Some men of the Commune -- Cluseret -- His opinion of Rossel --
His opinion of Bergeret -- What Cluseret was fighting for --
Thiers and Abraham Lincoln -- Raoul Rigault on horseback --
Theophile Ferre -- Ferre and Gil-Peres, the actor -- The comic
men of the Commune -- Gambon -- Jourde, one of the most valuable
of the lot -- His financial abilities -- His endeavours to save
-- Jourde at Godillot's -- Colonel Maxime Lisbonne -- The
Editor's recollections of him -- General Dombrowski and General
la Cecilia -- A soiree at the Tuileries -- A gala-performance at
the Opera Comique -- The death-knell of the Commune.
I have before now spoken of a young medical student in whose company I
spent several evenings at a cafe on the Boulevard St. Michel, during the
Empire. He, like myself, remained in Paris during the siege, and refused
to stir at the advent of the Commune. As a matter of course, whenever we
met, while the latter lasted, we rarely spoke of anything else. He
sympathized, to a certain extent, with the principle, though not with
the would-be expounders of it. I knew few, if any, of the leaders even
by sight, though I had heard of some, such as, for instance, Jules
Valles, in connection with their literary work. My admiration was
strictly confined to those performances, and I often said so to my
friend. "You are mistaken in your estimate of them," he invariably
replied. "There are men of undoubted talent among them, for instance,
Cluseret; but most of them are like square pegs in round holes. Come
with me to-night, and you will be able to judge for yourself; for he is
sure to be at the Brasserie Saint-Severin."
I had never been to the Brasserie Saint-Severin, though I had paid two
or three visits several years before to the cafe de la Renaissance
opposite the Fontaine Saint-Michel, at which establishment the Commune
may be said to have been hatched. It was there that, in 1866, Raoul
Rigault, Longuet, the brothers Levraud, Dacosta, Genton, Protot, and a
dozen more were arrested by the Commissary of Police, M. Clement.
That night, about eight o'clock, we crossed the Pont Saint-Michel, and,
in a minute or so, found ourselves amidst some of the shining lights of
the Commune.
Save on review days I had never seen so many brilliant uniforms gathered
together. As far as I can recollect, there was only one civilian in the
group pointed out to me. He looked a mere skeleton, was misshapen, and
one of the ugliest men I have ever met. I asked his name, and was told
it was Tridon. The name was perfectly familiar to me as belonging to one
of the most remarkable polemists during the late regime. A little while
afterwards, Cluseret came in.
My friend introduced me, and we sat talking for more than two hours; and
I have rarely been more interested than I was that night. Cluseret spoke
English very well, for he had been in America several years, and our
conversation was carried on in that language. I have already remarked
that I had no intention, at that time, to jot down my recollections,
still I was so impressed with what I had heard that I made some rough
memoranda when I got home. They are among the papers I have preserved.
Cluseret fostered no illusions as to the final upshot of the Commune.
"If every man were as devoted to the cause as Kossuth and Garibaldi were
to theirs, we should not be able to establish a permanent Commune; but
this is by no means the case. Most of the leaders, even those who are
not self-seekers, are too visionary in their aims; they will not abate
one jot of their ideal. The others think of nothing but their own
aggrandisement, and though many are no doubt capable to a degree, they
are absolutely useless for the posts they have chosen for themselves.
There are certainly exceptions; such as, for instance, Rossel. His
technical knowledge is very considerable. If I had to describe him in
two words, I should call him Lothario-Cromwell. For, notwithstanding his
military aptitudes and his Puritan stiffness in many things, he has too
many petticoats about him. In addition to this, he is overbearing and
absolutely eaten up with ambition; he is a republican who despises the
proletariat; he would fain imitate the axiom of Napoleon I., 'The tools
to those who can use them;' but he forgets that it will not do for a
socialistic regime such as we would establish, because it is exactly
those that cannot use the tools who wish to be treated as if they could.
If they had intelligence enough to use the tools, they would have lifted
themselves out of their humble, unsatisfactory positions without any
aid. Rossel is no doubt a better strategist than I am, and I do not in
the least mind his letting me know it, but if Dombrowski or Bergeret was
'Delegate for War,' Rossel would have been in prison or shot a fortnight
ago."
"For," continued Cluseret, "Bergeret especially thinks himself a
heaven-born general. He shows well on horseback, because, I believe, he
began life as a stable-lad: so did Michel Ney; but then, Michel Ney
served his apprenticeship at fighting, while Bergeret became a
compositor, a chef-de-claque, a proof-reader, and, finally, a traveller
for a publishing firm. All these are, no doubt, very honourable
occupations, but they are scarcely calculated to make a good general.
Still, you should see him: he wears his sash as your officers wear
theirs when on duty; he would like the people to mistake it for the
grand-cordon of the Legion d'Honneur; and his staff is more numerous
than that of the late Emperor. You should go and dine at the
head-quarters of the military governor of Paris; I am sure you would be
very welcome. Marast at the Palais-Bourbon in '48 was nothing to it. If
the Commune lasts another three months there will be servants in livery,
gold lace, and powder, like in your country. At present, Bergeret has to
put up with attendants in faultless black.
"Personally," he went on, "I am not fighting for Communism, but for
Communalism, which, I need not tell you, is quite a different thing. I
fail to see why Paris and Lyons should be judged incapable of managing
their own municipal affairs without the interference of the State, while
other great provincial centres are considered capable of doing so. The
English Government does not interfere with the municipal affairs of
London on the plea that it is the capital, with those of Manchester on
the plea that it has inaugurated a policy of its own, any more than it
interferes with those of Liverpool, Leeds, or Bristol. Your
lord-lieutenants of counties are virtually decorative officials,
something different from our prefects and our sub-prefects, and your
Home Secretary has not a hundredth part of the power of our Minister of
the Interior. We wish to go a step further than you, without, however,
shirking the financial obligations imposed by a federation. What you
would call imperial taxes, we are willing to pay in kind as well as
money. This is one of the things we do want; what we do not want is the
resuscitation of the Empire. I am not speaking at random when I tell
you that there are rumours about traitors in our camp, and that,
according to these rumours, the struggle against the Versaillese troops
would be a mere pretext to sweep the deck for the unopposed entry of an
imperial army into Paris. Whence would that army be recruited? From
among the prisoners going to leave Germany, who have been worked all the
while in the interest of the Napoleonic dynasty. After all, we have as
much right to overthrow the Government of Versailles as the Government
of Versailles had the right to upset the Empire. Their powers are by no
means more valid by virtue of the recent elections, than was the power
of Louis-Napoleon by virtue of the plebiscite of 1870. Does M. Thiers
really think that he is a better or greater man than Abraham Lincoln,
who treated the Southerns as belligerents, not as insurgents?"
So far Cluseret. I am not prepared to say that he was a strictly
honourable man, but he was a very intelligent one, probably the most
intelligent among the leaders of the Commune. At any rate, his
conversation made me anxious to get a nearer sight of some of the
latter, and, as they had evidently made the Brasserie Saint-Severin
their principal resort of an evening, I returned thither several times.
A few nights afterwards, I was just in time to witness the arrival of
Raoul Rigault, on horseback, accompanied by a staff running by the side
of his animal. The whole reminded me irresistibly of Decamp's picture,
"La Patrouille Turque." The Prefect of Police was scarcely less
magnificently attired than the rest of his fellow-dignitaries. His
uniform, if I remember rightly, was blue with red facings, but it is
impossible to say, because it was covered everywhere with gold lace. His
myrmidons hustled the crowd in order to make room for their chief, and
some one laughed: "Mais il n'y a rien de change; c'est absolument comme
sous l'Empire." For a moment Rigault sat quite still, surveying the
crowd and ogling the women through his double eye-glasses. Then he
alighted, and caught sight of my friend and myself standing on the
threshold. "Quels sont ces citoyens?" he inquired, taking us in from top
to toe, and stroking his long beard all the while. Some one told him our
names, at which he made a wry face, the more that mine must have been
familiar to him, seeing that a very near relative of mine, bearing the
same, had been a special favourite with General Vinoy. He did not think
fit to molest us; had he done so, it might have fared badly with us,
for by the time Lord Lyons could have interfered, we might have been
shot.
Ever since, my friend and I have been under the impression that we owed
our lives to a dark, ugly little man who, at that moment, whispered
something to him, and who, my friend told me, immediately afterwards,
was the right hand of Raoul Rigault, Theophile Ferre. That name was also
familiar to me, as it was to most Parisians, previous to the outbreak of
the war, because Ferre was implicated in the plot against
Louis-Napoleon's life, and was tried in the early part of '70 at Blois.
Every one knew how he insulted the President, how he refused to answer,
and finally exclaimed, "Yes, I am an anarchist, a socialist, an atheist,
and woe to you when our turn comes." He kept his word; he was a fiend,
and looked one. Whenever there was anything cruel and bloodthirsty going
on, he made it a point to be present. He was, though ugly, not half so
ugly as Tridon, but one involuntarily recoiled from him.
Curiously enough, this very Theophile Ferre, whom I then saw for the
first time, had been the subject of a conversation I had with Gil-Peres,
the actor of the Palais-Royal, on the 25th or 26th of March. I had known
Gil-Peres from the moment he made his mark in "La Dame aux Camelias" as
Gaudens. To my great surprise, a day or two after the proclamation of
the Commune, I heard that he had been cruelly maltreated in the Rue
Drouot, that he had narrowly escaped being killed. Two days later, I
paid him a visit in his lodgings at Montmartre; for he had been
severely, though not dangerously hurt, and was unable to leave his bed.
"I am very sorry for your mishap," I said; "but what, in Heaven's name,
induced you to meddle with politics?"
He burst out laughing, in that peculiar laugh of his which I have never
heard before or since, on or off the stage. The nearest approach to it
was that of Grassot, but the latter's was like a discharge of artillery,
while Gil-Peres was like that of a musketry volley.
"I did not meddle with politics," he replied; "but you know how fond I
am of going among crowds to study character. This day last week, I was
passing along the Rue Drouot, when I saw a large group in front of the
Mairie. I had left home early in the morning, I knew nothing of what was
going on in my neighbourhood, so you may imagine my surprise when I
heard them calmly discussing the death of Clement Thomas and Lecomte.
My hair stood positively on end, and I must have pushed a bit in order
to get nearer the speakers. I had a long black coat on, and they mistook
me for a cure. I did all I could to tell them my name, but, before I
could utter a word, I was down, and they began trampling on me. Some
one, God alone knows who, saved me, by telling them my name. I knew
nothing more, for I was brought home unconscious. And to think," he
added, "that I might have been a member of the Commune myself, if I had
liked."
"What do you mean?" I said, for I began to think that he was out of his
mind.
"Well, you know that during the siege I tried to do my duty as a
National Guard, and in my battalion was this Theophile Ferre of whom you
have already heard. A most intelligent creature, but poor as Job and
ferocious to a degree. He was a study to me, and, of late, he frequently
came to see me in the morning. I generally asked him to stay to
breakfast, for I liked to hear him talk of the future Commune, though I
had not the slightest faith in his visions. I considered him a downright
lunatic. About two or three days before this outbreak, he came, one
morning, looking as pale as a ghost, but evidently very much excited.
Before I had time to ask him the cause of his emotion, he exclaimed,
'This time there is no mistake about it; we are the masters.' I suppose
my face must have looked a perfect blank, for he proceeded to explain.
'In two days we'll hold our sittings at the Hotel-de-Ville, and the
Commune will be proclaimed. And now,' he added, 'what can I do for you,
citoyen Gil-Peres? You have always been very kind to me, and I am not
likely to forget it when I am at the top of the tree.'
"I told him that I'd feel much obliged to him if he could induce Sardou
or Dumas to write me a good part, like the latter had done before,
because I wanted to be something more than a comic actor. But I saw that
he was getting angry.
"'Do you mean to tell me,' he almost hissed, 'that you do not want to
belong to the Commune?'
"'I haven't the slightest ambition that way,' I replied. 'People would
only make fun of me, and they would be perfectly right.'
"'Why should people make fun of you?'
"'Because, because----' I stammered.
"He left me no time to finish. 'Because you are a small man,' he said.
'Well, I am a small man, too, and an ugly one into the bargain. I can
assure you that the world will hear as much of me before long as if I
had been an Adonis and a Hercules.' With this he disappeared, and I have
not seen him since."
My purpose in reporting this conversation is to show that the Commune,
with all its evils, might have been prevented by the so-called
government of Versailles, if its members had been a little less eager to
get their snug berths comfortably settled.
To return for a moment to Ferre and his companions, who, without
exception, were sober to a degree, though many were probably fond of
good cheer. The English writers, often very insufficiently informed,
have generally maintained the contrary, but I know for a fact that,
among the leaders of the movement, drunkenness was unknown. Ferre
himself was among the soberest of the lot: the few evenings I saw him he
drank either cold coffee or some cordial diluted with water.
Nevertheless, it was he who was directly responsible for the death of
Archbishop Darboy, whom he could and might have saved.
In every modern tragedy there is a comic element, and in that of the
Commune the comic parts were, to a certain extent, sustained by Gambon,
Jourde, and a few others whom it is not necessary to mention. Gambon was
one of the mildest of creatures, and somewhat of a "communard malgre
lui." He would have willingly "left the settlement of all these vexed
questions to moral force," and he proposed once or twice a mission to
Versailles to that effect. He was about fifty, and a fine specimen of a
robust, healthy farmer. His love of "peaceful settlement" arose from an
experiment he had made in that way during the Empire, though it is very
doubtful whether strictly logical reasoners would have looked upon it as
"peaceful." Gambon had been a magistrate and a member of the National
Assembly during the Second Republic, and voted with the conservative
side. The advent of the Empire made an end of his parliamentary career,
and, in order to mark his disapproval of the Coup-d'Etat and its sequel,
Gambon refused to pay his taxes. The authorities seized one of his cows,
and were proceeding to sell it by auction, when Gambon, accompanied by a
good many of his former constituents, appeared on the scene. "This cow,"
he shouts, "has been stolen from me by the Imperial fisc, and whosoever
buys it is nothing more than a thief himself." Result: not a single bid
for the cow, and the auctioneer was compelled to adjourn the sale for a
week. The auctioneer deemed it prudent to transport the cow to a
neighbouring commune, but Gambon had got wind of the affair, and adopted
the same expedient of moral persuasion. For nearly three months the
auctioneer transported the cow from one commune to another, and Gambon
followed him everywhere, until they reached the limits of the
department. Gambon apprehended that moral persuasion would have no
effect among strangers, and he let things take their course. The cost of
selling the cow amounted to about ten times its worth. As a matter of
course, the whole affair was revived by "les journaux bien pensants" at
the advent of the Commune, and Gambon was elected a member by the 10th
Arrondissement. Gambon managed to escape into Switzerland; but when the
amnesty was proclaimed, he returned, and solicited once more the
suffrages of his former constituents. At the Brasserie Saint-Severin,
Gambon was generally to be found at the ladies' table, about the
occupants of which I cannot speak, seeing that I was not introduced to
them.
Jourde was one of two "financial delegates" of the Commune. He had been
a superior employe at the Bank of France, and was considered an
authority on financial affairs. It was he to whom the Marquis de Ploeuc,
the governor of the Bank, had handed the first million for the use of
the Commune. My friend, the doctor, had known him in his former
capacity, and often invited him to our table, to which invitation the
"paymaster-general" always eagerly responded. One evening, the
conversation turned upon the events which had preceded the request for
funds. "On the second day of the Commune," he said, "the want of money
began to be horribly felt. Eudes proposed that I should go and fetch
some from the Bank of France. To be perfectly candid, I did not care
about it. Had I been a soldier, I might have invaded the Bank at the
head of a regiment; but, to go and ask my former chief for a million or
so as a matter of course, was a different thing, and I had not the moral
courage. The director of the Bank of France is very little short of a
god to his subordinates, and, in spite of our boasted 'Liberty,
Fraternity, and Equality,' there is no nation so ready to bow down
before its governors as the French. Seeing that I hung back, Eudes
proposed to go himself, and did, refusing to take a single soldier with
him. But he did not want the responsibility of handling the million of
francs the governor placed at our disposal, so I was, after all, obliged
to beard my former chief in his own den. He was very polite, and called
me 'Monsieur le delegue aux finances,' but I would have preferred his
calling me all the names in the world, for I caught sight of a very
ironical smile at the corners of his mouth when, on taking leave of him,
he said, 'You may be my successor one day, Monsieur le delegue, and I
hope you will profit by the lessons I have always endeavoured to teach
my subordinates: obedience to the powers that be.'"
Jourde was by no means a fool or a braggart; he was a very good
administrator, and exceedingly conscientious. Like most men who have had
the constant handling of important sums of money, he was absolutely
indifferent to it; and I feel certain that he did not feather his own
nest during the two months he had the chance. But he vainly endeavoured
to impress upon the others the necessity for economy. Every now and then
he tore his red hair and beard at the waste going on at the
Hotel-de-Ville, where, in the beginning, Assi was keeping open table.
Not that they were feasting, but every one who had a mind could sit
down, and, though the sum charged by the steward was moderate, two
francs for breakfast and two francs fifty centimes for dinner, the
number of self-invited guests increased day by day, and the
paymaster-general was at his wits' end to keep pace with the expenses.
The Central-Committee put a stop to this indiscriminate hospitality by
simply arresting Assi, whom I never saw.
When the Commune decreed the demolition of the Vendome column, Jourde
was still more angry and in despair. He was, first of all, opposed to
its destruction, from a patriotic and common-sense point of view:
secondly, he objected to the waste of money that destruction entailed;
he endeavoured to cut the Gordian knot by stopping the workmen's pay.
Though three or four of his fellow "delegates" were absolutely of the
same opinion, the rest sent him a polite intimation that if the
necessary funds were not disbursed voluntarily they would send for them,
and take the opportunity, at the same time, to "put him against the
wall," and make an end of him. That night, Courbet, the painter, who had
been the prime mover in this work of destruction, came to the Brasserie
Saint-Severin from the Brasserie Andler, hard by, to taste the sweets of
his victory. His friend, Chaudey, of the _Siecle_, was no longer with
him. Like Mgr. Darboy, the Abbes Lagarde, Crozes, and Deguerry, he had
been arrested by Raoul Rigault as a hostage, in virtue of a decree by
the Commune, setting forth that every execution of a prisoner of war,
taken by the Versaillais, would be followed by the execution of three
hostages to be drawn by lot.
Jourde did not wear a uniform; at any rate, I never saw him in one. I
happened to remark upon it one evening, and he then gave me a partial
explanation why the others did wear them in so ostentatious a manner.
"It is really done to please the National Guards; they mistrust those
who remain 'in mufti;' they attribute their reluctance to don the
uniform to the fear of being compromised, to the wish to escape
unnoticed if things should go wrong. I grant you that all this does not
warrant the uniforms most of my colleagues do wear, but to the Latin
races the wisdom of Solomon lies in his magnificence, and they trace the
elevation of Joseph to its primary cause--his coat of many colours. I am
not only 'delegate of finances' and paymaster-general, but head cook and
bottle-washer in all that concerns monetary matters to the
Central-Committee. I have very few clerks to assist me in my work, and
fewer still upon whose honesty I can depend; consequently, I am
compelled to do a good deal of drudgery myself. Yesterday I received the
fortnightly accounts of Godillot,[91] the military tailors and
accoutrement manufacturers. They seemed to me simply monstrous, not so
much in respect of the prices charged for each uniform, as in respect of
the number of uniforms supplied. To have sent one of my clerks would
have been of no earthly use; there is an old Normand saying about
sending the cat to Rome and his coming back mewing; the clerk would have
simply come back mewing, saying that there was no mistake, so I went
myself. I saw the chief manager.
[Footnote 91: The word "Godillot" has passed into the French
language, and, at present, means the soldier's shoes.--EDITOR.]
"'I am positive there is no mistake, monsieur,' he said, 'though I may
tell you at once that I made the same remark when I passed the accounts;
the number of uniforms seemed to me inordinately large; mais il faut se
rendre a l'evidence, and I ticketed off every item by its corresponding
voucher. Still I felt that there is a terrible waste somewhere, and said
so to the head of the retail department. "If you will remain downstairs
for one hour," was the answer, "you will have the explanation." I can
only say the same to you, Monsieur le delegue.'
"I did remain on that ground-floor for one hour," Jourde went on, "and,
during that time, no fewer than eight young fellows came in with
vouchers for complete uniforms of lieutenants or captains of the staff.
Most of them looked to me as if they had never handled a sword or rifle
in their lives--yardsticks seemed more in their line; and the airs they
gave themselves positively disgusted me; but I do not want another
reminder of the Central-Committee about my cheeseparing, so I'll let
things take their course. Look, here is a sample of how we deck
ourselves out quand nous allons en guerre."
I looked in the direction pointed out to me, and beheld a somewhat dark
individual with lank, black hair, of ordinary height, or a little below
perhaps, dressed in a most extraordinary costume. He wore a blue Zouave
jacket, large baggy crimson breeches tucked into a pair of quasi-hessian
boots, a crimson sash, and a black sombrero hat with a red feather. A
long cavalry sabre completed the costume. Upon the whole, he carried
himself well, though there was a kind of swashbuckler air about him
which smacked of the stage. I was not mistaken; the scent or the smell
of the footlights was over it all.
"This is Colonel Maxime Lisbonne, an actor by profession, who has taken
to soldiering with a vengeance," said Jourde. "There is no doubt about
his bravery, but he is as fit to be a colonel as I am to be a general.
It does not seem to strike my colleagues that, in no matter what
profession, one has to serve an apprenticeship, and, most of all, in the
science of soldiering; Maxime Lisbonne said he would be a colonel, so
they, without more ado, made him one.[92] He never moves without that
Turco at his heels."
[Footnote 92: During my stay in Paris, 1881-86, as the
correspondent of a London evening paper, I had occasion to see
a great deal of M. Maxime Lisbonne, who is a prominent figure
at nearly every social function, such as premieres, the
unveiling of monuments, the opening of public buildings, etc.
The reason of this prominence has never been very clear to me,
unless it be on the assumption that the Paris journalists, even
the foremost of whom he treats on the footing of equality,
consider him "good copy." Only as late as a few years ago, he
made a considerable sensation in the Paris press by appearing
at one of M. Carnot's receptions in evening dress, redolent of
benzine, "because the dress had been lying _perdu_ for so many
years." It was he who started the famous "taverne du bagne," on
the Boulevard Rochechouart, to which "all Paris" flocked.
Previous to this, he had been the lessee of the Bouffes du
Nord, at which theatre he brought out Louise Michel's "Nadine."
Though by no means an educated man, he can, on occasions,
behave himself very well, and truth compels me to state that he
is very good-natured and obliging. One day, on the occasion of
an important murder trial, I failed to see Commandant Lunel at
the Palais de Justice, and was turning away disconsolately,
when, at a sign from M. Lisbonne, the sergeant of the Gardes de
Paris, who had refused to admit me on the presentation of my
card, relented. That same afternoon, at the mere expression of
his wish, the manager of the Jardin de Paris, which had just
been opened, presented me with a season ticket, or, to speak
correctly, placed my name on the permanent free list. In short,
I could mention a score of instances of a similar nature; all
tending to show that M. Maxime Lisbonne's "participation in the
events of the Commune" has had the effect of investing him with
a kind of social halo.--EDITOR.]
On another occasion I saw the famous General Dombrowski, and the no less
famous Colonel or General la Cecilia. I only exchanged a few words with
the former, but I sat talking for a whole evening to the latter. He was
a short, spare, fidgety man, strongly pitted with small-pox, with a few
straggling hairs on the upper lip and chin. He was terribly
near-sighted, and wore a pair of thick spectacles. Nervous and restless
to a degree, but a voice of remarkable sweetness. His English was
faultless, with scarcely any accent, and I was told that he spoke every
European language and several Oriental ones with the same accuracy. He
was the only Frenchman who could converse with Dombrowski and the other
Poles in their native language. He was a clever mathematician, and, that
evening, he endeavoured to prove mathematically that Von Moltke had
committed several blunders, both at Sadowa and Sedan. "That kind of
thing," said Jourde, after he was gone, "was sure to 'fetch' the
Central-Committee; he always reminds me of the doctors in Moliere trying
to prove that one of their confreres had cured a patient contrary to the
principles of medicine. Mind, do not imagine that La Cecilia is not a
good soldier. He got all his grades in the Italian army, on the
battle-fields of '59-'60, and, during the late war, he directed the
brilliant defence of Alencon. But between a good soldier and a great
general there is a vast difference."
Physically, Dombrowski was almost the counterpart of La Cecilia, with
the exception of the glasses and the small-pox. But while the
Frenchman--for Cecilia was a Frenchman notwithstanding his Italian
name--was modest though critical, the Pole was a braggart, though by no
means devoid of courage. Up to the very end, he sent in reports of his
victories, all of which were purely imaginary. Even as late as the 21st
of May, when the Versailles troops were carrying everything before them,
the newspaper-boys were shouting, "Brilliant victory of General
Dombrowski." Dombrowski had been invested with his high command under
the pretext that he had fought under Garibaldi and in the Polish
struggle against Russia. It transpired afterwards that he had never seen
Garibaldi nor Garibaldi him, and that, so far from having aided his own
countrymen, he had been a simple private in the Russian army. Still, he
was a better man than his countryman Wrobleski, who showed his courage
by going to bed while the Versaillais were shelling Vanves.
* * * * *
Among my papers I find a torn programme of a concert at the Tuileries
during the Commune. It reads as follows:--
COMMUNE DE PARIS,
PALAIS DES TUILERIES
Servant pour LA PREMIERE FOIS a une oeuvre patriotique
GRAND CONCERT
Au Profit des Veuves et Orphelins de la Republique.
----
_Sous le Patronage de la Commune et du Citoyen Dr. Rousselle._
----
Tout porteur de billet pris a l'avance pourra sans retribution, visiter
le Palais des Tuileries.
The rest is missing, but I remember that among the artists who gave
their services were Mesdames Agar and Bordas; MM. Coquelin cadet, and
Francis Thome, the pianist.
I did not take my ticket beforehand, consequently was not entitled to a
stroll through the Palace previous to the concert. When I entered the
Salle des Marechaux, where the concert was to take place, I felt
thankful that the trial had been spared to me, and I mentally ejaculated
a wish that I might never see that glorious apartment under similar
circumstances. The traces of neglect were too painful to behold, though
I am bound to say that I could detect no proofs of wilful damage. My
wish was gratified with a vengeance. A little more than a month
afterwards, the building was in flames, and, at the hour I write, it is
being razed to the ground.
I did not stay long; I heard Madame Agar, dressed in deep mourning,
declaim "the Marseillaise," and M. Thome execute a fantasia on
well-known operatic airs. Some of the reserved seats were occupied by
the minor dignitaries of the Commune, but the greater part of the place
was filled by working men and their spouses and the very _petite
bourgeoisie_. The latter seemed to be in doubt whether to enjoy
themselves or not; but the former were very vociferous, and had
evidently made up their minds that the Commune was the best of all
possible regimes, seeing that it enabled them to listen to a concert in
a palace for a mere trifle. "That's equality, as I understand it,
monsieur," said a workman in a very clean blouse to me, at the same time
making room for me on the seat next to him. He and his companion
beguiled the time between the first and second number on the programme
by sucking barley-sugar.
About a month later--on Wednesday, May 17th, but I will not be
certain--I was present at the first gala-performance organized by the
Commune, although the Versailles troops were within gunshot of the
fortifications. This time I had taken a ticket beforehand. The
performance was to take place at the Opera-Comique, and long before the
appointed hour the Boulevards and the streets adjoining the theatre were
crowded with idlers, anxious to watch the arrival of the bigwigs under
whose immediate patronage the entertainment was to be given. The papers
had been full of it for days and days beforehand; the posters on the
walls had set forth its many attractions. In accordance with traditional
usage on such occasions, the programme was a miscellaneous one, and the
wags did not fail to remark that the Commune ought to have struck out
something original instead of blindly following the precedents of
tyrants; but in reality the Commune had no choice. Few of the principal
artists of the subsidized theatres were available, and there was an
evident reluctance to co-operate among some of those who were; hence it
was decided to give fragments of such operas or comedies, calculated to
stimulate still further the patriotic and republican sentiments with
which the majority of the spectators were credited. There had been less
difficulty in recruiting the orchestra, and a very fair band was got
together. A great many invitations had been issued; few of the seats,
especially in the better parts, were paid for.
All the entrances had been thrown open, and around every one there was a
considerable gathering, almost exclusively composed of National Guards
in uniform, and women of the working classes, who enthusiastically
cheered each known personage on his arrival. The latter were too
magnificent for words, the clanking sabres, resplendent uniforms, and
waving plumes only paled in contrast with the toilettes of their female
companions who hung proudly on their arms. For them, at any rate, "le
jour de gloire etait arrive."
The crowd, especially the fairer portion of it, was decidedly
enthusiastic, perhaps somewhat too enthusiastic, in their ultra-cordial
greetings and recognition of the ladies, so suddenly promoted in the
social scale. Melanie and Clarisse would have been satisfied with a less
literal interpretation of "Auld Lang Syne," as they stepped out of the
carriages, the horses of which belied the boast that at the end of the
siege there were 30,000 serviceable animals of that kind left.
The performance had been timed for half-past seven; at half-past eight,
the principal box set apart for the chiefs of the new regime was still
empty. As I have already said, disquieting rumours had been afloat for
the last few days with regard to the approach of the Versailles troops,
the guns had been thundering all day long, and, what was worse, for the
last forty-eight hours no "startling victory" had been announced either
on the walls of Paris or in the papers. Some of the "great men," among
the audience in the stalls and dress-circle, and easily to be
distinguished from the ruck of ordinary mortals, professed themselves
unable to supply authentic information, but as the performance had not
been countermanded, they suggested that things were not so bad as they
looked.
The theatre was crammed from floor to ceiling, and the din was something
terrible. The heat was oppressive; luckily the gas was burning low
because the companies were as yet unable to provide a full supply. There
were few people out of uniform in either stalls or dress-circle, but the
upper parts were occupied by blouses with a fair sprinkling of cloth
coats. The women seemed to me to make the most infernal noise. The two
stage-boxes were still empty; in the others there were a good many
journalists and ladies who had come to criticize the appearance and
demeanour of the "dames de nos nouveaux gouvernants." There was one box
which attracted particular attention; one of its occupants, evidently a
"dame du monde," was in evening dress, wearing some magnificent
diamonds, while it was very patent that those of her own social status
had made it a point to dress as simply as possible. I have never been
able to find out the name of the lady; I had not seen her before, I have
not seen her since.
At about a quarter to nine the doors of the stage-boxes were flung back,
and the guests of the evening appeared. But alas, they were not the
chief members of the Commune, only the secondary characters. It is
doubtful, though, whether the former could have been more magnificently
attired than were the latter. Their uniforms were positively hidden
beneath the gold lace.
Immediately, the band struck up the inevitable "Marseillaise;" the
spectators in the upper galleries joined in the chorus; the building
shook to its foundations, and, amidst the terrible din, one could
distinctly hear the crowds on the Boulevards re-echoing the strains. The
occupants of the state boxes gave the signal for the applause, then the
curtain rose, and Mdlle. Agar, in peplos and cothurnus, recited the
strophes once more. When the curtain fell, the audience rushed to the
foyer or out into the open air; at any rate, the former was not
inconveniently crowded. Among those strolling up and down I noticed the
lady of the diamonds, on the arm of a rather common-looking individual
in a gorgeous uniform. I believe I caught sight of the American
Minister, but I will not be certain.
This time the curtain rose upon an act of a comedy; the spectators,
however, did not seem to be vastly interested; they were evidently
waiting for the duo to be sung by Madame Ugalde and a tenor whose name I
do not remember. He was, I heard, an amateur of great promise.
Scarcely had Madame Ugalde uttered her first notes, when a bugler of the
franc-tireurs of the Commune stepped in front of an empty box and
sounded the charge. The effect was startling. The audience rose to a
man, and rushed to the exits. In less than five minutes the building was
empty. I had let the human avalanche pass by. When I came outside I was
told that it was a false alarm, or, rather, a practical joke; but no
one re-entered the theatre. Thus ended the gala-performance of the
Commune, and a careful observer would have had no difficulty in
foreseeing the end of the latter. The bugler had, unconsciously perhaps,
sounded its death-knell.
THE END.
D. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS.
[Illustration: Christopher Columbus.]
_THE STORY OF COLUMBUS._
By ELIZABETH EGGLESTON SEELYE; edited by Dr. EDWARD EGGLESTON. With 100
Illustrations by Allegra Eggleston. 12mo. Cloth, $1.75.
[Illustration: Caravel.]
This book is the result of most extensive investigations, which have
been carefully verified by the eminent historian and novelist, Dr.
Eggleston. It is not too much to say that the whole world has been drawn
upon for material by the author and the artist. The fruits of these
investigations are presented in a popular, readable, always entertaining
form. While the book contains all the results of modern inquiry offered
in the bulkiest biographies, the story is here condensed and the
material selected with a view to an always interesting narrative. To a
considerable extent the plan of both text and illustrations is like that
of Eggleston's "Household History of the United States." It is hardly
necessary to say more regarding the fitness of this volume for a place
in every American private, public, and school library.
[Illustration: Catapult.]
"The purpose of the writer of this book has been to relate the
life of the greatest of discoverers in a manner interesting and
delightful to the general reader, while producing a narrative
strictly conformed to the facts as given by the best ancient
authorities and developed by the latest researches of scholars.
There is here no attempt to discuss the _pros_ and _cons_ of
debated points in Columbian history. Such investigators as
Navarrete, Mr. Harrisse, Signor Staglieno, and our own learned
Mr. Justin Winsor, have wrought abundantly and with large results
upon these problems. It is the purpose of the present work to
tell the story as understood through the labors of these
scholars, leaving aside ponderous discussions which in a book
intended for general reading would tire without enlightening.
[Illustration: Image found at Santo Domingo.]
"Though disclaiming original investigation beyond the careful use
of the leading authorities, Mrs. Seelye has been at much pains
not to give the reader the discredited myths used by the old
school of biographers. It is a poor service to relate as history
an interesting story that is not true, or to lift an historical
figure into a heroism far from his real character. To give the
facts as we know them, and to show Columbus as he really was, has
been the sincere endeavor of the writer of this book. The story
is wonderful enough without the embellishment of fiction; the man
is interesting enough when painted in his real colors."--_From
the Introduction, by Edward Eggleston._
[Illustration: Brer Rabbit Preaches.]
_ON THE PLANTATION._
By JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS, author of "Uncle Remus." With 23 Illustrations
by E. W. KEMBLE, and Portrait of the Author. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
The most personal and in some respects the most important work which Mr.
Harris has published since "Uncle Remus." Many will read between the
lines and see the autobiography of the author. In addition to the
stirring incidents which appear in the story, the author presents a
graphic picture of certain phases of Southern life which have not
appeared in his books before. There are also new examples of the
folk-lore of the negroes, which became classic when presented to the
public in the pages of "Uncle Remus."
"The book is in the characteristic vein which has made the author
so famous and popular as an interpreter of plantation
character."--_Rochester Union and Advertiser._
"Those who never tire of Uncle Remus and his stories--with whom
we would be accounted--will delight in Joe Maxwell and his
exploits."--_London Saturday Review._
"Altogether a most charming book."--_Chicago Times._
"Really a valuable, if modest, contribution to the history of the
civil war within the Confederate lines, particularly on the eve
of the catastrophe. While Mr. Harris, in his preface, professes
to have lost the power to distinguish between what is true and
what is imaginative in his episodical narrative, the reader
readily finds the clew. Two or three new animal fables are
introduced with effect; but the history of the plantation, the
printing-office, the black runaways, and white deserters, of whom
the impending break-up made the community tolerant, the coon and
fox hunting, forms the serious purpose of the book, and holds the
reader's interest from beginning to end. Like 'Daddy Jake,' this
is a good anti-slavery tract in disguise, and does credit to Mr.
Harris's humanity. There are amusing illustrations by E. W.
Kemble."--_New York Evening Post._
"A charming little book, tastefully gotten up.... Its simplicity,
humor, and individuality would be very welcome to any one who was
weary of the pretentiousness and the dull obviousness of the
average three-volume novel."--_London Chronicle._
"The mirage of war vanishes and reappears like an ominous shadow
on the horizon, but the stay-at-home whites of the Southern
Confederacy were likewise threatened by fears of a servile
insurrection. This dark dread exerts its influence on a narration
which is otherwise cheery with boyhood's fortunate freedom from
anxiety, and sublime disregard for what the morrow may bring
forth. The simple chronicle of old times 'on the plantation'
concludes all too soon; the fire burns low and the tale is ended
just as the reader becomes acclimated to the mid-Georgian
village, and feels thoroughly at home with Joe and Mink. The 'Owl
and the Birds,' 'Old Zip Coon,' the 'Big Injun and the Buzzard,'
are joyous echoes of the plantation-lore that first delighted us
in 'Uncle Remus.' Kemble's illustrations, evidently studied from
life, are interspersed in these pages of a book of consummate
charm."--_Philadelphia Ledger._
New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street.