During this time the walls resound with fun. Paris of the street and
gutter—Paris, Gavroche and blackguard, rolls with laughter before the
caricatures which ingenious salesmen stick with pins on shutters and
house doors. Who designed these wild pictures, glaringly coloured and
common, seldom amusing and often outrageously coarse? They are signed
with unknown names—pseudonyms doubtless; their authors, amongst whom it
is sad to think that artists of talent must be counted, are like women,
high born and depraved, mixing with their faces masked in hideous
orgies.
These vile pictures with their infamous calumnies keep up and even
kindle contempt and hatred in ignorant minds. Laughter is often far
from innocent. But the passers-by think little of this, and are amused
enough when they see Jules Favre’s head represented by a radish, or the
_embonpoint_ of Monsieur Picard by a pumpkin. Where will all this
unwholesome stuff be scattered in a few days? Flown away and dispersed.
Eccentric amateurs will tear their hair at the impossibility of
obtaining for their collections these frivolous witnesses of troubled
times. I will make a few notes so as to diminish their despair as far
as I am able.
A green soil and a red sky—In a black coffin is a half-naked woman,
with a Phrygian cap on her head, endeavouring to push up the lid with
all her might. Jules Favre, lean, small, head enormous, under lip thick
and protruding, hair wildly flying like a willow in a storm, wearing a
dress coat, and holding a nail in one hand and a hammer in the other,
with his knee pressed upon the coffin-lid, is trying to nail it down,
in spite of the very natural protestations of the half-naked woman. In
the distance, and running towards them, is Monsieur Thiers, with a
great broad face and spectacles, also armed with a hammer. Below is
written: “If one were to listen to these accursed Republics, they would
never die.” Signed, Faustin. Same author—Same woman. But this time she
lies in a bed hung with red flags for curtains. Her shoulders a little
too bare, perhaps, for a Republic, but she must be made attractive to
her good friends the Federals. At the head of the bed a portrait of
Rochefort; Rochefort is the favoured one of this lady, it seems. Were I
he, I should persuade her to dress a little more decently. Three black
men, in brigands’ hats, their limbs dragging, and their faces
distorted, approach the bed, singing like the robbers in Fra Diavolo:
“Ad.... vance ... ad ... vance ... with ... pru ... dence ...!” The
first, Monsieur Thiers, carries a heavy club and a dark lantern; Jules
Favre, the second, brandishes a knife, and the third, carries nothing,
but wears a peacock’s feather in his hat, and.... I have never seen
Monsieur Picard, but they tell me that it is he.
The young Republic again, with shoulders bare and the style of face of
a _petite dame_ of the Rue Bossuet. She comes to beg Monsieur Thiers,
cobbler and cookshop-keeper, who “finds places for pretenders out of
employ, and changes their old boots for new at the most reasonable
prices,” to have her shoes mended. “Wait a bit! wait a bit!” says the
cobbler to himself, “I’ll manage ’em so as to put an end to her
walking.”
Here is a green monkey perched on the extreme height of a microscopic
tribune. At the end of his tail he wears a crown; on his head is a
Phrygian cap. It is Monsieur Thiers of course. “Gentlemen,” says he, “I
assure you that I am republican, and that I adore the vile multitude.”
But underneath is written: “We’ll pluck the Gallic cock!” The author of
this is also Monsieur Faustin. I have here a special reproach to add to
what I have already said of these objectionable stupidities. I do not
like the manner in which the author takes off Monsieur Thiers; he quite
forgets the old and well-known resemblance of the chief of the
executive power to Monsieur Prud’homme, or what is the same thing, to
Prud’homme’s inventor, Henri Monnier. One day Gil Perez the actor, met
Henri Monnier on the Boulevard Montmartre. “Well, old fellow!” cried
he, “are you back? When are you and I going to get at our practical
jokes again?” Henri Monnier looked profoundly astonished; it was
Monsieur Thiers!
The next one is signed Pilotel. Pilotel, the savage commissioner! He
who arrested Monsieur Chaudey, and who pocketed eight hundred and
fifteen francs found in Monsieur Chaudey’s drawers. Ah! Pilotel, if by
some unlucky adventure you were to succumb behind a barricade, you
would cry like Nero: “Qualis artifex pereo!” But let us leave the
author to criticise the work. A Gavroche, not the Gavroche of the
_Misérables_, but the boy of Belleville, chewing tobacco like a
Jack-tar, drunk as a Federal, in a purple blouse, green trousers, his
hands in his pockets, his cap on the nape of his neck; squat, violent,
and brutish. With an impudent jerk of the head he grumbles out: “I
don’t want any of your kings!” This coarse sketch is graphic and not
without merit.
Horror of horrors! “Council of Revision of the Amazons of Paris,” this
next is called. Oh! if the brave Amazons are like these formidable
monstrosities, it would be quite sufficient to place them in the first
rank, and I am sure that not a soldier of the line, not a guardian of
the peace, not a _gendarme_ would hesitate a moment at the sight, but
all would fly without exception, in hot haste and in agonised terror,
forgetting in their panic even to turn the butt ends of their muskets
in the air. One of these Amazons—but how has my sympathy for the
amateurs of collections led me into the description of these creatures
of ugliness and immodesty?—one of them.... but no, I prefer leaving to
your imagination those Himalayan masses of flesh, and pyramids of
bone—these Penthesileas of the Commune of Paris that are before me.
Ah! Here is choleric old “Father Duchesne” in a towering passion, with
short legs, bare arms, and rubicund face, topped with an immense red
cap. In one hand he holds a diminutive Monsieur Thiers and stifles him
as if he were a sparrow. Here, the drawing is not only vile, but stupid
too.
This time we have the nude, and it is not the Republic, but France that
is represented. If the Republic can afford to bare her shoulders,
France may dispense with drapery entirely. She has a dove which she
presses to her bosom. On one side is a portrait of Monsieur Rochefort.
Again! Why this unlovely-looking journalist is a regular Lovelace.
Finally, two cats (M. Jules Favre and M. Thiers) are to be seen outside
the garret window with their claws ready for pouncing. “Poor dove!” is
the tame inscription below the sketch.[56]
Next we find a Holy Family, by Murillo. Jules Favre, as Joseph, leads
the ass by the reins, and a wet-nurse, who holds the Comte de Paris in
her arms instead of the infant Jesus, is seated between the two
panniers, trying to look at once like Monsieur Thiers and the Holy
Virgin. The sketch is called “The Flight.... to Versailles.” Oh! fie!
fie! Messieurs the Caricaturists, can you not be funny without
trenching on sacred ground?
We might refer to dozens more. Some date from the day when Paris shook
off the Empire, and are so infamous that, by a natural reaction of
feeling, they inspire a sort of esteem for those they try to make you
despise; others, those which were seen by everyone during the siege,
are less vile, because, of the patriotic rage which originated them,
and excused them; but they are as odious as they can be nevertheless.
But the amateurs of collections who neglected to buy fly-sheets one by
one as they appeared, must be satisfied with the above.