NOTRE DAME
Pagan Origins and Christian Predecessors--The Beginnings of
Notre Dame--Victor Hugo--The Dangers of Renovation--Old
Glass and New--A Wedding--The Cathedral's Great Moment--The
Hundred Poor Girls and Louis XVI.--The Revolution--Mrs.
Momoro, Goddess of Reason--The Legend of Our Lady of the
Bird--Coronation of Napoleon--The Communards and the
Students--The Treasures of the Sacristy--Three Hundred and
Ninety-seven Steps--Quasimodo and Esmeralda--Paris at our
Feet--The Eiffel Tower--The Devils of Notre Dame--The
Precincts--Notre Dame from the Quai.
If the Ile de la Cite is the eye of Paris, then, to adapt one of
Oliver Wendell Holmes' metaphors, Notre Dame is its pupil. It stands
on ground that has been holy, or at least religious, for many
centuries, for part of its site was once occupied by the original
mother church of Paris, St. Etienne, built in the fourth century; and
close by, in the Place du Parvis, have been discovered the foundations
of another church, dating from the sixth century, dedicated to Sainte
Marie; while beneath that are the remains of a Temple of Apollo or
Jupiter, relics of which we shall see at the Cluny. The origin of
Notre Dame, the fusion of these two churches, is wrapped in darkness;
but Victor Hugo roundly states that the first stone of it was laid by
Charlemagne (who reigned from 768 to 814, and whose noble equestrian
statue stands just outside), and the last by Philip Augustus, who was
a friend of our Richard Coeur de Lion. The more usual account of the
older parts of the Notre Dame that one sees to-day is that the first
stone of it was laid in 1163, in the reign of Louis VII., by Pope
Alexander III., who chanced then to be in Paris engaged in the task of
avoiding his enemies, the Ghibellines, and that in almost exactly a
hundred years, in the reign of Saint Louis, it was completed. (I say
completed, but as a matter of fact it is not completed even yet, for
each of the square towers was designed to carry a spire, and I
remember seeing at the Paris Exhibition of 1889 a number of drawings
of the cathedral by young architects, with these spires added. It is,
however, very unlikely that they will ever sprout, and I, for one,
hope not.)
Victor Hugo is, of course, if not the first authority on Notre Dame,
its most sympathetic poet, lover and eulogist; and it seems ridiculous
for me to attempt description when every book shop in Paris has a copy
of his rich and fantastic romance, Book III. of which is an interlude
in the story wholly given to the glory of the cathedral. You may read
there not only of what Notre Dame is, but of what it is not and should
be: the shortcomings of architects and the vandalism of mobs are alike
reported. Mobs! Paris is seared with cicatrices from the hands of her
matricidal children, and Notre Dame especially so. Attempts to set
her on fire were made not only by the revolutionaries but by the
Communards too. These she resisted, but much of her statuary went
during the Revolution, the assailants sparing the Last Judgment on the
facade, but accounting very swiftly for a series of kings of Israel
and Judah (who, however, have since been replaced) under the
impression that they were monarchs of native growth and therefore not
to be endured.
The statue of the Virgin in the centre of the facade, with Adam and
Eve on each side, is not, I may say, the true Notre Dame of Paris: She
is within the church--much older and simpler, on a column to the right
of the altar as we face it. She is a sweeter and more winning figure
than that between our first parents on the facade.
When I first knew Notre Dame it was, to the visitor from the open air,
all scented darkness. And then as one grew accustomed to the gloom the
cathedral opened slowly like a great flower--not so beautifully as
Chartres, but with its own grandeur and fascination. That was twenty
years ago. It is not the same since it has been scraped and lightened
within. That old clinging darkness has gone. There are times of day
now, when the sun spatters on the wall, when it might be almost any
church; but towards evening in the gloom it is Notre Dame de Paris
again, mysterious and a little sinister. A bright light not only
chases the shade from its aisles and recesses but also shows up the
garishness of its glass. For the glass of France, usually bad, is
here often almost at its worst. That glorious wheel window in the
north transept--whose upper wall has indeed more glass than stone in
it--could not well be more beautiful, and the rose window over the
organ is beautiful too. But for the rest, the glass is either too
pretty, as in the case of the window over the altar, so lovely in
shape, or utterly trumpery.
The last time I was in Notre Dame I followed a wedding party through
the main and usually locked door, but although I was the first after
the bride and her father, I was not quick enough to set foot on the
ceremonial carpet, which a prudent verger rolled up literally upon
their heels. It was a fortunate moment on which to arrive, for it
meant a vista of the nave from the open air right up the central
aisle, and that, except in very hot weather, is rare, and probably
very rare indeed when the altar is fully lighted.
The secret of Notre Dame, both within and without, is to be divined
only by loitering in it with a mind at rest. To enter intent upon
seeing it is useless. Outside, one can walk round it for ever and
still be surprised by the splendid vagaries, humours and resource of
its stone; while within, one can, by making oneself plastic, gradually
but surely attain to some of the adoration that was felt for this
sanctuary by Quasimodo himself. Let us sit down on one of these chairs
in the gloom and meditate on some of the scenes which its stones have
witnessed.
While it was yet building Raymond VII., Count of Toulouse, was
scourged before the principal doorway for heresy, on a spot where the
pillory long stood. That was in 1229. In 1248 St. Louis, on his way to
the Holy Land, visited Notre Dame to receive his pilgrim's staff and
scrip from the Bishop. In 1270 the body of St. Louis lay in state
under this roof before it was carried to St. Denis for burial. Henry
VI. of England was crowned here as King of France--the first and last
English king to receive that honour. One Sunday in 1490, while Mass
was being celebrated, a man called Jean l'Anglais (as we should now
say, John Bull) snatched the Host from the priest's hand and profaned
it: for which crime he was burnt. In 1572 Henri IV. (then Henri of
Navarre) was married to Marguerite de Valois, but being a Protestant
he was not allowed within the church, and the ceremony was therefore
performed just outside. When, however, he entered Paris triumphantly
as a conqueror and a Catholic in 1594, he heard Mass and assisted at
the Te Deum in Notre Dame like a true Frenchman and ironist. In 1611
his funeral service was celebrated here.
Some very ugly events are in store for us; let something pretty
intervene. On February 9th, 1779 (in the narrative of Louise de
Grandpre, to whom the study of Notre Dame has been a veritable
passion), a large crowd pressed towards the cathedral; the ground was
strewed with fresh grass and flowers and leaves; the pillars were
decorated with many coloured banners. In the choir the vestments of
the saints were displayed: the burning tapers lit up the interior
with a dazzling brightness: the organ filled the church with joyful
harmony, and the bells rang out with all their might. The whole court
was present, the King himself assisting at the ceremony, and the
galleries were full to overflowing of ladies of distinction in the
gayest of dresses.
Then slowly, through the door of St. Anne, entered a hundred young
girls dressed in white, covered with long veils and with orange
blossom on their heads. These were the hundred poor girls whom Louis
XVI. had dowered in memory of the birth of Marie-Therese-Charlotte of
France, afterwards Duchess of Angouleme, and it was his wish to assist
personally at their wedding and to seal their marriage licences with
his sword, which was ornamented on the handle or pommel with the
"fleur de lys".
Through the door of the Virgin entered at the same time one hundred
young men, having each a sprig of orange blossom in his button-hole.
The two rows advanced together with measured steps, preceded by two
Swiss, who struck the pavement heavily with their halberds. They
advanced as far as the chancel rails, where each young man gave his
hand to a young girl, his fiancee, and marched slowly before the King,
bowing to him and receiving a bow in return. They were then married by
the Archbishop in person.
A very charming incident, don't you think? Such a royal gift, adds
Louise de Grandpre, would be very welcome to-day, when there are so
many girls unmarried, for the want of a dot. Every rich young girl
who is married ought to include in her corbeille de noces the dot of
some poor girl. All women, remarks Louise de Grandpre, have a right to
this element of love, which is sanctified by marriage, honoured by men
and blessed by God. Christian marriage, says Louise de Grandpre, is a
nursery not only of good Catholics but still more of good citizens. It
is much to be wished, she concludes, that obstacles could be removed,
because one deplores the depopulation of France.
[Illustration: SAINTE ANNE, LA VIERGE, ET L'ENFANT JESUS
LEONARDO DA VINCI
(_Louvre_)]
The most fantastic and discreditable episode in the history of Notre
Dame occurred one hundred and fifteen years ago, when the Convention
decreed the Cult of Reason, and Notre Dame became its Temple. A ballet
dancer was throned on the high altar, Our Lady of Paris was taken
down, and statues of Voltaire and Rousseau stepped into the niches of
the saints. Carlyle was never more wonderful than in the three or four
pages that describe this cataclysm. He begins with the revolt of the
Curate Parens, followed by Bishop Gobel of Paris clamouring for an
honest calling since there was no religion but Liberty.
"The French nation," Carlyle writes, "is of gregarious imitative
nature; it needed but a fugle-motion in this matter; and Goose Gobel,
driven by Municipality and force of circumstances, has given one. What
Cure will be behind him of Boissise; what Bishop behind him of Paris?
Bishop Gregoire, indeed, courageously declines; to the sound of 'We
force no one; let Gregoire consult his conscience'; but Protestant
and Romish by the hundred volunteer and assent. From far and near, all
through November into December, till the work is accomplished, come
letters of renegation, come Curates who 'are learning to be
Carpenters,' Curates with their new-wedded Nuns: has not the day of
Reason dawned, very swiftly, and become noon? From sequestered
Townships come Addresses, stating plainly, though in Patois dialect,
that 'they will have no more to do with the black animal called Curay,
_animal noir appele Curay_.'
"Above all things, there come Patriotic Gifts, of Church-furniture.
The remnant of bells, except for tocsin, descend from their belfries,
into the National melting-pot to make cannon. Censers and all sacred
vessels are beaten broad; of silver, they are fit for the
poverty-stricken Mint; of pewter, let them become bullets, to shoot
the 'enemies _du genre humain_'. Dalmatics of plush make breeches for
him who had none; linen albs will clip into shirts for the Defenders
of the Country: old-clothesmen, Jew or Heathen, drive the briskest
trade. Chalier's Ass-Procession, at Lyons, was but a type of what went
on, in those same days, in all Towns. In all Towns and Townships as
quick as the guillotine may go, so quick goes the axe and the wrench:
sacristies, lutrins, altar-rails are pulled down; the Mass-Books torn
into cartridge-papers: men dance the Carmagnole all night about the
bonfire. All highways jingle with metallic Priest-tackle, beaten
broad; sent to the Convention, to the poverty-stricken Mint. Good
Sainte Genevieve's _Chasse_ is let down: alas, to be burst open, this
time, and burnt on the Place de Greve. Saint Louis's Shirt is
burnt;--might not a Defender of the Country have had it?...
"For the same day, while this brave Carmagnole-dance has hardly jigged
itself out, there arrive Procureur Chaumette and Municipals and
Departmentals, and with them the strangest freightage: a New Religion!
Demoiselle Candeille, of the Opera; a woman fair to look upon, when
well rouged; she, borne on palanquin shoulder-high; with red woollen
nightcap; in azure mantle; garlanded with oak; holding in her hand the
Pike of the Jupiter-_Peuple_, sails in: heralded by white young women
girt in tricolor. Let the world consider it! This, O National
Convention wonder of the universe, is our New Divinity; _Goddess of
Reason_, worthy, and alone worthy of revering. Her henceforth we
adore. Nay were it too much to ask of an august National
Representation that it also went with us to the _ci-devant_ Cathedral
called of Notre-Dame, and executed a few strophes in worship of her?
"President and Secretaries give Goddess Candeille, borne at due height
round their platform, successively the Fraternal kiss; whereupon she,
by decree, sails to the right-hand of the President and there alights.
And now, after due pause and flourishes of oratory, the Convention,
gathering its limbs, does get under way in the required procession
towards Notre-Dame;--Reason, again in her litter, sitting in the van
of them, borne, as one judges, by men in the Roman costume; escorted
by wind-music, red nightcaps, and the madness of the world....
"'The corresponding Festival in the Church of Saint-Eustache,' says
Mercier, 'offered the spectacle of a great tavern. The interior of the
choir represented a landscape decorated with cottages and boskets of
trees. Round the choir stood tables overloaded with bottles, with
sausages, pork-puddings, pastries and other meats. The guests flowed
in and out through all doors: whosoever presented himself took part of
the good things: children of eight, girls as well as boys, put hand to
plate, in sign of Liberty; they drank also of the bottles, and their
prompt intoxication created laughter. Reason sat in azure mantle
aloft, in a serene manner; Cannoneers, pipe in mouth, serving her as
acolytes. And out of doors,' continues the exaggerative man, 'were mad
multitudes dancing round the bonfire of Chapel-balustrades, of
Priests' and Canons' stalls; and the dancers,--I exaggerate
nothing,--the dancers nigh bare of breeches, neck and breast naked,
stockings down, went whirling and spinning, like those Dust-vortexes,
forerunners of Tempest and Destruction.' At Saint-Gervais Church,
again, there was a terrible 'smell of herrings'; Section or
Municipality having provided no food, no condiment, but left it to
chance. Other mysteries, seemingly of a Cabiric or even Paphian
character, we leave under the Veil, which appropriately stretches
itself 'along the pillars of the aisles,'--not to be lifted aside by
the hand of History.
[Illustration: THE ILE DE LA CITE FROM THE PONT DES ARTS
TOUR ST. JACQUES
CONCIERGERIE
STE. CHAPELLE
NOTRE DAME]
"But there is one thing we should like almost better to understand
than any other: what Reason herself thought of it, all the while. What
articulate words poor Mrs. Momoro, for example, uttered; when she had
become ungoddessed again, and the Bibliopolist and she sat quiet at
home, at supper? For he was an earnest man, Bookseller Momoro; and had
notions of Agrarian Law. Mrs. Momoro, it is admitted, made one of the
best Goddesses of Reason; though her teeth were a little
defective.--And now if the Reader will represent to himself that such
visible Adoration of Reason went on 'all over the Republic,' through
these November and December weeks, till the Church woodwork was
burnt out, and the business otherwise completed, he will perhaps feel
sufficiently what an adoring Republic it was, and without reluctance
quit this part of the subject."
I quote in the following pages freely from Carlyle, because the
Revolution is the most important event in the history of Paris and so
horribly recent (you may still see the traces of Bonaparte's whiff of
grape-shot on the facade of St. Roch), and also because when there is
such an historian to borrow from direct, paraphrase becomes a crime.
None the less, I feel it my duty to say that the attitude of this
self-protective contemptuous superior Scotchman towards the excitable
French and their hot-headed efforts for freedom often enrages me as
much as his vivid narrative fascinates and moves.
In 1794, when the New Religion had died down, the Church became a
store for wine confiscated from the Royalists. In the year following,
after the whiff of grape-shot, the old religion was re-established. A
strange interregnum! How long ago was this?--only one hundred and
fifteen years--not four generations. Could it happen again? Will
it?...
These revolutionaries, it may be remarked, were not the only
licentious rioters that Notre Dame had known, for in its early days it
was the scene every year of the Fete des Fous, an orgy of gluttony and
conviviality, in which, however, one who was a true believer on all
other days might partake.
After these lurid saturnalia it is pleasant again to dip into the
gentle pages of Louise de Grandpre, where, among other legends of
Notre Dame, is the pretty story of a statue of the Virgin--now known
as the Virgin with the bird. In the Rue Chanoinesse there lived a
young woman, very devout, who came every day to pray. She brought with
her her son, a little fellow, very wide-awake and full of spirits: his
mother had taught him to say his prayers. Cyril would close his little
hands to say his "Ave Maria," and he would throw a kiss to the little
Jesus, his dear friend, complaining sometimes to his mother that the
little Jesus would not play with him. "You are not good enough yet,"
said his mother; "Jesus plays only with the little children in
Paradise."
A very severe winter fell and the young mother fell ill and no longer
came to church. Cyril never saw the little Jesus now, but he often
thought of him as he played at the foot of his mother's bed. On one of
those days when the sky was dull and leaden and the air heavy and
depressing, and the poor woman was rather worse and more hopeless than
usual, she became so weak they thought each moment would be her last.
Cyril could not understand why his mother no longer smiled at him or
stroked his hair or called him to her. With his little heart almost
bursting and his eyes full of tears, he said, "I will go and tell the
little Jesus of my trouble."
While they were attending to the poor mother the child disappeared. He
ran as fast as his little legs would carry him and entered the
cathedral by the cloister door, crossed the transept, and was soon at
the foot of the statue of the Virgin Mary, where he was accustomed to
say his prayers with his mother. "Little Jesus," said he, "Thou art
very happy, Thou hast Thy Mother; mine, who was so good, is always
asleep now and I am alone. Little Jesus, wake my mother up, and I will
give you my best toys, morning and evening I will send you the
sweetest kiss and say my best prayer. And look, to begin with, I have
brought you my favourite bird: he is tame and will eat the golden
crumbs of Paradise out of your hand." At the same time he stretched
out his little closed hand towards Jesus.
The divine child stretched out His hand and Cyril let his beloved
little bird escape. The bird, who had a lovely coloured plumage, flew
straight to the hand of the Infant Christ and has remained there to
this day. The Virgin smiled on the child, and her white stone robe at
that moment became the same colour as the bird's plumage.
Cyril, with his heart very full, got up to go out, but before leaving
the church turned round to have one more look at his little bird he
loved so dearly: he was struck with delight and astonishment when he
heard the favoured bird singing one of its sweetest songs in honour of
the Virgin and her Child.
When Cyril returned to his home he went into his mother's room without
making the least noise to see if she was still asleep. The young
mother was sitting upright in her bed, her head, still very bad,
resting on a pillow, but her wide-open eyes were looking for her
little one.
"I was quite sure the little Jesus would wake you up," said Cyril,
climbing on to her bed. "I took Him my bird this morning to take care
of for me in the Garden of Paradise."
Life once more returned to the poor woman and she kissed her boy.
When you next go to Notre Dame, Louise de Grandpre adds, be sure to
visit the Vierge a l'oiseau, who always hears the prayers of the
little ones.
It was in 1804 that Notre Dame enjoyed one of its most magnificent
moments--at the coronation of Napoleon and Josephine Beauharnais. The
Duchess d'Abrantes wrote an account of the ceremony which, in French,
is both picturesque and rapturous. "The pope was the first to arrive.
At the moment of his entering the cathedral, the clergy intoned Tu es
Petrus, and this solemn chant made a deep impression on all. Pius the
VII. advanced to the end of the cathedral with a majestic yet humble
grace.... The moment when all eyes were most drawn to the Altar steps
was when Josephine received the crown from the Emperor and was
solemnly consecrated by him Empress of the French. When it was time
for her to take an active part in the great ceremony, the Empress
descended from the throne and advanced towards the altar, where the
Emperor awaited her....
"I saw," the Duchess continues, "all that I have just told you, with
the eyes of Napoleon. He was radiant with joy as he watched the
Empress advancing towards him; and when she knelt ... and the tears
she could not restrain fell upon her clasped hands, raised more
towards him than towards God: at this moment, when Napoleon, or rather
Bonaparte, was for her her true providence, at this instant there was
between these two beings one of those fleeting moments of life,
unique, which fill up the void of years.
"The Emperor invested with perfect grace every action of the ceremony
he had to perform: above all, at the moment of crowning the Empress.
This was to be done by the Emperor himself, who after receiving the
little closed crown surmounted by a cross, had to place it on his own
head first, and then place it on the Empress's head. He did this in
such a slow, gracious and courtly manner that it was noticed by all.
But at the supreme moment of crowning her who was to him his lucky
star, he was almost coquettish, if I may use the term. He placed the
little crown, which surmounted the diadem of brilliants, on her head,
first putting it on, then taking it off and putting it on again, as if
assuring himself that it should rest lightly and softly on her.
"But Napoleon," the Duchess concludes, "when it came to his own crown,
hastily took it from the Pope's hands and placed it haughtily on his
own head--a proceeding which doubtless startled his Holiness."
Ten years pass and we find Louis XVIII. and his family attending Mass
at the same altar. Twenty-six years later, in 1840, a service was held
to commemorate the restoration of the ashes of the Emperor to French
soil, and in 1853 Napoleon III. and Eugenie de Montijo were married
here, under circumstances of extraordinary splendour. And then we come
to plunder and lawlessness again. On Good Friday, 1871, while Pere
Olivier was preaching, a company of Communards entered and from
thenceforward for a while the cathedral was occupied by the soldiers.
For some labyrinthine reason the destruction of Notre Dame by fire was
decided upon, and a huge pile of chairs and other material soaked in
petrol was erected (this was only thirty-eight years ago), and no
doubt the building would have been seriously injured, if not
destroyed, had not the medical students from the Hotel Dieu, close by,
rushed in and saved it.
[Illustration: LA PENSEE
RODIN
_(Luxembourg)_]
Among the preachers of Notre Dame was St. Dominic, to whom in the
pulpit the Virgin appeared, bringing with her his sermon all to his
hand in an effulgent volume; here also preached Pere Hyacinthe, but
with less direct assistance.
That the Treasury is an object of interest to English-speaking
visitors is proved by the notice at the door: "The Persons who desire
to visit the Tresor are kindly requested to wait the guide here for a
few minutes, himself charged of the visit"; but I see no good reason
why any one should enter it. Those, however, that do will see vessels
of gold, much paraphernalia of ecclesiastical pride and pomp, and
certain holy relics. The crown of thorns is here, given to St. Louis
by the King of Constantinople and carried to Notre Dame, on the 18th
of August, 1239, by the barefoot king. Here also are pieces of the
Cross, for the protection of which St. Louis built Sainte Chapelle,
the relics afterwards being transferred to Notre Dame; and here is a
nail from the Cross--one of the nails of which even an otherwise
sceptical Catholic can be sure, because it was given to Charlemagne by
Constantine. Charlemagne gave it to Aix la Chapelle, Charles the Bold
brought it from Aix to St. Denis, and from St. Denis it came to Notre
Dame, where it is enclosed in a crystal case.
The menace of 397 spiral steps in a narrow, dark and almost airless
turret, is no light matter, but it is essential to see Paris from the
summit of Notre Dame. That view is the key to the city, and the
traveller who means to study this city as it deserves, penetrating
into the past as industriously and joyously as into the present, must
begin here. He will see it all beneath him and around him in its
varying ages, and he will be able to proceed methodically and
intelligently. Immediately below is the Parvis, the scene of the
interrupted execution of Esmeralda, and it was from one of the
galleries below that Quasimodo slung himself down to her rescue. Here,
where we are now standing, she must often have stood, looking for her
faithless Phoebus. Only one of the bells that Quasimodo rang is
still in the tower.
Hugo draws attention to the shape of the island, like that of a ship
moored to the mainland by various bridges, and he suggests that the
ship on the Paris scutcheon (the ship that is to be seen in the design
of the lamps around the Opera) is derived from this resemblance. It
may be so. On each side of us, north and south, are the oldest parts
of Paris that still stand; in the north the Marais, behind the Tour
Saint-Jacques, and in the south the district between the Rue de Bievre
and the Boulevard St. Michel. On the south side of the river lived the
students, clerics and professors--Dante himself among them, in this
very Rue de Bievre, as we shall see; while in the Marais, as we shall
also see, dwelt the nobility. West of St. Eustache in the Middle Ages
was nothing but waste ground and woodland, a kind of Bois, at the edge
of which, where the Louvre now spreads itself, was a royal hunting
lodge, the germ of the present vast palace.
When the Marais passed out of favour, the aristocracy crossed the
river to the St. Germain quarter, which clusters around the twin
spires of St. Clotilde that now rise in the south-west. And then the
Rue Saint-Honore and the Grands Boulevards were built, and so the city
grew and changed until the two culminating touches were put to it: by
M. Eiffel, who built the tower, and M. Abadie, architect of the
beautiful and unreal Basilique du Sacre-Coeur that crowns the heights
of Montmartre.
The chief eminences that one sees are, near at hand, the needle-spire
of Sainte Chapelle, in the north the grey mass of St. Eustache, the
Chatelet Theatre (advertising at this moment "Les Pilules du Diable"
in enormous letters), the long roofs of the Halles, and the outline of
the medieval Tour Saint-Jacques. Farther west the bulky Opera; then,
right in front, the Trocadero's twin towers, with Mont Valerien
looming up immediately between them; and so round to the south--to the
Invalides and St. Clotilde, the Pantheon and the heights of Genevieve.
A wonderful panorama.
Of all the views of Paris I think that from Notre Dame is the most
interesting, because the point is most central; but the views from
Montmartre, from the Tour Saint-Jacques, the Pantheon and the Arc de
Triomphe should be studied too. The Eiffel Tower has dwarfed all those
eminences; they lie far below it, mere ant-hills in the landscape,
although they seem high enough when one essays their steps; yet,
although it makes them so lowly, these older coigns of vantage should
not for a moment be considered as superseded, for each does for its
immediate vicinage what the Eiffel giant can never do. From the Arc de
Triomphe, for example, you command all the luxurious activity of the
Avenue du Bois de Boulogne and the wonderful prospect of the Champs
Elysees, ending with the Louvre; and from the Pantheon you may examine
the roofs of the Latin Quarter and see the children at play in the
gardens of the Luxembourg.
The merit of the Eiffel Tower is that he shows you not only Paris to
the ultimate edges in every direction save on the northern slopes of
Montmartre, but he shows you (almost) France too. How long the Eiffel
Tower is to stand I cannot say, but I for one shall feel sorry and
bereft when he ceases to straddle over Paris. For though he is vulgar
he is great, and he has come to be a symbol. When he goes, he will
make a strange rent in the sky. This year (1909) is his twentieth: he
and I first came to Paris at the same time; but his life is serene
to-day compared with what it was in his infancy. At that time his
platforms were congested from morn to dusk; but few visitors now
ascend even to the first stage and hardly any to the top. No visitor,
however, who wants to synthesise Paris should omit this adventure.
Only in a balloon can one get a better view, but in no balloon adrift
from this green earth would I, for one, ever trust myself, although I
must confess that the procession of those aerial monsters that floated
serenely past the Eiffel Tower on the last occasion that I climbed it,
suggested nothing but content and security. They rose one by one from
the bosky depths of the Bois, five miles away, gradually disentangled
themselves from the surrounding verdure, assumed their independent
buoyant rotundity and came straight to my waiting eye. In an hour I
counted fifteen, and by the time the last was free of the earth the
first was away over Vincennes, with the afternoon sun turning its
mud-coloured silk to burnished gold. Paris has always one balloon
floating above her, but fifteen is exceptional.
Notre Dame remains, however, the most important height to scale, for
Notre Dame is interesting in every particular, it is soaked in history
and mystery. Notre Dame is alone in the possession of its
devils--those strange stone fantasies that Meryon discovered. Although
every effort is made to familiarise us with them--although they sit
docilely as paper-weights on our tables--nothing can lessen the
monstrous diablerie of these figures, which look down on Paris with
such greed and cruelty, cunning and cynicism. The best known, the most
saturnine, of all, who leans on the parapet exactly by the door at the
head of the steps, fixes his inhuman gaze on the dome of the
Invalides. Is it to be wondered at that he wears that expression?
A small family dwells in a room just behind this chimera, subsisting
by the sale of picture-postcards. It is a strange abode, and an
imaginative child would have a good start in life there. To him at any
rate the demons no doubt would soon lose their terrors and become as
friendly as the heavenly host that are posed so radiantly and
confidently on the ascent to the fleche--perhaps even more so. But to
the stranger they must remain cruel and horrible, creating a sense of
disquietude and alarm that it is surely the business of a cathedral to
allay. Curious anomaly! Let us descend.
Before leaving the Ile de la Cite, the Rue Chanoinesse, to the north
of Notre Dame, leading out of the Rue d'Arcole (near a blackguard
pottery shop), should be looked at. The cloisters of Notre Dame once
extended to this street and covered the ground between it and the
cathedral. The canons, or chanoines, lived here, and there are still a
few attractive old houses; but the rebuilder is very busy just now. At
No. 10, Fulbert, the uncle of Heloise, is said to have lived; at No.
18 was the Tour Dagobert, a fifteenth-century building, by climbing
which one had an excellent view of Notre Dame, but in the past year it
has been demolished and business premises cover its site. At No. 26
are (or were) the ruins of the twelfth-century chapel of St. Aignan,
where the faithful, evicted from Notre Dame by the Reign of Reason,
celebrated Mass in secret. Saint Bernard has preached here. The
adjacent streets--the Rue de Colombe, Rue Massillon, Rue des Ursins
and Rue du Cloitre-Notre-Dame--have also very old houses.
[Illustration: BALTHASAR CASTIGLIONE
RAPHAEL
_(Louvre)_]
For the best view of the exterior of Notre Dame one must take the Quai
de l'Archeveche, from which all its intricacies of masonry may be
studied--its buttresses solid and flying, its dependences, its massive
bulk, its grace and strength.