Fragments Of An Autobiography Part 23

It was History herself he meant to drag from her pedestal--History, ever crowning herself with wreaths of laurel and halos of virtue. It was Art too he waged war upon, that Art which he deemed had too long served to glorify the rule of Force: sometimes in a picture or in a legion of pictures, as at Versailles, exalting Imperialism and inciting us to go forth and emulate the deeds and misdeeds of our ancestors; sometimes in a statue of some clever organiser of wholesale slaughter, appropriately cast in the bronze of cannon taken from the enemy; or, again, in a barbarous trophy, a triumphal arch--in fact, in a scalp of some kind, that, from generation to generation, we are taught to gloat over.

This was the wording of the decree which condemned the column to destruction:--

"THE COMMUNE OF PARIS

"Considering that the Imperial Column of the Place Vendome is a monument of barbarism, a symbol of brute force, of false glory, an encouragement of military spirit, a denial of international rights, a permanent insult offered by the conquerors to the conquered, a perpetual conspiracy against one of the great principles of the French Republic, namely fraternity,

"Decrees:--

"_Sole article_--The Vendome Column is to be demolished."

One day--it was a wretched day, the rain pouring in torrents--I went to see the ruins of Saint Cloud. People were discussing the question as to who had really done the work of destruction there--the Germans, the Versaillais, or the Communards. To the poor victims who had come forth from their hiding-places, returning only to find their homes and hearths ruined, it could really matter little whether the grim work was done by the six of one or the half-a-dozen of the other.

Wandering along the streets in ruins, I was struck by one piece of high wall left standing out against the grey sky to bear witness to the strange caprices of the destructive element; a large red umbrella hung in its place on that wall, and a striped petticoat bedrizzled with rain was being blown about by the wind. The fireplace had kept its every-day appearance, whilst the floor beneath it had gone; on the mantelpiece stood some little household G.o.ds, bits of china, a clock, and various nick-nacks one could not distinguish at a distance. Close to me was a touching little group of victims. A woman with three girls, their ages ranging from eight to twelve years, stood gazing at that wall which had once been part of their home. They did not give vent to their feelings in tears or loud lamentations, as so many around me did; the mother was simply dazed, the children overawed. They had come back to Saint Cloud from I know not where, and were carrying their little belongings tied up in cotton handkerchiefs. I think they would scarcely have been able to identify their home, if it had not been for the red umbrella and the striped petticoat.

After a while I spoke to the woman and elicited with some difficulty that her husband had been killed early in the campaign, one son was maimed for life, and the other had not been heard of for two months.

When I gave her a few francs she put them in her pocket mechanically; her thoughts were elsewhere. I pa.s.sed on to witness more destruction and distress. When I returned, some half-an-hour later, to where the high wall stood, I found the mother and the three girls just where I had left them, still hopelessly gazing at the household G.o.ds that were mocking their misery from on high.

It was not till that day that I quite realised what we mean when we speak of blank despair.

The recuperative power of the French people is truly extraordinary, and, from the first day and hour of his deliverance, the Parisian gave striking evidence of it. Endowed as he is with indomitable pluck, infinite resources, and inexhaustible light-heartedness, he could set to work with a will, or dance and fiddle with a vengeance, whilst the ashes of his city were still glowing. It came quite natural to him to repossess himself of that city, and to drop unconcernedly into his old ways of life.

There he was once more, the typical Parisian who must have his daily stroll along the Boulevards; he must sit somewhere where he can sip something and see somebody else sipping or strolling. He must watch his opportunity of saying something polite to somebody, and, at a given hour, he must call for an _absinthe_ and concentrate his thoughts on the importance of an approaching meal.

And there he was again, the expert diner we all know, devoutly pinning his napkin under his chin, and thanking the G.o.ds that at last the sacred rites of the dinner-table could be duly performed.

One of the characteristics of the Parisian, I always thought, is that exquisite politeness of his. What a lesson to us, who won't even make room for a fellow-creature in a 'bus if we can help it!

In former days I used to say that I could always tell, if I wanted, to what nationality any particular man in the motley crowd of loungers on the Boulevards belonged. I need but tread on his toes, and he would use strong language in his mother-tongue. The German would invoke the "holy thunder-weather," the Dutchman would be still more sacrilegious, the Englishman would d.a.m.n something--probably the eyes I should have made use of; and so on--each would fling his pet wicked word at me. Only the Frenchman would raise his hat and say, "Pardon, monsieur."

Knowing and loving the amiable city as I did--I had spent altogether about six years there--I was deeply interested in her fortunes and misfortunes, and now warmly welcomed the first signs of returning prosperity.

The cannon's roar had ceased, people were coming from their cellars or other hiding-places, looking for their friends and congratulating one another on being alive. Crowds of sightseers filled the streets and stood gaping at the ruins or commenting on the unique spectacle before them. Barricades were being demolished, and squads of men and women were set to work to clear the roads of broken gla.s.s, splintered wood, and other acc.u.mulations of nondescript rubbish. Shops were being opened, and the _Dames de Comptoir_, as correct and business-like as ever, were getting out their books. Goods and wares that had been hidden away, were being brought to light. Shopkeepers were counting up their losses and discounting their prospects.

Matters political were in abeyance. Whenever I asked, "What is to come next? What Government would you vote for?" I got the answer: "Cela nous est bien egal, monsieur, pourvu qu'il-y-ait du travail."[14] One lived in a sort of interregnum, a period of transition from lawlessness to order. War had ceased, but peace had only just begun to strike roots.

There was no bragging, no cheap oratory--n.o.body seemed to think himself particularly "_trahi_."[15] There was no show of military rule. Even the sentries chatted freely with the bourgeois, and there were no ominous cries of "_Pa.s.sez au large_," coupled with the significant thrust of the fixed bayonet, as one used to hear in the days of the _Coup d'etat_. On the contrary, thousands of soldiers, with their _Cha.s.sepots_ slung carelessly across their shoulders, were sauntering along the streets, most of them evidently provincials, amazed at the grandeur of the capital they were visiting for the first time.

Cabs were about, and even the heavy three-horse omnibuses were resuming their well-regulated course; but no private carriages were to be seen.

In fact, the upper ten as well as the submerged tenth seemed to have disappeared, and the odd million about was made up of the _bourgeois_, the _piou-piou_,[16] the _badaud de province_, and other sightseers.

I scorned conveyances of any kind, and tramped along on foot from morning to night, for it was only thus I felt I was my own master. I could pull up, stumble, or climb as circ.u.mstances required, or I could turn in, stand, drink, talk, listen, and argue--or, better still, hold my tongue.

In the evening darkness reigned, except in the neighbourhood of the cafes. There people were congregating as usual, seeking the light like so many moths, and settling like flies on the sugar that was to sweeten their _demie-ta.s.se_ or to be pocketed for home consumption. At eleven o'clock the cafes were closed, and nothing remained to do but to go home in the dark. The moths, by the way, must have had a dull time of it, for the graceful lamp-posts had suffered so severely that very few of them were fit for service.

The Commune had naturally produced a great quant.i.ty of scurrilous literature and vile caricatures, some quite unmentionable; but they are interesting historically, throwing, as they do, a lurid light on the events of those days and the pa.s.sions they evoked. I bought whatever I could find of such papers and drawings, as also a few of the more respectable publications, and the collection is a pretty complete one, including, as it does, copies of the Pere d.u.c.h.ene, La Lanterne, Le National, La Verite, &c., and some sixty caricatures of the Emperor, the Empress, Thiers, Jules Favre, and many other leading men, all furnis.h.i.+ng abundant material for recording and ill.u.s.trating the politics, hysterics, and erotics of those troublesome times.

Towards the end of my stay I went to Saint Denis. Peace and its blessings were really coming, and welcome signs of their approach were not wanting; even little twigs of olive branches were being held out where I least expected to see them.

Saint Denis was still in the hands of the Germans, and was not to be evacuated till a stipulated sum, forming part of the war indemnity, had been paid. Officers and men quartered there had made themselves very much at home, and some did not seem to be on bad terms with the inhabitants, as in one case, when a bright young fellow on the German side seemed on particularly good terms with an attractive young lady on the French side. He and I had got into conversation; he was evidently pleased to meet a countryman of his (I can be a German occasionally), and was disposed to be friendly and confidential. "Come with me," he said; "I will show you the prettiest girl in Saint Denis." I went to see "the prettiest girl," who, it seemed to me, had been watching for him at the window, and now came down to the door.

He was a non-commissioned officer in I forget which regiment. When not in uniform he was a lawyer--for aught I know, a rising young _Rechtsanwalt_, with plenty of clients. I hope so, for the sake of the young lady, who was charming, and was as much smitten with him as he was with her. He had taught her a few German words, which she could not p.r.o.nounce without laughing and showing her pretty teeth; she again had lent him some books from her little library. He spoke French fluently, and was happy to be put through a course of French literature by his fair friend.

Love being thicker than blood, I feel sure they eventually got married; and after so romantic an opening, their story cannot but have proved interesting. Should anybody care to write it, I think the line to be taken should be this: They married, and lived "happy ever after"--as happily as their children would let them. They had four, differing widely in their tastes and convictions. One son enlisted in the German army; the other in the French. Both were deeply grieved to have fallen on evil times, when emperors and presidents were ever proclaiming the blessings of peace, and when even the people were beginning to question the desirability of attacking their neighbours.

Of the daughters, one loved the Germans, and was unhappy because she was to marry a Frenchman her parents had selected; the other hated the Germans, and was broken-hearted because she was not to marry the Frenchman she loved.

It must all end happily, however, for it is essential that the moral should be pointed: Love your neighbour, if only to show you are unshackled by prejudice. Marry him or her, whether he or she is your hereditary foe or not, and settle down to a life of peace and happiness, that you may inaugurate, by your n.o.ble example, the blessed era, when the lion and the lamb shall no longer hesitate to go and do likewise.

But not often was it my good fortune to spend a pleasant hour as at Saint Denis and to imagine little romances built on slight foundations.

The tragedy being enacted around me forced itself on my view more than once, when I met batches of miserable prisoners marched off, some to be judged by court-martial, others already sentenced to be shot. The Parisian looked on without exhibiting much interest in their fate. He had seen so much of bloodshed in every form lately that he had grown callous. The day of settlement had come, the murder of the hostages must be avenged, and the _canaille_ must be cleared away, just as the broken gla.s.s and the wrecked barricades had to be.

The reign of terror continued; it had only changed its name. Now it was called Justice. Shocking specimens of depraved humanity were those ill-fated prisoners, dragged from their haunts to be tried by the military authorities in Versailles.

I saw types such as only come to the surface when conflicting pa.s.sions of the worst kind stir up the very dregs of society: dishevelled viragos, brutalised men, female fiends, men devils--hyaenas, ready to spring and fasten their claws on you, were they not chained. I heard their howl of despair and their laugh of defiance, as they were led off to be shot.

And thus, whilst the beautiful city was smoothing her ruffled feathers and taking out a new lease of life, the poor wretches met their doom at the foot of the blood-spattered wall.

Wild beasts if you like--but men and women--our brothers and our sisters--alas! born in squalor, bred in vice, and tainted with hereditary ugliness of body and mind.

Who made them what they are? Let us try to find out, and, if we can, let us stand the guilty ones up against that wall, and clear them away with the other human wreckage. But no! neither you nor I would be left to do the clearing away.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration: Portrait of Robert Browning]

CHAPTER XI

SOME INCIDENTS OF ROBERT BROWNING'S VISITS TO THE STUDIO

I well remember, and it is often a source of infinite enjoyment to me to recall, many a trifling incident connected with the name of Robert Browning. He was the kindest and most indulgent of friends, and, as such, I remember him with grat.i.tude and devotion; and he was the most honourable and lovable of men, and so it was but natural I should honour and love him.

What I can record about him is mostly of a personal character, and I only trust that, if any member of a Browning Society happens to come across these pages, he will not resent my inability to add more than a few descriptive touches to what is already known of the poet.

He was well aware that I had never really studied his works, in fact that I had only read a small portion of them; but he made allowances for that, as for my other shortcomings. He also knew that when, by dint of perseverance, I did master some difficult pages of his writing, none could more warmly appreciate the subtle beauties they contained than his humble friend.

"Last night I read Bishop Blougram," I told him on one occasion. "I went as far below the surface as I could get, but I need not tell you I did not reach the bottom."

"Try again," was all he answered; and when I asked who had been his models, he said that Cardinal Wiseman was his Bishop, and that Gigadibs was not sketched from any one particular person. The Cardinal, he told me, had himself reviewed the poem favourably.