London Days Part 22

Who _was_ Boulanger?

At the Ches.h.i.+re Cheese, a year before the war, a young Fleet Streeter asked the question. He had heard some of us spinning yarns. But the name of Boulanger meant nothing to him. The world was created in the year he came to Fleet Street, say in 1908.

There are times when I feel it necessary to apologise for writing of the days of antiquity. There will certainly be some one to exclaim, when he sees the heading of this chapter, "Why drag Boulanger into _London Days_?"

One answer would be: Because I knew Boulanger in London.

"Was he ever here? How strange we should have forgotten it!"

Not in the least strange. Boulanger was forgotten soon after he arrived. He arrived at the Hotel Bristol, behind Burlington House, and was cheered by a few waiters and chambermaids. It was a murky afternoon in the summer of '89,--dark, damp, and dreary. I saw him alight from his carriage. Some of the papers next day told of "the enthusiastic {261} greeting" he had received. Thus history is made. A few waiters, a porter or two, half a dozen chambermaids, and, of course, a manager. These were the enthusiasts.

It was a little disappointing to those who love "scenes", or have to describe them. Nothing happened. Of course, it was not disappointing to realise that one was a prophet. I had prophesied a scene like this, months before, when quite another kind of scene was being played in Paris, when Boulanger had the ball at his feet, or the game in his hands, if you prefer a choice of metaphors. He did n't play. There was merely an escape of gas from the balloon. The gas was not inflammable.

"Le brav' General" they called him. Up to the twenty-eighth of January, 1889, he was the hope of France. He was to be Head of the Army, Prime Minister, or President, or King, or Emperor, or Dictator, whatever he chose. He was to save France. She needed saving.

Politically, she was in the dismallest bog. She needed a MAN, thought she had found him in Boulanger, and on the twenty-seventh of January, Paris was to elect him to Parliament. Paris would give him a backing so enormous that he would "seize the reins of power." There would be a _coup d'etat_. That was what the papers said. There was quite a commotion, naturally.

Obviously I must go to Paris before the twenty-seventh; I must see the _coup d'etat_ whose approach was thundering from all the presses of Europe. There would be articles by the yard. In those {262} times, newspaper reproductions of photographs were even less satisfactory than they are now. I looked about for an artist who could go with me and ill.u.s.trate my articles. He must know something about the trick of drawing for newspaper reproduction, he must be a quick worker, for there was no time to be lost, and he must not be too well known because the chances were that a well-known artist would n't be able to cast his work aside at a day's notice, and bolt with me for Paris. I sent my a.s.sistant to find the right man.

He returned to me with a dejected look. "I 've found only one man who can go," said he.

"One is enough," said I.

"Yes, but--will he do? I 've only these two specimens of his work to show you." And he laid two small drawings before me.

"Capital!" said I.

"He has been in Paris, studied art there. And he lives in Chelsea."

"Terms all right?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Then I 'll see him to-morrow. By the way, what is his name?

"L. Raven-Hill."

And so it came about that the young man--he was a very young man then, under twenty-two--who was to win fame as one of the princ.i.p.al cartoonists for Punch, went to Paris with me and ill.u.s.trated the Boulanger election. He ill.u.s.trated for me other subjects in and about Paris. And when I went to Ireland, to do a series of articles a little {263} later, he was the ill.u.s.trator. And he drew London subjects for me. In fact, he was for about six months my chosen ill.u.s.trator. Then somebody in authority on the other side of the Atlantic wanted the preference given to certain other artists. Authority, of course, had to be obeyed, since it was paymaster. And in this case it had in its eye one or two young men who had come abroad, and who had influence enough to pull strings at headquarters. They were cousins to the owner's aunts, or something like that. Their work was too careless, grotesque, and altogether weak. After allowing them sufficient opportunity to demonstrate this, even to the satisfaction of their proprietary relatives, they were released from service. And ever afterwards I insisted upon choosing my own ill.u.s.trators. But meantime I had lost Raven-Hill, and some foreign mission calling me afield, there was no opportunity for renewing the connection. When I returned to London, Raven-Hill had found his feet, as I knew he would. The other day we compared our recollections of that time. They did not differ.

His work was admirable, even in those early days. It lent distinction to the text. I daresay that may have been the only distinction the text had. Raven-Hill entered into the spirit of the thing, and would go to any inconvenience to get what I wanted. And in the Boulanger campaign, that meant a good deal of inconvenience. We travelled by night trains because they were cheapest. If they were cheapest, they were also slowest. But all was grist that came to our mill.

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Paris we reached two days before the election. We looked for excitement but found none. It is not every day that Paris elects a "Saviour of France." It was preparing to elect one, and it was certain that he was to save France. There was a frenzy of bill-posting, but that was all. All the electioneering was done by post and posters.

Not a speech was made. Posters covered everything, inches deep. Paris was smothered by them. Boulanger posters were covered with Jacques posters. Jacques was the candidate opposing "Le brav' General."

Jacques was a n.o.body with money. Only a n.o.body with money could have afforded to stand against "Le brav' General." Before he offered himself for the sacrifice, n.o.body had ever heard of Jacques. After election day n.o.body heard of him again. He had his little explosion of glory, and then happy obscurity. But his account for bill-posting and printing must have been heavy. So must have been Boulanger's.

Statuary was covered with bills, and so were cabs. A Boulangist would plaster a bill over the nose of a bronze lion. A Jacquesist would follow and cover the Boulangist bill. The lion in the Place de la Republique was hideous with bills from his snout to the tip of his tail, a great-coat of paper. Above the lion a stone shaft was inscribed:

A LA GLOIRE DE LA RePUBLIQUE FRANcAISE

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The Glory of the French Republic seemed great enough to bear with equanimity the burden of Boulangist printing. The men who were posting Boulangist bills carried ladders. The Jacques men had no ladders. And so the Boulangists had the best of it. Wherever there was a smooth surface, and in numerous places where there was not, bills went up.

They were manifestoes, proclamations, election cries. n.o.body made a speech. The printer did all. Arches, facades, trees, cabs, even the Opera House itself, theatres, shops, were splashed with coloured bills, Boulanger over Jacques and Jacques over Boulanger. And only small boys took notice.

The papers said that large reserves of police were held in readiness; they said the military had been strengthened. One of them said that detachments of cavalry had been shod with rubber so they might come noiselessly upon rioters and smite them unawares. An editor applauded the ingenious device. He forgot that King Lear, long before, had thought it

"... a delicate stratagem To shoe a troop of horse with felt."

The London papers were even more excited than the French. In fact, it had been the alarmist reports of Paris correspondents and news bureaux that had incited me to the journey. I looked for the exciting scenes these gentlemen had witnessed and foretold. There was nothing visible to justify their fears. Where were the marching crowds that were singing "The Ma.r.s.eillaise"? They had not marched, they {266} had not a.s.sembled, they had not sung a note. It is not easy to describe an invisible demonstration.

We went wherever a demonstration was possible or probable; we covered Paris by cab, by bus, on foot. Excepting for the posters, Paris carried itself as usual.

"Go to the Fourth Arrondiss.e.m.e.nt if you would see the fun," said a friendly councillor who knew the ropes. We went, but "the fun" did not come. We found three hundred persons at the _mairie_, half of them registering, and the other half looking on. They were as solemn as if they had been paying taxes. The next day, Sunday, the voting took place. There were 568,697 voters on the registries of Paris. Of these 32,837 did not vote at all, and 27,118 voted neither for Boulanger nor for Jacques. Boulanger won, hands down.

At eleven o'clock on the Sunday morning we were at Boulanger's house, expecting that the world would be there. The world was not there, nor was anybody but ourselves. The Rue Dumont d'Urville (Boulanger lived at Number 11) looked deserted. It was off the _Champs elysees_, near the _Arc de Triomphe_. A thousand persons a day had, for weeks, been calling on "Le brav' General." In the preceding fortnight the number had doubled. "To-day the General receives no one," said the boy in b.u.t.tons who was sweeping out the hall. So much the better; if he receives no one to-day, the more chance of seeing him. Besides, Raven-Hill wanted to draw Boulanger from the life. It would be a fine thing to have drawn the "Saviour of France" on the {267} day when he saved France; perhaps while he was in the very act of saving her.

"It is impossible," repeated the boy in b.u.t.tons, "the General does not receive to-day."

But the General was a political candidate, and the boy in b.u.t.tons was a Jew. Palm oil pa.s.sed from one of us to the b.u.t.toned youth. Raven-Hill sketched him. Jointly we begged for his autograph. He wrote it underneath his portrait--"Joseph."

"Joseph," said I, "you are famous from this hour. Your portrait will appear in an American newspaper." Joseph grinned. He yielded. He disappeared with our cards. Returning presently, he said that the General would receive us, and he directed us up the stairs. On a landing above stood "Le brav' General." He bowed, he shook hands in the English fas.h.i.+on, he did not embrace us in the French; he smiled, he bade us enter his study. Monsieur l'artiste might sketch where he liked. And R-H. sat in a corner, which commanded the large room, and began to draw without losing a minute.

Would M. le General talk with me a little while the artist drew?

M. le General begged a thousand pardons, but he was too much occupied; moreover he was never interviewed. Would we smoke? We would. He pa.s.sed cigarettes.

"But, M. le General, the election?"

"_C'est une chose faite!_"

That was all he would say. And then it was only eleven in the morning.

But he declared that the {268} thing was done. And this with a calmly complacent air. I admired his "nerve", as we would say in America.

But that was all he would say:

"_C'est une chose faite!_"

He repeated it. And I took it that France was saved. And so she was, but not in the way he had expected; and not by him.

Raven-Hill, whose French was at any rate in better working order than mine, tried questioning, but "Le brav' General," with great courtesy, begged a thousand pardons and deprecated "interviewing."

I begged ten thousand pardons, and R-H. resumed his sketching. "Le brav' General" handed me a small bundle of printed matter,--pamphlets, proclamations, manifestoes, announcements. I would find it all there, he said. I looked them over, thanking him, and saying that I had previously read them, which was the case.

"Ah," said he, "_c'est une chose faite._"

As a matter of fact, I was quite content. I was getting what I wanted, the drawings. I did not want political plat.i.tudes, and before election day I had formed the opinion that political plat.i.tudes were the General's stock-in-trade. He had not a single political idea. What he always said was what his backers wanted him to say.

He was "the man-on-horseback", and that was enough. France had been looking a long time for the man-on-horseback. He would ride in and conquer the internal foes of France; they were numerous enough and to spare. He would unite the country, bring it stability, cleanse the Augean {269} stables, win back Alsace-Lorraine, humble the Germans who had humiliated them, who had menaced them ever since 1870-1871. He would be a MAN, this man-on-horseback. And Boulanger had been riding a white horse these three years. Sometimes he rode a black horse.