The gardens of Versailles are superior in beauty to any others that I have seen. I wish I could give you a good idea of them, as they appear to me this lovely day. Beautiful trees, shrubs, flowers of every size, fragrance, and color, orangeries, conservatories, palms, ferns, lakes, vine-covered seats, shaded walks, arbors, statues, grottoes cool and mossy, cascades, and the large fountains playing, with the Palace beyond, and the blue sky above it all—were indeed worth seeing. Linger longer outside we would like to, but the big, huge Palace is before us, and we must see a little of its contents. The galleries, or rooms, are of vast size, and are filled with paintings, sculpture, bric-a-brac, tapestries, and articles of intense historical interest. The State apartments, the living rooms of kings and queens, the theatre, and the chapel, with their frescoes and paintings, are a delight to us. In a suite of eleven rooms are pictures illustrating all the most noted events in the history of France. A white marble statue of the Duke of Orleans is very beautiful and remarkably graceful. We also noticed a fine statue of Joan of Arc. The chamber of Louis XIV. is absorbingly interesting, and is one of the gems of the Palace. The ceiling was painted by Paul Veronese, and was brought here by Napoleon I. from Venice. It represents Jupiter punishing Crime, and is of itself a day’s study, and more. The furniture and decorations of the room are rich and grand, said to be about as when the ‘Grand Monarque’ died in the room, entirely against his intentions and inclinations. The bedstead upon which he breathed his last, with the same hangings and coverlid, are here. It is a two-story one, and we wonder how he ever got on to it with any degree of dignity. This magnificent apartment of Louis Quatorze, peopled with ghosts of his time, brought to us many thoughts. This place, under his management, was made grand and beautiful, but at the cost of crippling the treasury of France and exciting discontent amongst her already overtaxed people, and it was not for their enjoyment, but for his own and his satellites’. In the queen’s card room the painted ceiling, by Le Brun, represents France, dispensing peace and abundance to all. What a mockery! At this very time, while royalty at Versailles was sipping wine from cups of gold, the hunger of the poor outside was beginning to make them mad. The painting of the marriage of Louis XIV. with Maria Theresa, and some of the battle pieces, are fairly well done. All that one has ever read of the greatness of Louis XIV., the evil of Louis Quinze, and the horrors of the Revolution, comes to one’s mind at Versailles. It seems to me that nowhere else could one so thoroughly feel and comprehend France,—her history and her changes. We saw the room in which Louis Quinze died alone, of small-pox, just as if he had never been a king. We saw the narrow passage where the beautiful Marie Antoinette went through to escape the fury of the Parisian mob, while the brave, noble Swiss Guards were cut down like grass. We thought of her standing on the balcony, between her innocent little ones, crying in vain to the howling throng for mercy; and yet Louis XVI., although a weak king, did not mean to be a bad one. F. says, her sympathy aroused for the ill-fated family, ‘How horrid the people were!’ Yes; but let not the name of Marie Antoinette make us forget the rights of the long-suffering and wronged people. These rulers were living in profligacy and luxury: the people, many of them, were in a starving condition, made so by the exorbitant demands upon them by Louis. Justice was not given them, and they took it, and the forced necessity of such terrible work made them maniacs. We feel sorry for mistaken royalty, and more sorry for the innocent, but let us go out into the beautiful gardens of Versailles, and see there the multitude enjoying its delights, instead of a few kings and queens, and be thankful. The palace and its gems are educators for them, and the gardens a place of rest, and may they ever thus remain. It was at Versailles that ‘good Queen Vic’ was royally entertained by Louis Napoleon, and it was also here that Emperor William was, later, crowned King of Prussia.
A hasty visit to Great and Little Trianon ended our day at Versailles. The first named was built by Louis XIV. for Madam de Maintenon, and although we had about had our fill of luxury, we grew enthusiastic over the Malachite Hall and the mosaics and bronzes we here saw. The Little Trianon, Louis XV. gave to Madame du Barry. Here we saw the old state carriages and harnesses. Madame du Barry’s carriage, in which she used to take her airings, cost 60,000 francs, and on state occasions she carried a bouquet of diamonds, which Louis had made for her at a cost of 300,000 francs. She had also a dressing-stand of gold studded with gems, and two cupids held a crown of diamonds above it, so made that whenever the owner looked into the mirror this crown was reflected as if resting upon her own head. This is an example of the way the revenues of France were then expended. Is it any wonder that there was a revolution?
An open carriage took us to the station, and again we took our places, on top of a steam-car, for Paris. This would be a delightful way of riding if only the engine would be sufficiently polite to turn its smoke in another direction than our faces. We had a fine view of the city and its suburbs as we approached it, and with dirty faces, tired feet, and our hands filled with French wild flowers and grasses, we reached Paris; and the ever-convenient cab soon landed us in Clement Marot. A friend had sent us tickets for the theatre, but we decided that we would spend the evening in the pretty drawing-room of our hostess and make it as nearly like a Sunday evening at home as possible. One of our number remarked how fortunate no one of our party has felt at all homesick. A bunch arose in my throat, but I swallowed it down, and I have told no one that often, when I think of the dear ones far away, longings for a sight of their faces will creep in.
Monday, July 2d.—Galleries and churches are not open to visitors on Mondays, so we planned for out-of-door sights to-day. The cheapness of these little, open barouches make us feel able to ride at any time. I wish I could take one home to Boston with me, cocher and all. We first went to the Arc d’Etoile, for the second time, and ascended to the top, for the views. It is said that the views from the Eiffel Tower, when completed, will surpass anything gained elsewhere, but those from the Arc d’Etoile are very grand.
This huge, superb monument of Napoleon I. stands in a ‘round square’ called the ‘Place d’Etoile.’ From this street twelve beautiful avenues lead, somewhat like spokes from the hub of a wheel. Now imagine this, and these streets built up with elegant residences, with pretty grounds about them, and the avenues filled with showy turnouts and merry throngs of people, promenading on the broad sidewalks, shaded by two rows of magnificent trees, and you get a little idea, with the picture I send you, of the Arc de Triomphe and its surroundings. The figures you see, which will look small on paper, are, some of them, over twenty feet high, representing Victory, Fame, etc. When we first walked under the arch, F. said, ‘I think this is a good deal like walking under the body of Jumbo,’—which experience we once had.
From the Arch we were driven straight down the beautiful Avenue des Champs Elysées to the Place de la Concorde, in which square stands the obelisk, the gift of the Pacha of Egypt. Immense bronze fountains are in the square, and large marble statues on pedestals, representing the country’s largest cities, around it. It is a lovely, peaceful spot, this glorious morning, with no signs of the terrible deeds that were once enacted here. But here it was the guillotine stood and did its murderous work. Here the rabble surged, crying for more blood. Here Charlotte Corday, here Marie Antoinette, met death. And here heads were cut off at the rate of forty or fifty a day; and men looked on, women sat about with their knitting, occasionally saying, ‘Look, there goes another.’
Do not dwell upon such horrors! we will go and buy some ribbons! Our first look into the Bon Marché. What a beautiful store it is, to be sure. The largest in the world. How the bargains tempt us! The clerks look bright and fresh, and are remarkably well dressed and intelligent appearing. And they have reason to be—they are all partners of this great money-making establishment, and time, opportunities, and means given them for study. The little articles here, fans, ornaments, toilet articles, handkerchiefs, gloves, etc., are irresistible, so pretty and so cheap. In one apartment, cake, cookies, bread, crackers, wine, tea and coffee, and the very best of their kind, are served to all who come, gratuitously. Wanamaker’s store in Philadelphia, and Shepard & Norwell’s, of Boston, are somewhat similar,—the first mentioned comparing very favorably, the second not as extensive but conducted partly on the same principle.
Leaving the Bon Marché we knew we had got our money’s worth, but had precious few coins left, so thought it a good time to see a little of the poorer class of this rich-appearing city. So into the Latin quarter are we driven. That sounds very intellectual and classical, but is really the old and poorer part of Paris. Here the streets are narrow, the men wear blue blouses, and the women look coarse and hard; exceptions there are, certainly, but such the general appearance.
Next, to Père La Chaise, the city of the dead. Much disappointed in its appearance. Does not compare with our beautiful Forest Hills. The walks are not well kept. Immortelles and shrivelled wreaths decorate the graves, instead of fresh flowers. Numerous monuments are here, and some very fine ones, but the most are costly without beauty. On the graves of children we saw toys, dolls, wooden horses, etc. We saw Rachel’s monument, and that of Abélard and Héloise, which is really beautiful. F. said she always meant to make a pilgrimage to this spot, from pure sympathy. We saw many names, on monuments, familiar to us from history; but as a whole, everything is too mixed up for it to be considered a beautiful cemetery. We saw a young girl bending over a grave in tears, and our own fell for her. She left a wreath on the, to her, precious earth, composed of white immortelles, with words made of the yellow flowers embedded in the white, which read, as nearly as we could translate, ‘To the loved man who was to have been my husband.’ That told the sad story. We thought Victor Hugo rested here, but one of our trio said no; at the Pantheon, he felt sure. ‘Well, he was a good and great man enough to have had two burial places,’ said F. And so say we all of us!
We went to the Hippodrome this evening,—sort of a fashionable circus; but not caring much for the entertainment, came out and walked about to see a little of Paris by gaslight—and such a sight! The entire population of the city seems to be poured into the streets. Bands of music playing in the squares; the sidewalk cafés have their tables surrounded with ‘evening dressed’ ladies and gentlemen. There are illuminated swings, merry-go-rounds, inclined planes, roller skating platforms, for the children, and all seeming to be respectably conducted. Paris is a clean city; the streets are like a well-swept floor all the time, no dirt to be seen. Two-thirds of the families live in apartment houses. These are better arranged than our Boston flats. The rooms are spacious, and no dark, windowless ones, as there is always an open court in the centre, to admit light and air, and about the windows facing these courts are balconies, pleasant to sit out on. The courts are cultivated, and either have shrubbery and flowers growing, or have grassy lawns, and this is all cared for by the landlords. The rents are much lower, also, than with us.