea of martyrdom.

Am I obliged to have recourse to a novel and an opera in order to bring before your eyes a vision of Paris in those distant ages? Such are our indebtednesses to art and literature. And here I must again mention, as a great master in both of these, Thomas Carlyle, who has given us so vivid and graphic a picture of the Revolution in France, which followed so nearly upon our own War of Independence.

I, a grandmother of to-day, recall the impression which this great conflict had made upon the grandparents of my childhood. Most wicked and cruel did they esteem it, in all of its aspects. To people of our day, it appears the inevitable crisis of a most malignant state of national disease. Much of political quackery was swept away forever, one may hope, by its virulent outbreak. No half-way nostrums, no outside tinkering, answered for this fiery patient, whose fever set the whole continent of Europe in a blaze. War itself was gentle in comparison with the acts of its savage delirium, in which the vengeance of defrauded ages fell upon victims most of whom were innocent of personal offence.

The reign of humanitarian theory led strangely to a period of military predominance which has had no parallel since the days of Alexander of Macedon. Then War itself died of exhaustion. The stupor of reaction quenched the dream of civil and religious liberty. But the patient stirred again in 1830 and 1848, and the dream, scarcely yet realized, became more and more the settled purpose of his heart.

Now the government in 1830 was manifestly in the wrong. The stupid old Bourbon Prince, Charles X., had learned nothing, and forgotten nothing, but the French people had learned and unlearned many things. They had learned the illusion of Monarchy, the corruption of the demagogue, the futility of the sentimentalist. The impotence of the aristocracy was one of the lessons of the day. Was ever a people more rapidly educated? Take the _canaille_ of the pre-revolutionary history, and the _peuple_ of the Revolution. What a contrast! It is the lion asleep in the toils, and the lion awake, and turning upon his captors in fury. The French people have never gone back to what they were before that great outbreak. The mighty, volcanic heart has made its pulsations felt through all a.s.sumptions, through all restraints. Yet the French people are easily tricked. They are easily led to receive pedantry for education, bigotry for religion, constraint for order, and successful pretension for glory.

The Revolution of 1848 was justified in all but its method. And method has often been the weak point in French politics. Methods are handed down more surely than ideas are inherited. The violent measures whose record forms so large a part of French history have left behind them a belief in military, rather than in moral, action. The _coup d'etat_ would seem by its name to be a French invention; but it is a method abhorred of Justice. Justice recognizes two sides, and gives ear to both. Pa.s.sion sees but one, and blots out in blood the representatives of the other. The Revolution of 1848 was the rather premature explosion of a wide and subtle conspiracy. But if the conflicting opinions and interests then current could have encountered each other, as in England or America, in open daylight, trusting only in the weapons of reason, a very different result would have been achieved. Do not conspire, is one of the lessons which Paris teaches by her history. Do not say, nor teach others to say: "If we cannot have our way, we will have your life." Say, rather: "Let both sides state their case, and plead their cause, and let the weight of Reason decide which shall prevail."

Paris as I first knew it, half a century ago, was a place imposing for its good taste and good manners. A stranger pa.s.sing through it with ever so little delay would necessarily have been impressed with the general intelligence, and with the aesthetic invention and nicety which, more than anything else, have given the city its social and commercial prestige.

In those days, Chateaubriand and Madame Recamier were still alive. The traditions of society were polite. The theatres were vivacious schools of morality. The salon was still an inst.i.tution. This was not what we should call a party, but the habitual meeting of friends in a friend's house,--a good inst.i.tution, if kept up in a good spirit.

The natural sociability of the French made the salon an easy and natural thing for them. Salons were of all sorts. Some shone in true glory; some disguised evil purposes and pa.s.sions with artificial graces. I think the inst.i.tution of the salon indigenous to Paris, although it has by no means stopped there.

The great point in administering a salon is to do it sincerely. Where the children are put out of the way, the old friends neglected, the rich courted, and celebrities impaled and exhibited, the inst.i.tution is demoralizing, and answers no end of permanent good. A friendly house, that opens its doors as often and as widely as the time and fortune of its inmates can afford, is a boon and blessing to many people.

I suppose that the French salons were of both sorts. Sydney Smith speaks of a certain historical set of Parisian women who dealt very lightly with the Decalogue, but who, on the other hand, gave very pleasant little suppers. French society, no doubt, afforded many occasions of this sort, but far different were the meetings in which the literary world of Paris listened to the unpublished memoirs of Chateaubriand; far different was the throng that gathered, twice a day, around the hearth of the wise and devout Madame Swetchine.

In the days just mentioned, I pa.s.sed through Paris, returning from my bridal journey, which had carried me to Rome. I was eager to explore every corner of the enchanted region. What I did see, I have never forgotten,--the brilliant shops, the tempting _cafes_, the varied and entertaining theatres. I attended a _seance_ of the Chamber of Deputies, a lecture of Edgar de Quinet, and one of Philarete Charles. De Quinet's lecture was given at the Sorbonne. I remember of it only the enthusiasm of the audience,--the faces at once fiery and thoughtful, the occasional cries of "De Quinet," when any pa.s.sage particularly stirred the feelings of the auditors. Of Philarete Charles, I remember that his theme was "English Literature," and that at the close of his lecture he took occasion to reprobate the whole literary world of America. The _bon homme_ Franklin, he said, had outwitted the French Court. The country of Franklin was utterly without interest from an intellectual point of view. "When," said he, "we take into account the late lamentable disorders in New York (some small election riot, in 1844), we shall agree upon the low state of American civilization and the small prospect of good held out by the republic." He was unaware, of course, that Americans were among his hearers; but a certain tidal wave of anger arose in my heart, and had not my graver companion held me down, I should have arisen then, as I certainly should now, to say: "Monsieur Philarete Charles, you are uttering falsehoods."

In those days, I first saw Rachel, then in the full affluence of her genius. The trenchant manner, the statuesque drapery, the chain-lightning effects, were much as they were afterwards seen in this country. But when I saw her, seven years after that first time, in London, I thought that her unrivalled powers had bloomed to a still fuller perfection than before. Of finest clay, thrilled by womanly pa.s.sion and tempered by womanly tact, we need not remember the faults of the person in the perfection of the artist. Alfred de Musset has left a charming account of a supper at her house. I certainly have never seen on the boards a tragic conception equal to hers. Ristori, able as she was, seemed to me to fall short in Rachel's great parts, if we except the last scene of "Marie Stuart," in which the Christian woman, following the crucifix to her death, showed a sense of its value which the Jewish woman could neither feel nor counterfeit.

The gallery of the Louvre recalls the finest palaces of Italy, and equals, in value and interest, any gallery in the world. Venice is far richer in t.i.tian's pictures, and Rome and Florence keep the greatest works of Raphael and Michael Angelo. To understand Quintin Matsys and Rubens, you must go to Antwerp, where their finest productions remain.

But the Louvre has an unsurpa.s.sed variety and interest, and exhibits not a few of the chief treasures of ancient and modern art. Among these are some of the masterpieces of t.i.tian, Raphael, and Leonardo da Vinci, the Conception of Murillo, Paul Veronese's great picture of the marriage at Cana in Galilee, and the ever-famous Venus of Milo.

In one of the princ.i.p.al galleries of Venice, I was once shown a large picture by the French artist David. I do not remember much about its merits, but, on asking how it came there, I was told that its place had formerly been occupied by a famous picture by Paul Veronese. Napoleon I., it will be remembered, robbed the galleries of Italy of many of their finest pictures. After his downfall, most of these stolen treasures were restored to their rightful owners; but the French never gave up the Paul Veronese picture, which was this very one that now hangs in the Louvre, where its vivid coloring and rich grouping look like a piece of Venice, bright and glorious like herself.

The student of art, returning from Italy, is possessed with the mediaeval gloom and glory which there have filled his eyes and his imagination.

With a sigh, looking toward our Western world, so rich in action, so poor as yet in art, he pauses here in surprise, to view a cosmopolitan palace of her splendors. It consoles him to think that the Beautiful has made so brave a stand upon the nearer borders of the Seine. Encouraged by the n.o.ble record of French achievement, he carries with him across the ocean the traditions of Jerome, of Rosa Bonheur, of Horace Vernet.

In historical monuments, Paris is rich indeed. The oldest of these that I remember was the Temple,--the ancient stronghold of the Knights Templar, who were cruelly extirpated in the year 1307. It was a large, circular building, occupied, when I visited it, as a place for the sale of second-hand commodities. I remember making purchases of lace within its walls which were nearly black with age. You will remember that Louis XVI. and his family were confined here for some time, and that here took place the sad parting between the King and the dear ones he was never to see again. I will subjoin a brief extract from the diary of my grandfather, Col. Samuel Ward, of the Revolutionary War, who was in Paris at the time of the King's execution:--

_January 17, 1792._ The Convention up all night upon the question of the King's sentence. At eleven this night the sentence of death was p.r.o.nounced,--three hundred and sixty-six for death; three hundred and nineteen for seclusion or banishment; thirty-six various; majority of five absolute. The King desired an appeal to be made to the people, which was not allowed. Thus the Convention have been the accusers, the judges, and will be the executors of their own sentence. This will cause a great degree of astonishment in America, where the departments are so well divided that the judges have power to break all acts of the Legislature interfering with the exercise of their office.

_January 20._ The fate of the King disturbs everybody.

_January 21._ I had engaged to pa.s.s this day, which is one of horror, at Versailles, with Mr. Morris. The King was beheaded at eleven o'clock. Guards at an early hour took possession of the Place Louis XV., and were posted at each avenue. The most profound stillness prevailed. Those who had feeling lamented in secret in their houses, or had left town. Others showed the same levity and barbarous indifference as on former occasions. Hitchborn, Henderson, and Johnson went to see the execution, for which, as an American, I was sorry. The King desired to speak: he had only time to say he was innocent, and forgave his enemies. He behaved with the fort.i.tude of a martyr. Santerre ordered the executioner to dispatch.

Louis Napoleon ordered the destruction of this venerable monument of antiquity, and did much else to efface the landmarks of the ancient Paris, and to give his elegant capital the air of a city entirely modern.

The history of the Bastile has been published in many volumes, some of which I have read. It was the convenient dark closet of the French nursery. Whoever gave trouble to the Government or to any of its creatures was liable to be set away here without trial or resource. One prisoner confined in it escaped by patiently unravelling his shirts and drawers of silk, and twisting them into a thick cord, by means of which he reached the moat, and so pa.s.sed beyond bounds.

An historical personage, whose name is unknown, pa.s.sed many years in this sad place, wearing an iron mask, which no official ever saw removed. He is supposed by some to have been a twin brother of the King, Louis XIV.; so we see that, although it might seem a piece of good fortune to be born so near the crown, it might also prove to be the greatest of misfortunes. Think what must have been the life of that captive--how blank, weary, and indignant!

When the Bastile was destroyed, a prisoner was found who had suffered so severely from the cold and damp of its dungeons that his lips had split completely open, leaving his teeth exposed. Carlyle describes the commandant of the fortress carried along in the hands of an infuriated mob, crying out with piteous supplication: "O friends, kill me quick!"

The fury was indeed natural, but better resource against tyranny had been the calm, strong will and deliberate judgment. It is little to kill the tyrant and destroy his tools. We must study to find out what qualities in the ruler and the ruled make tyranny possible, and then defeat it, once and forever.

The hospital of the _Invalides_ was built by Louis XIV., as a refuge for disabled soldiers. This large edifice forms a hollow square, and is famous for its dome,--one of the four real domes of the world, the others being the dome of St. Sophia, in Constantinople; that of St.

Peter's, in Rome; and the grand dome of our own Capitol, in Washington.

I have paid several visits to this interesting establishment, with long intervals between. When I first saw it, fifty years ago, there were many of Napoleon's old soldiers within its walls. On one occasion, one of these old men showed us with some pride the toy fortifications which he had built, guarded by toy soldiers. "There is the bridge of Lodi," he said, and pointing to a little wooden figure, "there stands the Emperor." At this time, the remains of the first Napoleon slumbered in St. Helena.

I saw the monument complete in 1867. It had then been open long to the public. The marble floor and steps around the tomb of the first Napoleon were literally carpeted with wreaths and garlands. The brothers of the great man lay around him, in sarcophagi of costliest marble, their names recorded not as Bonapartes, but as Napoleons. A dreary echo may have penetrated even to these dead ears in 1870, when the column of the Place Vendome fell, with the well-known statue for which it was only a pedestal, and when the third Napoleon took his flight, repudiated and detested.

But to return. In 1851 I again saw Paris. The _coup d'etat_ had not then fallen. Louis Napoleon was still President, and already unpopular.

Murmurs were heard of his inevitable defeat in the election which was already in men's minds. Louis Philippe was an exile in Scotland. While I was yet in Paris, the ex-King died; but the announcement produced little or no sensation in his ancient capital.

A process was then going on of subst.i.tuting asphaltum pavements for the broad, flat paving-stones which had proved so available in former barricades. The President, perhaps, had coming exigencies in view. The people looked on in rather sullen astonishment. Not long after this, I found myself at Versailles on a day set apart for a visit from the President and his suite. The great fountains were advertised to play in honor of the occasion. From hall to hall of the immense palace we followed, at a self-respecting distance, the sober _cortege_ of the President. A middle-sized, middle-aged man, he appeared to us.

The tail of this comet was not then visible, and the star itself exhibited but moderate dimensions. The corrupting influence of absolutism had not yet penetrated the tissues of popular life. The theatres were still loyal to decency and good taste. Manners and dress were modest; intemperance was rarely seen.

A different Paris I saw in 1867. The dragon's teeth had been sown and were ripening. The things which were Caesar's had made little account of the things which were G.o.d's. A blight had fallen upon men and women. The generation seemed to have at once less self-respect and less politeness than those which I had formerly known. The city had been greatly modernized, perhaps embellished, but much of its historic interest had disappeared. The theatres were licentious. Friends said: "Go, but do not take your daughters." The drivers of public carriages were often intoxicated.

The great Exposition of that year had drawn together an immense crowd from all parts of the world. Among its marvels, my recollection dwells most upon the gallery of French paintings, in which I stood more than once before a full-length portrait of the then Emperor. I looked into the face which seemed to say: "I have succeeded. What has any one to say about it?" And I pondered the slow movements of that heavenly Justice whose infallible decrees are not to be evaded. In this same gallery was that sitting statue of the dying Napoleon which has since become so familiar to the world of art. Crowns of immortelles always lay at the feet of this statue. And I, in my mind, compared the statue and the picture,--the great failure and the great success. But in Bismarck's mind, even then, the despoiling of France was predetermined.

What lessons shall we learn from this imperfect sketch of Paris? What other city has figured so largely in literature? None that I know of, not even Rome and Athens. The young French writers of our time make a sketch of some corner of Parisian life, and it becomes a novel.

French history in modern times is largely the history of Paris. The modern saying has been that Paris was France. But we shall say: It is not. Had Paris given a truer representation to France, she might have avoided many long agonies and acute crises.

It is because Paris has forced her representation upon France that Absolutism and Intelligence, the two deadly foes, have fought out their fiercest battles on the genial soil which seems never to have been allowed to bear its n.o.blest fruits. The tendency to centralization, with which the French have been so justly reproached, may or may not be inveterate in them as a people. If it is so, the tendency of modern times, which is mostly in the contrary direction, would lessen the social and political importance of France as surely, if not as swiftly, as Bismarck's mulcting and mutilation.

The organizations which result from centralization are naturally despotic and, in so far, demoralizing. Individuals, having no recognized representation, and being debarred the natural resource of legitimate a.s.sociation, show their devotion to progress and their zeal for improvement either in pa.s.sionate and melancholy appeals or in secret manuvrings. The tendency of these methods is to chronic fear on the one hand and disaffection on the other, and to deep conspiracies and sudden seditions which astonish the world, but which have in them nothing astonishing for the student of human nature.

So those who love France should implore her to lay aside her quick susceptibilities and irritable enthusiasms, and to study out the secret of her own shortcomings. How is it that one of the most intelligent nations of the world was, twenty years ago, one of the least instructed?

How is it that a warm-blooded, affectionate race generates such atrocious social heartlessness? How was it that the nation which was the apostle of freedom in 1848 kept Rome for twenty years in bondage? How is it that the Jesuit, after long exile, has been reenstalled in its midst with prestige and power? How is it, in so brilliant and liberal a society, that the successors of Henri IV. and Sully are yet to be found?

Perhaps the reason for some of these things lay in the treason of this same Henri IV. He was a Protestant at heart, and put on the Catholic cloak in order to wear the crown. "The kingdom of France," said he, or one of his admirers, "is well worth hearing a ma.s.s or two." "The kingdom of the world," said Christ, "is a small thing for a man to gain in exchange for the kingdom of his own honest soul." Henri IV. made this bad bargain for himself and for France. He did it, doubtless, in view of the good his reign might bring to the distracted country. But he had better have given her the example, sole and ill.u.s.trious, of the most brilliant man of the time putting by its most brilliant temptation, and taking his seat low on the ground with those whose hard-earned glory it is to perish for conscience's sake.

But the great King is dead, long since, and his true legacy--his wonderful scheme of European liberation and pacification--has only been represented by a little newspaper, edited in Paris, but published in Geneva, and called _The United States of Europe_.

So our word to France is: Try to solve the problem of modern Europe with the great word which Henri IV. said, in a whisper, to his other self, the minister Sully. Learn that social forces are balanced first by being allowed to exist. Mutilation is useless in a world in which G.o.d continues to be the Creator. Every babe that he sends into the world brings with it a protest against absolutism. The babe, the nation, may be robbed of its birthright; but G.o.d sends the protest still. And France did terrible wrong to the protest of her own humanity when she suffered her Protestant right hand to be cut off, and a great part of her most valuable population to submit to the alternative of exile or apostasy.

So mad an act as this does not stand on the record of modern times. The apostate has no spiritual country; the exile has no geographical country. The men who are faithful to their religious convictions are faithful to their patriotic duties. What a premium was set upon falsehood, what a price upon faith, when all who held the supremacy of conscience a higher fact than the supremacy of Rome were told to renounce this confession or to depart!