Guizot, Lamartine, and Beranger -- Public opinion at sea with
regard to the real Guizot -- People fail to see the real man
behind the politician -- Guizot regrets this false conception --
"I have not the courage to be unpopular" -- A tilt at Thiers --
My first meeting with him -- A picture and the story connected
with it -- M. Guizot "at home" -- His apartment -- The company --
M. Guizot on "the Spanish marriages" -- His indictment against
Lord Palmerston -- An incident in connection with Napoleon's tomb
at the Invalides -- Nicolas I. and Napoleon -- My subsequent
intimacy with M. Guizot -- Guizot as a father -- His
correspondence with his daughters -- A story of Henry Muerger and
Marguerite Thuillier -- M. Guizot makes up his mind not to live
in Paris any longer -- M. Guizot on "natural scenery" -- Never
saw the sea until he was over fifty -- Why M. Guizot did not like
the country; why M. Thiers did not like it -- Thiers the only man
at whom Guizot tilted -- M. Guizot died poor -- M. de Lamartine's
poverty did not inspire the same respect -- Lamartine's
impecuniosity -- My only visit to Lamartine's house -- Du Jellaby
dore -- With a difference -- All the stories and anecdotes about
M. de Lamartine relate to his improvidence and impecuniosity --
Ten times worse in that respect than Balzac -- M. Guizot's
literary productions and M. de Lamartine's -- The national
subscription raised for the latter -- How he anticipates some of
the money -- Beranger -- My first acquaintance with him --
Beranger's verdict on the Second Republic -- Beranger's constant
flittings -- Dislikes popularity -- The true story of Beranger
and Mdlle. Judith Frere.
That sentence of Louis-Philippe to Lord ----, quoted elsewhere: "Guizot
is so terribly respectable; I am afraid there is a mistake either about
his nationality or his respectability, for they are badly matched,"
reflected the opinion of the majority of Frenchmen with regard to the
eminent statesman. The historian who was supposed to know Cromwell and
Washington as well as if he had lived with them, was credited at last
with being a stern rigid Puritan in private life like the first,
impatient of contradiction like the second--in short, a kind of walking
copy-book moral, who never unbent, whose slightest actions were intended
by him to convey a lesson to the rest of mankind. Unable to devote much
time to her during the week, Guizot was in the habit of taking his
mother for a stroll in the Park of St. Cloud on Sundays. The French, who
are never tired of shouting, "Oh, ma mere! oh, ma mere!" resented such
small attentions on the part of the son, because, they maintained, they
were meant as exhibitions. Even such a philosopher as Ernest Renan
failed to see that there were two dissimilar men in Guizot, the Guizot
of public life and the Guizot of home life; that, behind the imperious,
haughty, battlesome orator of the Chamber, with his almost marble mask,
there was a tender and loving heart, capable of the most deep-seated
devotion; that the cares of State once thrown off, the supercilious
stare melted like ice beneath the sun of spring into a prepossessing
smile, captivating every one with whom he came in contact.
Guizot regretted this erroneous conception the world had formed of his
character. "But what can I do?" he asked. "In reality, I haven't the
courage to be unpopular any more than other people; but neither have I
the courage to prance about in my own drawing-room as if I were on
wires"--this was a slight slap at M. Thiers,--"nor can I write on
subjects with which I have no sympathy"--that was a second,--"and I
should cut but a sorry figure on horseback"--that was a
third;--"consequently people who, I am sure, wish me well, but who will
not come and see me at home, hold me up as a misanthrope, while I know
that I am nothing of the kind."
With this he took from his table an article by M. Renan on the first
volume of his "Memoires," an article couched in the most flattering
terms, but giving the most conventional portrait of the author himself.
"Why doesn't he come and see me? He would soon find that I am not the
solitary, tragic, buckram figure that has already become legendary, and
which, like most legendary figures, is absolutely false."
This conversation--or rather monologue, for I was careful not to
interrupt him--took place in the early part of the Second Empire, in the
house in the Rue de la Ville-Leveque he occupied for five and twenty
years, and until 1860. The Coup d'Etat had irretrievably shattered
Guizot's political career. It had destroyed whatever hopes may have
remained after the flight of Louis-Philippe. Consequently Guizot's
proper place is among the men of that reign; the reason why I insert him
here is because my acquaintance with him only began after his
disappearance from public life.
It occurred in this way. One evening, after dinner at M. de Morny's, we
were talking about pictures, and especially about those of the Spanish
school, when our host turned to me. "Have you ever seen 'the Virgin'
belonging to M. Guizot?" he asked. I told him I had not. "Then go and
see it," he said. "It is one of the finest specimens of its kind I ever
saw, I might say the finest." Next day I asked permission of M. Guizot
to come and see it, and, almost by return of post, I received an
invitation for the following Thursday night to one of his "at homes."
Until then I had never met M. Guizot, except at one of his ministerial
soirees under the preceding dynasty. The apartment offered nothing very
striking: the furniture was of the ordinary kind to be found in almost
every bourgeois drawing-room, with this difference--that it was
considerably shabbier; for Guizot was poor all his life. The man who had
said to the nation, "Enrichissez vous, enrichissez vous," had never
acted upon the advice himself. I know for a fact that, while he was in
power, he was asked to appoint to the post of receiver-general of the
Gironde one of the richest financiers in France, who had expressed the
intention to share the magnificent benefits of the appointment with him.
M. Guizot simply and steadfastly refused to do anything of the kind.
On the evening in question, a lamp with a reflector was placed in front
of the picture I had come to see, probably in my honour. M. de Morny had
not exaggerated the beauty of it, but it bore no signature, and M.
Guizot himself had no idea with regard to the painter. "There is a
curious story connected with it," he said, "but I cannot tell it you
now; come and see me one morning and I will. As an Englishman it will
interest you; especially if you will take the trouble to read between
the lines. I will tell you a few more, perhaps, but the one connected
with the picture is 'la bonne bouche.'"
The company at M. Guizot's, on that and other occasions, mainly
consisted of those who had been vanquished in the recent struggle with
Louis-Napoleon, or thought they had been; for a great many were mere
word-spinners, who had been quite as vehement in their denunciations of
the man they were now surrounding when he was in power, as they were in
their diatribes against the man who, after all, saved France for
eighteen years from anarchy, and did not indulge more freely in
nepotism, peculation, and kindred amenities than those who came after
him. But, at the outset of these notes, I took the resolution to eschew
politics, and I will endeavour to keep it as far as possible.
As a matter of course, I soon availed myself of M. Guizot's permission
to call upon him in the morning, and it was then that he told me the
following story connected with the picture.
"After the Spanish marriages, Queen Isabella wished to convey to me a
signal mark of her gratitude--for what, Heaven alone knows, because it
is the only political transaction I would willingly efface from my
career. So she conferred upon me the dukedom of San Antonio, and sent me
the patent with a most affectionate letter. Honestly speaking, I was
more than upset by this proof of royal kindness, seeing that I had not
the least wish to accept the title. I felt equally reluctant to offend
her by declining the high distinction offered, I felt sure, from a most
generous feeling. I went to see the King, and explained my awkward
position, adding that the name of Guizot was all sufficient for me. 'You
are right,' said the King. 'Leave the matter to me; I'll arrange it.'
And he did, much to the disgust of M. de Salvandy, who had received a
title at the same time, but who could not accept his while the Prime
Minister declined.
"Then she sent me this picture. Some witty journalist said, at the time,
that it was symbolical of her own married state; for let me tell you
that the unfitness of Don Francis d'Assis was 'le secret de
polichinelle,' however much your countrymen may have insisted that it
only leaked out after the union. Personally I was entirely opposed to
it, and, in fact, it was not a ministerial question at all, but one of
court intrigue. Lord Palmerston chose to make it the former, and he, and
your countrymen through him, are not only morally but virtually
responsible for the subsequent errors of Isabella. Do you know what his
ultimatum was when the marriage had been contracted, when there was no
possibility of going back? You do not. Well, then, I will tell you. 'If
Isabella has not a child within a twelvemonth, then there will be war
between England and France.' I leave you to ponder the consequences for
yourself, though I assure you that I washed my hands of the affair from
that moment. But the French as well as the English would never believe
me, and history will record that 'the austere M. Guizot,' for that is
what they choose to call me, 'lent his aid to proceedings which would
make the most debased pander blush with shame.'
"It is not the only time that my intentions have been purposely
misconceived and misconstrued; nay, I have been taxed with things of
which I was as innocent as a child. In 1846, almost at the same period
that the Spanish imbroglio took place, Count de Montalembert got up in
the Upper House one day and declared it a disgrace that France should
have begged the tomb of Napoleon I. from Russia. Now, the fact was that
France had not begged anything at all. The principal part of the
monument at the Invalides is the sarcophagus. The architect Visconti was
anxious that it should consist of red porphyry; M. Duchatel and myself
were of the same opinion. Unfortunately, we had not the remotest notion
where such red porphyry was to be found. The Egyptian quarries, whence
the Romans took it, were exhausted. Inquiries were made in the Vosges,
in the Pyrenees, but without result, and we were going to abandon the
porphyry, when news arrived at the Ministry of the Interior that the
kind of stone we wanted existed in Russia.
"Just then my colleague, M. de Salvandy, was sending M. Leouzon le Duc
to the north on a special mission, and I instructed him to go as far as
St. Petersburg and consult Count de Rayneval, our ambassador, as to the
best means of getting the porphyry. A few months later, M. le Duc sent
me specimens of a stone from a quarry on the banks of the Onega Lake,
which, if not absolutely porphyry, was the nearest to it to be had. M.
Visconti having approved of it, I forwarded further instructions for the
quantity required, and so forth.
"The quarry, it appears, belonged to the Crown, and had never been
worked, could not be worked, without due permission and the payment of a
certain tax. After a great many formalities, mainly raised by
speculators who had got wind of the affair, and had bribed various
officials to oppose, or, at any rate, intercept the petition sent by M.
le Duc for the necessary authorization, Prince Wolkonsky, the Minister
of State, acquainted the Czar himself with the affair, and Nicholas,
without a moment's hesitation, granted the request, remitting the tax
which M. le Duc had estimated at about six thousand francs. This took
place at a cabinet council, and, unfortunately for me, the Czar thought
fit to make a little speech. 'What a strange destiny!' he said, rising
from his seat and assuming a solemn tone--'what a strange destiny this
man's'--alluding to Napoleon--'even in death! It is we who struck him
the first fatal blow, by the burning of our holy and venerable capital,
and it is from us that France asks his tomb. Let the French envoy have
everything he requires, and, above all, let no tax be taken.'
"That was enough; the German and French papers got hold of the last
words with the rest; they confounded the tax with the cost of working,
which amounted to more than two hundred thousand francs; and up to this
day, notwithstanding the explanations I and my colleagues offered in
reply to the interpellation of M. de Montalembert, the story remains
that Russia made France a present of the tomb of Napoleon."
From that day forth I often called upon M. Guizot, especially in the
daytime, when I knew that he had finished working; for when he found
that his political career was irrevocably at an end, he turned very
cheerfully--I might say gladly--to his original avocation, literature.
Without the slightest fatigue, without the slightest worry, he produced
a volume of philosophical essays or history every year; and if, unlike
Alexandre Dumas, he did not roar with laughter while composing, he was
often heard to hum a tune. "En effet," said one of his daughters, the
Countess Henriette de Witt (both his daughters bore the same name and
titles when married), "notre pere ne chante presque jamais qu'en
travaillant." This did not mean that work, and work only, had the effect
of putting M. Guizot in good humour. He was, according to the same
authority, uniformly sweet-tempered at home, whether sitting in his
armchair, surrounded by his family, or gently strolling up and down his
library. "C'est la politique qui le rendait mechant," said Madame de
Witt, "heureusement il la laissait a la porte. Et tres souvent il
l'oubliait de parti-pris au milieu du conseil et alors il nous ecrivait
des lettres, mais des lettres, comme on n'en ecrit plus. En voila deux
qu'il m'a ecrites lorsque j'etais tres jeune fille." Whereupon she
showed me what were really two charming gossiping little essays on the
art of punctuation. It appears that the little lady was either very
indifferent to, or ignorant of the art; and the father wrote, "My dear
Henriette, I am afraid I shall still have to take you to task with
regard to your punctuation: there is little or none of it in your
letters. All punctuation, commas or other signs, mark a period of repose
for the mind--a stage more or less long--an idea which is done with or
momentarily suspended, and which is being divided by such a sign from
the next. You suppress those periods, those intervals; you write as the
stream flows, as the arrow flies. That will not do at all, because the
ideas one expresses, the things of which we speak, are not all
intimately connected with one another like drops of water."
The second letter showed that Mdlle. Guizot must have taken her revenge,
either very cleverly, or that she was past all redemption in the matter
of punctuation; and as the latter theory is scarcely admissible, knowing
what we do of her after-life, we must admit the former. The letter ran
as follows:
"MY DEAR HENRIETTE,
"I dare say you will find me very provoking, but let me beg of
you not to fling so many commas at my head. You are absolutely
pelting me with them, as the Romans pelted that poor Tarpeia with
their bucklers."
It reminds one of Marguerite Thuillier, who "created Mimi" in Muerger and
Barriere's "Vie de Boheme," when Muerger fell in love with her. "I can't
do with him," she said to his collaborateur, who pleaded for him,--"I
can't do with him; he is too badly dressed, he looks like a scarecrow."
Barriere advised his friend to go to a good tailor and have himself
rigged out in the latest fashion. The advice was acted upon; Barriere
waited anxiously for the effect of the transformation upon the lady's
heart. A fortnight elapsed, and poor Muerger was snubbed as usual.
Barriere interceded once more. "I can do less with him than before," was
the answer; "he is too well dressed, he looks like a tailor's dummy."
To return to M. Guizot, whom, in the course of the whole of our
acquaintance, I have only seen once "put out." It was when the fiat went
forth that his house was to come down to make room for the new Boulevard
Malesherbes. The authorities had been as considerate as possible; they
had made no attempt to treat the eminent historian as a simple owner of
house-property fighting to get the utmost value; they offered him three
hundred thousand francs, and M. Guizot himself acknowledged that the sum
was a handsome one. "But I have got thirty thousand volumes to remove,
besides my notes and manuscripts," he wailed. Then his good temper got
the better of him, and he had a "sly dig" at his former adversary,
Adolphe Thiers. "Serves me right for having so many books; happy the
historian who prefers to trust to his imagination."
M. Guizot made up his mind to have his library removed to Val-Richer and
never to live in Paris again; but his children and friends prevailed
upon him not to forsake society altogether, and to take a modest
apartment near his old domicile, in the Faubourg St. Honore, opposite
the English embassy, which, however, in those days had not the
monumental aspect it has at present.
"It is doubtful," said M. Guizot afterwards to me, "whether the idea of
living in the country would have ever entered my mind ten or fifteen
years ago. At that time, I would not have gone a couple of miles to see
the most magnificent bit of natural scenery: I should have gone a
thousand to see a man of talent."
And, in fact, up till 1830, when he was nearly forty-four, he had never
seen the sea, "And if it had not been for an electoral journey to
Normandy, I might not have seen it then." I pointed out to him that M.
Thiers had never had a country house; that he did not seem to care for
nature, for birds, or for flowers.
"Ah, that's different," he smiled. "I did not care much about the
country, because I had never seen any of it. Thiers does not like it,
because the birds, the flowers, the trees, live and grow without his
interference, and he does not care that anything on earth should happen
without his having a hand in it."
Thiers was the only man at whom M. Guizot tilted in that way. Though
brought up in strict Protestant, one might almost say Calvinistic
principles, he was an ardent admirer of Roman Catholicism, which he
called "the most admirable school of respect in the world." No man had
suffered more from the excesses of the first Revolution, seeing that his
father perished on the scaffold, yet I should not like to say that he
was not somewhat of a republican at heart, but not of a republic "which
begins with Plato and necessarily ends with a gendarme." "The republic
of '48," he used to say, "it had not even a Monk, let alone a Washington
or a Cromwell; and Louis-Napoleon had to help himself to the throne. And
depend upon it, if there had been a Cromwell, he would have crushed it
as the English one crushed the monarchy. As for Washington, he would not
have meddled with it at all."
"Yes," he said on another occasion, "I am proud of one thing--of the
authorship of the law on elementary education; but, proud as I am of
it, if I could have foreseen the uses to which it has been put, to which
it is likely to be put when I am gone, I would sooner have seen half of
the nation unable to distinguish an '_A_ from a bull's foot,' as your
countrymen say."
With Guizot died almost the last French statesman, "who not only thought
that he had the privilege to be poor, but who carried the privilege too
far;" as some one remarked when he heard the news of his demise. Towards
the latter years of his life, he occupied a modest apartment, on the
fourth floor, in the Rue Billaut (now the Rue Washington). Well might M.
de Falloux exclaim, as he toiled up that staircase, "My respect for him
increases with every step I take."
Since M. de Falloux uttered these words, and very long before, I have
only known one French statesman whose staircase and whose poverty might
perhaps inspire the same reflections and elicit similar praise. I am
alluding to M. Rouher.
M. de Lamartine's poverty did not breed the same respect. There was no
dignity about it. It was the poverty of Oliver Goldsmith sending to Dr.
Johnson and feasting with the guinea the latter had forwarded by the
messenger pending his own arrival. Mery had summed up the situation with
regard to Lamartine's difficulties on the evening of the 24th of
February, '48, and there is no reason to suspect that his statement had
been exaggerated. The dynasty of the younger branch of the Bourbons had
been overthrown because Lamartine saw no other means of liquidating the
350,000 francs he still owed for his princely journey to the East. I had
been to Lamartine's house once before that revolution, and, though his
wife was an Englishwoman, I felt no inclination to return thither. The
household gave me the impression of "Du Jellaby dore." The sight of it
would have furnished Dickens with as good a picture as the one he
sketched. The principal personage, however, was not quite so
disinterested as the future mother-in-law of Prince Turveydrop. Of
course, at that time, there was no question of a republic, but the
politics advocated and discussed during the lunch were too superfine for
humble mortals like myself, who instinctively felt that--
"Quelques billets de mille francs feraient bien mieux l'affaire"
of the host. And the instinct was not a deceptive one. Four months after
February, 1848, M. de Lamartine had virtually ceased to exist, as far
as French politics were concerned. From that time until the day of his
death, the world only heard of him in connection with a new book or new
poem, the avowed purpose of which was, not to make the world better or
wiser, but to raise money. He kept singing like the benighted musician
on the Russian steppes keeps playing his instrument, to keep away the
wolves.
I knew not one but a dozen men, all of whom visited M. de Lamartine. I
have never been able to get a single story or anecdote about him, not
bearing upon the money question. He is ten times worse in that respect
than Balzac, with this additional point in the latter's favour--that he
never whines to the outside world about his impecuniosity. M. Guizot
produces a volume every twelvemonth, and asks nothing of any one; he
leaves the advertising of it to his publisher: M. de Lamartine spends
enormous sums in publicity, and subsidizes, besides, a crowd of
journalists, who devour his creditors' substance while he keeps
repeating to them that his books do not sell. "If, henceforth, I were to
offer pearls dissolved in the cup of Cleopatra, people would use the
decoction to wash their horses' feet." And, all the while, people bought
his works, though no one cared to read the later ones. The golden lyre
of yore was worse than dumb; it emitted false and weak sounds, the
strings had become relaxed, the golden tongue alone remained.
When a national subscription is raised to pay his debts, the committee
are so afraid of his wasting the money that they decide to have the
proceeds deposited at the Comptoir d'Escompte, and that de Lamartine
shall not be able to draw a farthing until all his affairs are settled.
One morning he deputes a friend to ask for forty thousand francs, in
order to pay some bills that are due. They refuse to advance the money.
De Lamartine invites them to his own house, but they stand firm at
first. Gradually they give way. "How much do you really want?" is the
question asked at last. "Fifty thousand francs," is the answer; "but I
fancy I shall be able to manage with thirty thousand francs."
"If we gave you fifty thousand francs," says M. Emile Pereire, "would
you give us some breathing-time?"
"Yes."
And Lamartine pockets the fifty thousand francs, thanks to his
eloquence.
A better man, though not so great a poet, was Beranger, whom I knew for
many years, though my intimacy with him did not commence until a few
months after the February revolution, when I met him coming out of the
Palais-Bourbon. "I shall feel obliged," he said, "if you will see me
home, for I am not at all well; these violent scenes are not at all to
my taste." Then, with a very wistful smile, he went on: "I have been
accused of having held 'the plank across the brook over which
Louis-Philippe went to the Tuileries.' I wish I could be the bridge
across the channel on which he would return now. Certainly I would have
liked a republic, but not such a one as we are having in there,"
pointing to the home of the Constituent Assembly. A short while after,
Beranger tendered his resignation as deputy.
He lived at Passy then, in the Rue Basse; the number, if I mistake not,
was twenty-three. He had lived in the same quarter fifteen years before,
for I used to see him take his walks when I was a lad, but it was
difficult for Beranger to live in the same spot for any length of time.
He was, first of all, of a very nomadic disposition; secondly, his
quondam friends would leave him no peace. There was a constant inroad of
shady individuals who, on the pretext that he was "the people's poet,"
drained his purse and his cellar. Previous to his return to Passy, he
had been boarding with a respectable widow in the neighbourhood of
Vincennes. He had adopted the name of Bonnin, and his landlady took him
to be a modest, retired tradesman, living upon a small annuity. When his
birthday came round, she and her daughters found out that they had
entertained an angel unawares, for carriage after carriage drove up, and
in a few hours the small dwelling was filled with magnificent flowers,
the visitors meanwhile surrounding Beranger, and offering him their
congratulations. As a matter of course, the rumour spread, and Beranger
fled to Passy, where he invited Mdlle. Judith Frere to join him once
more. The retreat had been discovered, and he resigned himself to be
badgered more than usual for the sake of the neighbourhood--the Bois de
Boulogne was hard by; but the municipal council of Passy, in
consideration of the honour conferred upon the arrondissement and
Beranger's charity, took it into their heads to pass a resolution
offering Beranger the most conspicuous place in the cemetery for a tomb.
The poet fled once more, this time to the Quartier-Latin; but the
students insisting on pointing him out to their female companions, who,
in their enthusiasm, made it a point of embracing him on every possible
occasion, especially in the "Closerie des Lilas"--for to the end
Beranger remained fond of the society of young folk,--Beranger was
compelled to flit once more. After a short stay in the Rue Vendome, in
the neighbourhood of the Temple, he came to the Quartier-Beaujon, where
I visited him.
There have been so many tales with regard to Beranger's companion,
Mdlle. Judith Frere, and all equally erroneous, that I am glad to be
able to rectify them. Mdlle. Frere was by no means the kind of upper
servant she was generally supposed to be. A glance at her face and a few
moments spent in her company could not fail to convince any one that she
was of good birth. She had befriended Beranger when he was very young,
they had parted for some time, and they ended their days together, for
the poet only survived his friend three months. Beranger was a model of
honesty and disinterestedness. Ambition he had little or none; he was
somewhat fond of teasing children, not because he had no affection for
them, but because he loved them too much. His portrait by Ary Scheffer
is the most striking likeness I have ever seen; but a better one still,
perhaps, is by an artist who had probably never set eyes on him. I am
alluding to Hablot Browne, who unconsciously reproduced him to the life
in the picture of Tom Pinch. As a companion, Beranger was charming to a
degree. I have never heard him say a bitter word. The day I saw him
home, I happened to say to him, "You ought to be pleased, Victor Hugo is
in the same regiment with you." "Yes," he answered, "he is in the band."
He would never accept a pension from Louis-Napoleon, but he had no
bitterness against him. Lamartine was very bitter, and yet consented to
the Emperor's heading of the subscription-list in his behalf. That alone
would show the difference between the two men.