Paris, May 22, 1878.
Scenes and sensations there are in life which seem to cut themselves into the soul as diamond cuts into glass, and on May 22, 1871, occurred one of this kind. On the afternoon of that day I was sitting on the balcony of a house in London with a large and merry party watching the “return from the Derby” up Grosvenor Place, every house and balcony in which was similarly draped in red and filled with bright faces and brighter dresses, with youth, beauty, and fashion, when a friend appeared amongst us, sad and solemn, come from his club in breathless haste, evidently burdened with some important news. In a few seconds a thrill of horror ran through the lively circle, for he had announced that the “Tuileries was burning! Paris was in flames!” Never shall I forget the sensation. All at once the countless carriages below, full of ladies and children, ranged in a line along the street; the four-in-hands coming back from Epsom, driven by, and filled with, the reigning “hopefuls” of the “Upper Ten,” whose faces as they passed betrayed the varied effect of the race on purse and betting-book; the dust-stained inmates and blue-veiled coachmen of the open landaus and hansoms, with their emptied picnic-baskets slung behind; the serious countenances of some, the smiling features of others; the thousand-and-one comic-tragic incidents of the motley multitude which make the return from this annual British Olympic game so celebrated—all suddenly faded from our view, for the eyes of the soul became transfixed on the appalling scenes then occurring in Paris, and their possible consequences caused all hearts to feel sick with anxiety and dismay. L’imagination travaille, it is true, at such moments, and is prone to exaggerate; but had not the Versailles troops succeeded in entering the city, our fancy would in no way have outstepped the reality. Until that day all had believed themselves prepared for the worst. The murder of the archbishop and his martyred companions had sorely grieved mankind, and a repetition of the guillotine scenes of the Reign of Terror we felt might any day occur; the idea was not unfamiliar, but so wholesale an instrument of destruction as petroleum, such demons has les Pétroleuses, had never entered into our wildest calculations. “The terrible year,” as the French have since so aptly named it, 1871 most truly was, not only for them but for the thinking world at large, who, from the universal confusion, the ungoverned passions, the fast-increasing atheism, had need of a confidence in Providence, supernatural in the highest degree, not to lie down and die of sheer despair.
Eighteen months later I passed through Paris on my way home from Switzerland, but so dolorous was the impression that I had fain leave it in a couple of days. Ruin, desolation stared one in the face at every step, and the smell of petroleum seemed to haunt one at every turn. The blackened shells of the historic Tuileries, of the beautiful Hôtel de Ville, the Conseil d’Etat, the Ministry of Finance, the Gobelin tapestry manufactory with its art treasures accumulated there during the last three hundred years, the blank in the Place Vendôme caused by the destruction of its splendid column, the felled trees in the Bois de Boulogne, and the complete annihilation of St. Cloud, town and palace, were sights which deprived us of all happiness during the day and of peaceful rest at night. Not less melancholy was the effect of the sad countenances of the inhabitants. The elasticity and cheerfulness which had formerly seemed to be a component part of Paris air was gone, and in its place one only heard tales of their sufferings in those days of anarchy, of the Pétroleuses seen gliding stealthily through the streets, of the petroleum strewn round St. Roch and the chairs piled up in the nave of Notre Dame, so that both churches might be set on fire, when the troops providentially entered just in time to prevent this and many other wicked designs being carried out. Instead of the brightness one remembered of yore, people seemed to have a suspicious dread of their neighbors, and veiled communism undoubtedly still lurked even in the best quartiers. One notable instance of the kind will never be effaced from my memory, and even now, though mayhap unjustly, makes me view Parisian cabmen with anything but affection.
My friend and I, feeling dejected and oppressed by sad thoughts, one morning determined to indulge our feelings by a kind of pilgrimage to the scene of the massacres, especially as we had known and revered the sainted archbishop at the time of the Vatican Council in Rome. Calling a cab, therefore, on the Boulevard des Capucines, we quietly desired the grinning coachman to drive us to the Rue Haxo. In an instant his expression changed to one of sturdy anger. He knew no such street; had never heard of it before; could not possibly take us there. Perceiving at once the spirit we had to deal with, and that he had divined our object, no other cab, moreover, being within view, we insisted no further on the point, but tranquilly told him to drive instead to La Roquette—the prison where the unfortunate victims had been confined. Knowledge of so large a place we knew he could not deny, and, trusting to our own general idea of its position, we felt satisfied when he apparently started in that direction. However, on and on we went, in and out of lane and street, without seeming to approach the object of our search, but as we proceeded soon found ourselves amongst a most forbidding population, men and women looking stern and sulky as we passed, and exchanging glances with our driver, who appeared known to many, while on more than one window were the ominous words, “Ici on vend le pétrole!” An involuntary shudder seized us, not diminished on reaching an open height whence we beheld La Roquette in a distant part of the town, and our horse’s head turned exactly the opposite way. The truth suddenly flashed upon us. Our Communist driver, possibly one of the undetected incendiaries or murderers himself, calculating on our ignorance, while unable to plead such on his own part, had cunningly outwitted us by driving in and out toward a different point, whither doubtless he would have gone on indefinitely but for our unexpected discovery. It was too dangerous a neighborhood in which to quarrel with him, even though but mid-day; therefore, merely telling him that we had altered our intentions, we tranquilly desired him to return to our original starting-point on the Boulevard des Capucines. Most curious was it then to note the same instantaneous change of countenance as before, but this time to an exultant expression as undisguised as the sulky mood of the previous hour. And how could we wonder at it? For had he not succeeded in defeating the object we had in view, and, moreover, inspired us with so much fear that we sighed to get away from such a population and never breathed freely again until safely back in the more civilized quarters? Our courage, however, then revived, and, determined not to be altogether conquered, we bade him turn aside and stop at the ci-devant Hôtel de Ville. Incredible as it now sounds, again he feigned ignorance, then pretended to have lost his way, and at length, when we forced him to “land” us there, the scowl and growl he honored us with made us realize, more than any description ever could, what such a being might be if uncontrolled, above all if multiplied indefinitely.
To-day, the 22d of May, 1878, as I stand in the new building on the Trocadéro and behold the scene before me, thinking of this recent past, I am tempted to doubt my own identity. Paris—the same Paris that was in flames on this day seven short years since—now lies, like a vision of beauty, outstretched around; the pretty Seine winds beneath its beautiful bridges, the countless boulevards are thick in shade and perfumed blossoms, the then unfinished streets finished, the scars and wounds well-nigh (though not completely) removed, all faces bright and people civil, and the whole city still hung with the thousand flags spontaneously hoisted on the opening day of the Exhibition, when England and America were everywhere given the posts of honor beside the tricolor. Opposite, the huge main building of this same Exhibition, standing on the Champ de Mars, is crowded with its fifty and sixty thousand daily visitors;[[126]] the gardens between it and this Trocadéro, connected by the bridge of Jéna, are covered with a moving mass of all nationalities, while the Spanish restaurant, Turkish kiosk, Chinese “summer palace,” English buffet, Hungarian cafe, dotted with others around the grounds, tell of peace, and of a national revival unparalleled for its rapidity in the history of the world.
And what subjects for deep thought, what food for philosophic meditation, as one gazes at this glorious landscape, and from the hidden recesses of one’s memory spring forth recollections of the past few years!
My own acquaintance with this Champ de Mars dates from 1865, when in the August of that year I here witnessed a review of fifty thousand men in honor of Don François d’Assise, King Consort of Spain. On this last 1st of May, 1878, the same royal personage, long since classed amongst the ex’s residing in this capital, walked beside the Marshal-President, MacMahon, and the Prince of Wales in the procession which opened the Exhibition, and it were but natural to presume that thoughts of his previous visit must now and then have flitted across his royal brain. On that former occasion military of all arms lined the sides of the then arid square, while the imperial party advanced from the Porte de Jéna up its centre to a tribune in the Ecole Militaire. First came the empress, beautiful and popular, loudly cheered as, in her open carriage, she passed along the lines; next appeared the little Prince Imperial, not more than nine years old, riding far in front quite alone on his tiny pony, followed by his father, the emperor, and his royal guest, Don François d’Assise, escorted by an apparently brilliant gathering of distinguished military men. No prophetic eye was there to point out those who in brief time were to court the national defeat, or whose names would soon become bywords for corruption and incapacity.
Nor in the large mass of soldiery who required two hours and a half to march past, albeit in quick time, could any one discern the possibility of coming gigantic disasters. Alas! alas! what reputations have since then been blown into thin air, what calculations dashed to the ground, what history “acted out,” fearful suffering endured, theories exploded! Such thoughts are overpowering—sufficient to make the giddiest spirits ponder. And such, in truth, has been their effect of recent years in France; for, side by side with the marvellous material resurrection of this energetic nation, its religious revival has grown to astounding proportions. Not that we ever can admit with many passing observers that the French people were so completely devoid of religion as it has been somewhat the fashion to affirm—and on this point we thoroughly agree with the article by an eloquent Protestant writer in the Blackwood of last December—but the terrible events of 1871 have made the most frivolous more sober-minded, forced many an indolent mind to reflect, and from thoughts have made them now proceed to acts, to good works and alms-deeds. Above all they seem to have learnt the necessity of expiation and of prayer, and the whole Catholic portion of the French community since then have fallen upon their knees and endeavored to pray. Their pride, it is true, has been humbled, but they have taken the lesson properly to heart, and appear to have realized the truth that in all things, human as well as divine, “in order to live we first must die,” and that without supernatural aid even humility itself cannot be acquired.
And here it must be noted that mortifying as the defeat by the Prussians has been to French pride, it never could have produced the permanent effect on their characters which has been achieved by the frantic outbreak of the Commune. This it is which has so thoroughly sobered the entire nation and made them feel that every one must combine as against a common enemy. The republic, too, whether destined to last or not, has been productive of one incalculable service in depriving all its citizens of the possibility of shirking individual responsibility by throwing the blame, as heretofore, of every failure on some supposed or real despot; so that, while they have arisen from this death-struggle wiser and better men, Frenchmen now see the necessity, almost for the first time in their history, of taking an active part in public affairs and putting their own shoulders to the wheel.