FIFTH STATION.
Paris at the present time, and Paris thirty years ago—Prado—Valentino—“La Salpétriére.”—The Evangelical Church—The Deaconess-Institution—“Revue Chrétienne”—Statue of Joan d'Arc—An Attic and a Happy Couple—The Emperor and France.
In Paris I will, first and foremost, pay my respects to a young, new-married couple, and there see a little of Parisian life. I shall first speak of the last.
It was now more than thirty years since I first saw
Paris, and, with my family, spent half a year there.
We were in company, father, mother, six children,
and a Swedish servant; now, I was here alone. But
how well I remember that time, our family circle like
a little Scandinavian vessel tossed on the tempestuous
sea of Parisian life, and half wrecked by it; remember
our hired servant “Clair,” an ultra Buonapartist, who
piloted us through it, and who used, on every occasion
of want or need, to say in a low but significant voice,
“du temps de l'Empereur!” in whose time every thing
was so different, and in his opinion so much better.
This time was then past, Louis XVIII. sat upon his father's throne, and it was then the epoch called “La Restauration.”
The old Parisian life was, however, in its full bloom. The handsome and the ugly, luxury and wretchedness, showed themselves unvailed, side by side. Along the boulevards passed a splendid procession of carriages or people on horseback; spectators thronged the side alleys, whilst miserable wretches displayed there, their open sores and decrepit limbs; women lay on the ground covered with black clothing, and surrounded by pale, half-naked children. The young gentlemen of the boulevards leaped over them. Well-dressed young men followed the ladies begging; dissolute women laid hands upon the gentlemen. The streets swarmed in the evening with human night-butterflies; the Palais Royal blazed with lights, gambling houses, and splendid shops; but after four o'clock in the afternoon, it was dangerous for a young lady to go across its inner court, even by her mother's side. More than twenty theatres were open every evening, to crowded houses; the great French scenic artists, Talma, Duchenois, Mile. Mars, were still alive; Pasta and Mainville Feodor, sang at the opera; every theatre had its stars, and all had their passionate worshipers. Laughing pajazzas skipped along the promenades; jugglers and pickpockets swarmed; old women boiled their soup under the open sky, and educated their children by blows; every where there were outcries, noise, laughter, dancing. The fountains of the Tuileries played refreshingly in the stillness of the morning, and delighted children might be seen there at mid-day, skipping about and dancing in rings, whilst the gay world circled in splendid attire through the beautiful alleys. Paris was a grand melo-dramatic spectacle, which almost turned the head of the young beholder, and made him both laugh and cry at the same time.
That Paris of 1821 and 1822, I no longer recognized in the Paris of 1856. There were no beggars on the boulevards, no miserable, but at the same time no splendid display. There were few outcries and no laughter. The Palais Royal was dark. The police had interdicted gambling-houses, and taken the night-butterflies in hand. The new Emperor drove rapidly through the silent empty streets; but nobody took any notice of him, and he seemed to take notice of no one. His cheek exhibited more appearance of health and youthful vigor than I had expected to see; his profile may be called handsome; his eyes are disagreeable, dark, expressionless, without any glance—it may be said; in fact I did not see them.
In the Tuileries children still played amongst the heaps of withered leaves, which the wind of October whirled around. The theatres were closed, or had no longer any stars. Rachel was dying or dead. Parisian life appeared to me as if dead. Some inferior “Café Chantant,” where there was singing without any regard to voice, alone assembled in the evening the promenaders of the boulevards.
I missed the melo-dramatic life of the former Paris, and I mistrusted the calm which the present exhibited. It was in itself a good thing that a strict police compelled the discontinuance of any public display of its moral and physical wretchedness. But were they decreased by that means? Improvements had unquestionably taken place in the appearance and buildings of the city, but, as it appeared to me, in a way quite different to what I had seen in London a couple of years before.
In London, the most miserable quarter, the darkest streets of the city had been pulled down; its most wretched dens, dens of crime and poverty, had been broken into, and light and air poured into them, whilst at the same time dwellings of a better kind had been built for the laboring class and no expense spared to provide the artisan with a wholesome dwelling, good water, fresh air, light, and whatever else might aid in elevating him. In Paris the object had been first and foremost to beautify the principal quarters of the city. The avenue from the Tuileries across the “Place de la Concorde” to the Barriere de l'Etoile, is perhaps one of the most beautiful which any city can show; and more than one evening I sat delighted on the terrace of the Tuileries, in silent contemplation of its perspective, whilst the golden autumn sun went down calmly on the opposite bank of the Seine. Rue de Rivoli, with its handsome houses, stood like a regiment on full parade, and the walls of the Louvre covered with decorative sculpture. In the immediate suburbs of Paris, Louis Napoleon had constructed artificial lakes and mountains, to the great delight of the inhabitants of Paris. But L'Isle de Seine with its gloomy, mouldering masses, the Bureaus of Police and Justice looked like the most befitting haunt of all the gloomiest mysteries of Paris,[1] and on the first of October of the present year, there were found to be in Paris ten thousand homeless artisans, who could only obtain accommodation by the direct and despotic interference of the Emperor and his police force. It is said that artisan-barracks are now being erected out of Paris, and within the city I saw that the poorer portions were pulled down and now in course of rebuilding. But would it not have been better to have begun with this, instead of adorning the Louvre and the wood of Boulogne?
And whither, in the meantime, had the night-butterflies which swarmed in the streets of 1822, now taken their flight? Whither, also, had the beggars and the miserable wretches betaken themselves?
I was told that the former now danced at Prado, on the Quai aux fleurs, whilst a better class of the same might be found at Valentino, and that the poor wretches who formerly begged on the promenades, now found shelter, and were provided for, at a great institution, called La Salpétriére.
I visited these places, in company with the young couple, my friends, who, like myself, had a pleasure in becoming acquainted with the many sides and scenes of this world.
We drove, first, to Prado. We found, on our entrance, that the large, uncleanly saloon, contained nearly as many police as dancing guests. They stood in full uniform, glancing around them. By degrees, the hall became crowded; loud, thundering music, began to play, and people stood up for quadrilles. Each person danced according to his own pleasure; one sprawled out his legs, dancing “can can,” as it is called; another took great leaps; men and women made tender grimaces to each other. The dancing was free and easy, though not offensively so.
I expected to have seen some ballet splendor, some beauty, as the attraction and apology for the low or loose morality of this assembly; but I was astonished at merely finding the ugly, the repulsive, in every respect. Strict police regulations require propriety in the style of dress and outward behaviour; all the women wore their dresses high in the neck; the greater number danced in bonnets; and seldom have I seen an assembly of plainer people, especially the women. It was the ugly in its full bloom, and besides that, painted, unabashed, without character, and without esprit. I thought of being a spectator of the scene for a couple of hours, but I was satisfied in twenty minutes. The repulsive figures, the disgusting physiognomies, the noisy music, the wild cries, which were sent forth every now and then, and those painted, unhappy women, who kept thronging in, ever more and more, the increasing fumes of punch and tobacco-smoke,—all this soon became intolerable to me, and we left the frightful assembly, just as it was beginning to arrive at its “esse.”
Down on the Quai aux fleurs, the pure, pleasant night-air, and the starry heavens, met us in all their splendor. It was in striking contrast with the scene up above. I felt ready to weep over those poor night-butterflies and bats, which were not able to feel the beauty of this air and this heaven!
In the saloons of Valentino, was dancing, this evening the company which assembles, in the summer, in the Jardin Mobille. I went, in the quiet, beautiful night, with, my young friends, to Valentino. I wished at once to see all I needed of this side of the Mystères de Paris.
The gas lamps shone dimly from the light arcades of the Valentino saloons. The apartment and the lighting, were very tasteful. The guests were not numerous, but these, evidently, of a higher social class in this grade of society. Many of the ladies were handsome, all wore silk, and were dressed with taste, as well as with more propriety than you often meet with among ladies in saloons of good ton. The orchestra was remarkably good; the supply of refreshments excellent; every thing was elegant, and no agent of the police was to be seen. Three or four quadrilles were arranged. A couple of female dancers soon attracted attention by their dancing, but most, one very lovely young woman, in a long brown, soft silk dress, high in the throat, extremely simple, but which did not prevent her slender, perfectly formed figure, from being seen. Cleopatra herself might have had such a head, with such freely-falling brown locks, a countenance as youthfully rounded, and as perfectly beautiful. She danced with the lightness of a bird, with swan-like motion, she stooped down and again raised herself from the waves of the dance, regardless of every thing but her own pleasure, and then went, with her hands lightly resting on the shoulder of her partner, back to her seat, with the bearing of a queen, whilst, with a half-vailed glance, she, as it were, biologized the bystanders, and seemed to say to them, “I do not trouble myself about you, but I know I can rule you all!”
Nothing, except the movements, and the changing expression, more than once repeated in the same manner, showed that they were studied. A crowd of gentlemen, elderly and young, gathered behind her, and seemed altogether bewitched by her beauty, her dancing, and peculiar manner; because, whilst her vis-a-vis, a handsome blondine, with full figure, was incessantly laughing and chattering, the Cleopatra like beauty stood perfectly quiet, proud, silent, and, as it seemed, indifferent to every thing but the dance. I neither saw her smile, nor speak with any one, but—she knew very well how she attracted eyes and hearts, and—woe to him who became her slave!—and yet she looked so young, so lovable, so—innocent! I felt inclined to exclaim, like Rowland Hill to Lady Erskine, “All this glory must pass away, but thy soul must still live on!”
The ball closed with a Malakoff polka, full of the roar of cannon effects in the music, but in which only few couples trailed lazily along, in no condition to keep up with the music. They had called for champagne, but it would not foam: the pleasure, both of life and of dancing, was wanting. I was most amused by a couple, which, as I thought, looked like a country shoemaker and his wife, who danced with an enthusiasm and a gravity—and always together—which evidently showed that they were fully determined to have dancing and amusement enough for their money (three francs being paid for entrance), untroubled by the rest of the world—so might it be, the poor, honest couple! Of youth, beauty, or grace, they had none! At midnight the ball closed, and we wandered home in the lovely moonlight night.
La Salpetriere.—I visited this place the following day. In this immense establishment, is contained, in classified order, the greater part of the unfortunates of the capital, who formerly used to expose their misery openly. The number of persons cared for here, amounts to about four thousand. Four hundred nurses attend to them, under the direction of physicians. Every particular species of disease is attended to in its own division; each peculiar division has its own peculiar house, its garden or grounds, and also its own physicians. I cannot sufficiently commend the order, cleanliness, the good air, nay, even comfort, which I found in this establishment, where, by wise centralization and administration, the municipal government of Paris assists a great portion of the wretchedness of its indigent population, and renders helplessness as bearable as possible, by the care which is extended to it.
I was least satisfied with the apartment in which the insane were kept—an immense attic, where they sat by hundreds; and the unfortunate raving maniacs, in their little rooms, which seemed too me quite too much like the cells in which wild beasts are kept—perhaps it cannot be otherwise! Yet cleanliness prevailed even here. But the powerful women who had the charge of these unfortunates of their own sex, gave me small confidence in their humane treatment.
The grounds in which these poor people were, at the time I was there, walking or sitting, are extensive. Some of them were wildly leaping about under the beautiful trees, others were fighting. I was told that many of the women who dance at the Quai aux fleurs, come into this section of La Salpétriére.
It did me good to see, in another section, the cheerful and kindly manner of the nurses.
“We think,” said a young, handsome nurse, “that it does the sick good to see people cheerful about them. Poor things, they have trouble enough with their own sufferings!”
The visits of relatives and friends, is permitted only during a certain part of the day. A mother lay there in her bed, wringing her hands in despair, and calling for her son. The appointed, last hour was soon over, and he—was not come.
It is a pleasure to turn from these scenes of human misery, to others which awaken a hope of a better future.
Foremost amongst these at the present time, stands the evangelical church in Paris, on account of its school, its important Deaconess-institution, and its teachers. It is from this church, that, for several years, a number of sermons and spiritual orations have gone forth into all lands where the French language is spoken, with a new vitalization, for the heart and for domestic life. It was from the bosom of this assembly, that Adolphi Monad's “Dying-Sighs” lately breathed forth consolation and peace, for millions of hearts in the whole Christian world. It is there that, A. Vinet's most gifted disciple, the Swiss Edmond de Presancé, and his distinguished fellow-laborers in the Revue Chrétienne, open, at the present time, new prospects for Christian science and the church, by a liberal, true, evangelical Protestantism, which does not content itself with a negative stand-point against Catholicism, but opens itself to a full recognition of whatever truth and excellence it contains, and at the same time, following the example of A. Vinet, it takes up the most important productions of contemporary literature and examines them, not from a narrow churchman's point of view, but from one of true, evangelical knowledge.
Time and space fail me to say more of the growing life of this congregation, but it appears to me to have a great future life before it. And if it be true that the present condition of France bears evidence of a secret, inward disease; and if it be true, as I have heard it wittily said, that this is the result of the reformation driven inwards, (la reformation rentrée,) then it may be predicted with certainty, that the re-establishment of its health depends upon this reformation again coming to the surface, with all its affluent result of vitality in domestic life, schools, the church, and the state.
I know that a great deal is done at the present time, even in the Catholic Church, at Paris, for the education and care of children; nay, indeed, we may have various things to say on this subject, at a later period. But no one can misjudge me when I have more hope of the education of a church which leads the child to Christ Jesus, and inculcates his own responsibility to God and his own conscience, than of that which, in the first place, leads him to the Virgin Mary, and teaches a blind obedience to the Catholic church, or to its priests. Obedience there must be, but not a blind obedience. In that case, a man knows not whether he obeys a God or an idol.
There is one feature of inner life in France, which I cannot avoid mentioning,—this is, the newly awakened enthusiasm for its female heroine and martyr, Joan of Arc. Michelet's excellent narrative of her history, after a most conscientiously careful examination of all sources of information, has brought forward, as it were, her figure, in its peculiar purity and beauty, as superior to the poet's Maid of Orleans, in Schiller's tragedy, as a noble reality is above even the noblest poem. This description seems to have turned anew the heart and mind, to this young, heroic saviour of France. Artists call forth again her form, both by pencil and chisel. I saw various of these representations, one of which had been lately executed for the church of Domremy; but not one of them comes near, in expression and truth, to the statue which the noble daughter of a king, herself an artist,—the young Princess Clementine, of Orleans,—executed of her, even before Michelet had perfected with the pen his masterly picture. Love and sympathy inspired the young royal sculptor in her work. This statue stands in the gallery of the Louvre. Its beauty and power consists in the expression of the head, and the clasped hands. It is simply Joan, the girl of Orleans, who sees nothing but her bleeding native land, listens to no other voices than those in her inner being, which command her to go and save it,—Joan, when she left her father's house; Joan, as she stood last on the pile at Rouen; when she, after the short season of darkness, again heard her inward voices, and heard only them, whilst the flames rose and rose.
Zouaves march in brilliant eastern costume, backwards and forwards, in the streets and markets of Paris, reminding the beholder of the last victorious movements of the West against the East, of victories in Algeria and at Sebastopol. It is the new picturesque outward trait which I recognized in Paris.
There were two scenes, however, which I beheld there, which will live in my heart's memory,—the one of a heavenly, the other of earthly happiness. Then I saw the dear old pictures which I saw thirty years ago, but which I have preserved in memory, as if I had first seen them only yesterday. There I now saw a new one, and stood riveted in enraptured contemplation of the Ascension of the Virgin, by Murillo. I wished that I could bring the fallen women of the saloons of Prado and Valentino to this madonna, that they might fall down before her as repentant Magdalenes. I wished that all human beings could see this picture, and beholding it, comprehend how the highest purity and love lead to a happiness so great that no human heart on earth can comprehend, no tongue can express it. This picture of the Virgin breathes life, beauty, bliss. One seems to see the crimson of the cheek grow pale before the light of heaven, as the flush of morning pales before that of the sun. Raphael's madonnas are soulless and lifeless, compared with this of Murillo.
The second scene, I saw in a little attic up five flights of stairs. There lived a young newly-married pair,—lived there by daily labor in the sweat of their brow. But the pure heart and the frank disposition, love, confidence in each other, health, hope, and the ability, like the sparrows on the roof, thankfully to enjoy every grain of corn which the hand of the Father scattered upon their path; all these were fully possessed by the young couple. They were Scandinavians, and had, by affection and industry, built for themselves a comfortable little abode, amidst the volcanic capital of France, the manifold spectacles of which gave variety and wealth even to their quiet life. They looked upon it all with undazzled eyes, with the purity and serenity of the northern temperament, without being either confounded or carried away by it.
“The volcanic capital of France!” Yes, spite of its quietness and emptiness for the moment, I could not but feel that this was like the pause of the volcano before its outbreak; and can it be otherwise? The present calmness of France is not based, like that of England, like that of Holland, and Sweden, and Switzerland, upon the consciousness of the nation, and its power of self-government. It hangs upon the life's-thread of one man,—on that of Louis Napoleon. And people have no confidence in this man. I heard thinking Frenchmen acknowledge it. He is the helmsman for the moment, but not for the future. No higher principle, no initiative to a new life, has ascended with him to the throne, collecting the restless aspirations[2] or endeavors of the age, and the people, into a higher unity. He keeps together the old; he is a great police-master. The quiet people of France wish him life and success, because they know that to be the condition of the nation's order, and the calmness of life; but they acknowledge that the present state of things is one of uncertainty and unhealthiness. People live, as it were, provisionally, because they must, in any case, live as long as they can; but they see the sword of Damocles hanging above their heads. No large views, no fresh waft from hope in the future, refreshes the life of the day, and the future of France is as dark as the glance of its Emperor.
Yet still fortune favors him; yet still the French army keeps guard around his throne. But can the man who has broken his oath more than once, who has stolen from a noble royal family—whose place he occupies—the half of its property, and who has sent thousands of his countrymen to die in exile, worse than that of Siberia—can this man escape a Nemesis?
I know that in the theatre of the world, there are times and circumstances which can furnish an excuse for many things—many deeds of the acting personages; and that Providence at times gives even great criminals opportunity of atonement by great actions for former failings, opportunities to become the blessing of the people and to acquire the name of great men. But no such laurels as yet crown Louis Napoleon.
- ↑ Of the inner order there I have, however, reason to think favorably; for I obtained thence, without difficulty, an umbrella which I had forgotten in a hired vehicle.—Author's Note.
- ↑ At the moment when I prepare these lines for the press, Louis Napoleon appears to be on the way to acquire them in the war for the liberation of Italy, and now lastly by his programme of peace; well worthy the attention both of princes and people!—Author's Note. Athens, February 1, 1860.