Mr. Moulton put on a bold face and broke the news to us on our arrival; but, contrary to his fears, Mrs. Moulton and I were enchanted. Mademoiselle Wissembourg was not so enthusiastic. A live Communard at such near focus had no attraction for her.
Beaumont's politics are sadly wanting in color, making him supremely indifferent to other people's politics; and, as he has a great admiration for Courbet as an artist, he does not care whether he is a Communard or not.
We waited with impatience for the appointed hour, and lo! Courbet stood before us. Mademoiselle Wissembourg had once remarked that she had great sympathy for the people, who must feel themselves oppressed and degraded by the rich and powerful, and so forth. But I noticed, all the same, that she retired into a corner, probably thinking Courbet was bristling all over with pistols, as behoves a Communard.
Courbet is not handsome; he is fat and flabby (of the Falstaff type), with a long beard, short hair, and small eyes; but he is very clever, as clever as Beaumont, which is saying a good deal.
Of course they talked of "the situation." Who could help it? Courbet belongs more to the fraternity part of the motto than he does to the equality part of the Commune! He is not bloodthirsty, nor does he go about shooting people in the back. He is not that kind! He really believes (so he says) in a Commune based on principles of equality and liberty of the masses. Mr. Moulton pointed out that unlimited liberty in the hands of a mob might become dangerous; but he admitted that fraternity absolves many sins.
They talked on till quite late. Beaumont showed him his last picture, which he (Beaumont) thinks very fine, but all Courbet said was, "What a pretty frame!" I don't know if Mrs. Moulton and I felt much admiration for the great artist, but he left us convinced that we were all in love with him. We told Mr. Moulton we thought it might get us into trouble if Courbet vibrated between us and the hotbed of Communism. But Mr. Moulton answered, "What does it matter now?" as if the end of the world had come.
Perhaps it has.
March 24th.
Since I have been in Paris I have wished every day to go and see my former singing-master, Delsarte; but something has always prevented me.
To-day, however, having nothing else to do, I decided to make the long- projected visit; that is, if I could persuade Mademoiselle to accompany me. After my experience in the Rue St.-Arnaud the other day I did not venture to drive, so we started off to walk (with Mademoiselle's reluctant consent) to the Boulevard de Courcelles, where Delsarte moves and has his being.