Part 25 (2/2)

As a matter of course, we did not leave Boulogne much before three--the original arrangement had been for half-past one,--and when we reached Paris it was dark, too early for the illuminations which had been projected along the line of boulevards from the recently open Boulevard de Strasbourg to the Madeleine, not so much as a feature in the programme of reception, as in honour of the Queen generally. On the other hand, there was not sufficient daylight for the crowds to distinguish the sovereign's features, and a corresponding disappointment was the result. The lighted carriage lamps did not improve matters much.

But the Parisians--to their credit be it said--knowing that Queen Victoria had expressed her wish to be conveyed to St. Cloud in an open carriage, instead of the closed State one used on such occasions, took note of the intention, and acknowledged it with ringing cheers. Victor Hugo has said that the Parisian loves to show his teeth--he must either be laughing or growling; and at the best of times it is an ungrateful task to a.n.a.lyse too thoroughly such manifestations of enthusiasm. There are always as many reasons why nations should hate as love each other.

The sentiment, as expressed by the sailor and soldier alluded to just now, did exist--of that I feel sure; but amidst the truly fairy spectacle then presented to the ma.s.ses that crowded the streets, it may have been forgotten for the moment.

For, in spite of the gathering darkness, the scene was almost unique. I have only seen another one like it, namely, when the troops returned from the Franco-Austrian War; and people much older than I declared that the next best one was that on the occasion of the return of the Bourbons in 1814.

Though the new northern station, erected on the site of the old, had been virtually finished for more than a twelvemonth, the approaches to it were, if not altogether magnificent projects, little more than magnificent mazes, stone and mortar Phoenixes, in the act of rising, not risen, from Brobdignagian dust-heaps, and altogether unfit for any kind of spectacular procession. Consequently, it had been decided to connect the northern with the eastern line immediately after entering the fortifications. The Strasbourg Station did not labour under the same disadvantages; the boulevard of that name stretched uninterruptedly as far as the Boulevard St. Denis, although, as yet, there were few houses on it. I have seen a good many displays of bunting in my time; I have seen Turin and Florence and Rome beflagged and decorated on the occasions of popular rejoicings; I have seen historical processions in the university towns of Utrecht and Leyden; I have seen triumphal entries in Brussels; I was in London on Thanksgiving day, but I have never beheld anything to compare with the wedged ma.s.ses of people along the whole of the route, as far as the Bois de Boulogne, on that Sat.u.r.day afternoon. The whole of the suburban population had, as it were, flocked into Paris. The regulars lined one side of the whole length of the Boulevards, the National Guards the other. And there was not a single house from the station to the southernmost corner of the Rue Royale that had not its emblems, its trophies, its inscriptions of ”welcome.”

With that inborn taste which distinguishes the Parisians, the decorator had ceased trying to gild the gold and to paint the lily at that point, and had left the magnificent perspective to produce its own effect--a few Venetian masts along the Avenue de Champs-elysees and nothing more.

Among the notable features of the decorations in the main artery of Paris was the magnificent triumphal arch, erected by the management of the Opera between the Rue de Richelieu and what is now the Rue Drouot.

It rose to the fourth stories of the adjacent houses, and looked, not a temporary structure, but a monument intended to stand the wear and tear of ages. No description could convey an idea of its grandeur. The inside was draped throughout with bee-bespangled purple, the top was decorated with immense eagles, seemingly in full flight, and holding between their talons proportionately large scutcheons, bearing the interlaced monograms of the Imperial hosts and the Royal guests. In front of the Pa.s.sage de l'Opera stood an allegorical statue, on a very beautiful pedestal draped with flags; and further on, at the back of the Opera-Comique, which really should have been its front,[75] an obelisk, the base of which was a correct representation, in miniature, of the Palais de l'Industrie (the then Exhibition Building). By the Madeleine a battalion of the National Guards had erected, at their own cost, two more allegorical statues, France and England. A deputation from the National Guards had also presented her Majesty with a magnificent bouquet on alighting from the train.

[Footnote 75: In 1782, when Heurtier, the architect, submitted his plan of the building which was intended for the Italian singing-actors, the latter offered a determined opposition to the idea of the theatre facing the Boulevards, lest they should be confounded with the small theatres on the Boulevard du Temple and in the direction of the present Boulevard des Filles-du-Calvaire. This extraordinary vanity was lampooned on all sides, and especially in a _quatrain_, which I forbear to quote even in French.--EDITOR.]

By a very delicate attention, the private apartments of the Queen had, in many ways, been made to look as much as possible like those at Windsor Castle; and where this transformation was found impossible by reason of their style of decoration--such as, for instance, in the former boudoir of Marie-Antoinette,--the mural paintings and those of the ceiling had been restored by two renowned artists. In addition to this, the most valuable pictures had been borrowed from the Louvre to enhance the splendour of the reception and dining rooms, while none but crack regiments in full dress were told off for duty.

The day after the Queen's arrival being Sunday, the entertainment after dinner consisted solely of a private concert; on the Monday the Queen visited the Fine Arts' Section of the Exhibition, which was located in a separate building at the top of the Avenue Montaigne, and connected with the main structure by beautifully laid-out gardens. The Queen spent several hours among the modern masterpieces of all nations, and two French artists had the honour of being presented. I will not be certain of the names, because I was not there, but, as far as I can remember, they were Ingres and Horace Vernet.

While on the subject of art, I cannot help digressing for a moment. I may take it that in 1855 a good many Englishmen of the better middle cla.s.ses, though not exactly amateurs or connoisseurs of pictures, were acquainted with the names, if not with the works, of the French masters of the modern school. Well, in that same year, the English school burst upon the corresponding cla.s.ses in France like a revelation--nay, I may go further still, and unhesitatingly affirm that not a few critics, and those of the best, shared the astonishment of the non-professional mult.i.tude. They had heard of Sir Joshua Reynolds and Gainsborough, perhaps of Turner, but Constable and Moreland, Wilkie and Webster, Mulready, and the rest of the younger school, were simply so many names.

But when the critics did become aware of their existence, their criticisms were simply a delightful series of essays, guiding the most ignorant to a due appreciation of those Englishmen's talents, not stinting praise, but by no means withholding blame, instinctively focussing merits and defects in a few brilliant paragraphs, which detected the painter's intention and conception as well as his execution both from a technical, as well as dramatic, graphic, and pictorial point of view; which showed, not only the influence of general surroundings, but dissected the result of individual tendencies. Many a time since, when wading through the adipose as well as verbose columns dealing with similar subjects in English newspapers, have I longed for the literary fleshpots of France, which contained and contain real nouris.h.i.+ng substance, not the fatty degeneration of an ignoramus's brain, and, what is worse, of an ignoramus who speaks in numbers from a less valid reason than Pope's; for the most repellant peculiarity of these effusions are the numbers. It would seem that these would-be critics, having no more than the ordinary auctioneer's intellect, endeavour as much as possible to a.s.similate their effusions to a catalogue. They are an abomination to the man who can write, though he may know nothing about painting, and to the man who knows about painting and cannot write. The pictorial art of England must indeed be a hardy plant to have survived the approval and the disapproval of these barbarians.

To come back to the Queen, who, after leaving the Palais de l'Industrie, drove to several points of interest in Paris, notably to la Sainte-Chapelle. The route taken was by the Rue de Rivoli and the Pont-Neuf; the return journey was effected by the Pont-aux-Changes and the eastern end of the same street, which had only been opened recently, as far as the Place de la Bastille. Then, and then only, her Majesty caught sight of the Boulevards in the whole of their extent. The decorations of the previous day but one had not been touched, and the crowds were simply one tightly wedged-in ma.s.s of humanity. A journalistic friend had procured me a _permis de circuler_--in other words, ”a police pa.s.s,”--and I made the way from the Boulevard Beaumarchais to Tortoni on foot. It may be interesting to those who are always prating about the friends.h.i.+p between England and France to know that I heard not a single cry of ”Vive l'Angleterre!” On the other hand, I heard a great many of ”Vive la Reine!” Even the unthinking crowd, though yielding to the excitement of the moment, seemed to distinguish between the country and her ruler. I am not commenting upon this: I am merely stating a fact. Probably it is not England's fault that she has not been able to inspire the French nation as a whole with anything like a friendly feeling, but it is as well to point it out. During the whole of the Crimean War, nine out of every ten educated Frenchmen openly a.s.serted that France had been made a cat's-paw by England, that the alliance was one forced upon the nation by Napoleon from dynastic and personal, rather than from patriotic and national, motives; there were some who, at the moment of the Queen's visit, had the candour to say that this, and this only, would be France's reward for the blood and money spent in the struggle. At the same time, it is but fair to state that these very men spoke both with admiration and respect of England's sovereign.

At three o'clock there was a brilliant reception at the elysee, when the members of the corps diplomatique accredited to the Tuileries were presented to the Queen. Shortly after five her Majesty returned to Saint-Cloud, where, in the evening, the actors of the Comedie-Francaise gave, at the Queen's special request, a performance of ”Les Demoiselles de Saint-Cyr.” She had seen the piece in London, and been so pleased with it that she wished to see it again. Though I was on very intimate terms with Dumas, we had not met for several weeks, which was not wonderful, seeing that I was frequently appealed to by the son himself for news of his father. ”What has become of him? He might be at the antipodes for all I see of him,” said Alexandre II. about a dozen times a year. However, two or three days after the performance at Saint-Cloud, I ran against him in the Chaussee d'Antin. ”Well, you ought to be pleased,” I said; ”it appears that not only has the Queen asked to see your piece, which she had already seen in London, but that she enjoyed it even much better the second than the first time.”

”C'est comme son auteur,” he replied: ”plus on le connait, plus on l'aime. Je sais pourtant bien ce qui l'aurait amusee meme d'avantage que de voir ma piece, c'eut ete de me voir moi-meme, et franchement, ca m'aurait amuse aussi.”

”Then why did not you ask for an audience? I am certain it would have been granted,” I remarked, because I felt convinced that her Majesty would have been only too pleased to confer an honour upon such a man.

”En effet, j'y ai pense,” came the reply; ”une femme aussi remarquable et qui deviendra probablement la plus grande femme du siecle aurait du se rencontrer avec le plus grand homme en France, mais j'ai eu peur qu'on ne me traite comme Madame de Stael traitat Saint-Simon. C'est dommage, parcequ'elle s'en ira sans avoir vu ce qu'il y de mieux dans notre pays, Alexandre, Roi du Monde romanesque, Dumas l'ignorant.” Then he roared with laughter and went away.[76]

[Footnote 76: Alexandre Dumas referred to a story in connection with the Comte de Saint-Simon and Madame de Stael which is not very generally known. One day the head of the new sect went to see the auth.o.r.ess of ”Corinne.” ”Madame,” he said, ”vous etes la femme la plus remarquable en France; moi, je suis l'homme le plus remarquable. Si nous nous arrangions a vivre quelques mois ensemble, nous aurions peut-etre l'enfant le plus remarquable sur la terre.” Madame de Stael politely declined the honour. As for the epithet of ”l'ignorant” which Dumas was fond of applying to himself, it arose from the fact of Dumas, the celebrated professor of chemistry, being spoken of as ”Dumas le savant.” ”Done,” laughed the novelist, ”je suis Dumas l'ignorant.”--EDITOR.]

On Tuesday, the 21st, the Queen went to Versailles to inspect the picture-galleries established there by Louis-Philippe, and, in the evening, she was present at a gala-performance at the Opera. Next day, she paid a second visit to the Palais de l'Industrie, but to the industrial section only. In the evening, there was a performance of ”Le Fils de Famille” (”The Queen's s.h.i.+lling”). On the 23rd, she spent several hours at the Louvre; after which, at night, she attended the ball given in her honour by the Munic.i.p.ality of Paris. I shall not attempt to describe that entertainment, the decorations and flowers of which alone cost three hundred and fifty thousand francs. The whole had been arranged under the superintendence of Ballard, the architect of the Halles Centrales. But I remember one little incident which caused a flutter of surprise among the court ladies, who, even at that time, had already left off dancing in the pretty old-fas.h.i.+oned way, and merely walked through their quadrilles. The royal matron of thirty-five, with a goodly family growing up around her, executed every step as her dancing master had taught her, and with none of the listlessness that was supposed to be the ”correct thing.” I was standing close to Canrobert, who had been recalled to resume his functions near the Emperor. After watching the Queen for a minute or so, he turned round to the lady on his arm. ”Pardi, elle danse comme ses soldats se battent, 'en veux-tu, en voila;' et corrects jusqu'a la fin.” There never was a greater admirer of the English soldier than Canrobert. The splendour of that fete at the Hotel-de-Ville has only been surpa.s.sed once, in 1867, when the civic fathers entertained a whole batch of sovereigns.

On the 24th, there was a third visit to the Exhibition, and I remember eight magnificent carriages pa.s.sing down the Avenue des Champs-elysees.

They were, however, only drawn by two horses each. I was making my way to the Champ de Mars, where a review was to be held in honour of her Majesty, and had told the cab to wait in the Rue Beaujon, while I stepped into the main road to have a look at the beautiful scene. The moment the carriages were past I returned to the Rue Beaujon, and ran up against Beranger, who was living there. The old man seemed in a great hurry, which was rather surprising, because he was essentially phlegmatic, and rarely put himself out for anything. So I asked him the reason of his haste. ”I want to see your queen,” he replied. A year or two before he had refused to go to the Tuileries to see the Empress, who had sent for him; and the latter, who could be most charming when she liked, had paid him a visit instead.

”I thought you did not trouble yourself much about royalty,” I remarked.

”You refused to go and see the Empress, and you rush along to see the Queen?”

”Non; je vais voir la femme: s'il y avait beaucoup de femmes comme elle, je leur pardonnerais d'etre reines.”

Her Majesty has never heard of this. It was the most magnificent and, at the same time, most witty tribute to her private virtues. All this happened many, many years ago. Since then I have often wondered why Prince Albert, who, I feel certain, knew the worth of all these men as well as he knew the merit of the litterateurs of his own country, did not suggest to his august consort a reception such as she gave to the corps diplomatique. It would have been a most original thing to do; the recollection of it would have been more delightful even than the most vivid recollections of that very wonderful week.

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