life. I think it may be taken for granted that although she is a quick,
clever woman, with talents far beyond the mere inventing of bonnets and
petticoats, she is not gifted with any political genius, not qualified
to see quickly into the heart of a difficult question, not endowed with
the capacity to surmount a great crisis. I have never heard anything
which induces me to think that Eugenie's intellect and power would count
for much in the chances of the dynasty should Louis Napoleon die while
his son is yet a boy. Like Louis Napoleon himself, she was twice
misjudged: first when people set her down as an empty-headed coquette,
and next when they cried her up as a woman with a genius for government.
So far as one may venture to predict, I think she would not prove strong
enough for the place, if evil fortune should throw upon her the task of
preserving the throne for her boy.
Recent events seem to me to prove that the imperial system is less
strong and more shaky than most of us would have supposed six months
ago. I for one do fully believe that the recent disturbances are the
genuine indications of a profound and bitter popular discontent. I beg
the readers of THE GALAXY to be very cautious how they form an estimate
of the situation from the correspondence and editorial articles of the
London press. If the "Times" believes Bonapartism safe and strong in
Paris, I have only to remark that the "Times" believed the same, almost
up to the bitter end, of Bonapartism in Mexico. There are very few
London journals which can be trusted where the politics of France are
concerned. Not that the journals are bribed; everybody knowing anything
of the London press knows how absurd the idea of such bribery is; but
that all London Philistinism (and Philistinism does a good deal of the
writing for the London papers) considers it genteel and respectable, and
the right sort of thing generally, to go in for the Empire and sneer at
revolution. I have read with no little wonder many of the comments of
the London, and indeed some of the New York journals, on Henri Rochefort
and his colleagues. One would think that in order to prove a certain
revolutionary movement powerless and contemptible, you had only to show
that its leaders were themselves contemptible and disreputable persons.
Some of the journals here and in London write as if the Empire must be
safe because the satire of the "Lanterne" and the "Marseillaise" seems
to them coarse and witless, and because they have heard that Henri
Rochefort is an insincere man, of doubtful courage and tainted moral
character. One longs to ask whether the "Pere Duchesne" and the "Vieux
Cordelier" were publications fit to be read in the drawing-rooms of
virtuous families; whether Mirabeau's private character was quite
blameless; whether Marat and Hebert had led reputable lives; whether
Camille Desmoulins was habitually received into the highest circles;
whether Theroigne de Mericourt was the sort of young woman one's wife
would like to invite to tea. The imbecility with which certain
journalists go on day after day trying to assure themselves and the
world that imperialism has nothing to fear at the hands of a movement
led by scurrilous and disreputable men, has something in it at once
amusing and provoking. The strength of a revolutionary movement is not
exactly to be estimated by the claims of its leaders to carry off the
_prix Monthyon_ or the Holy Grail. Perhaps if it were to be so
estimated, it would be hard to say where the victory should go in the
present instance. For the worst of Rochefort's colleagues have never
been accused of any profligacies and basenesses so bad as those which
universal public opinion ascribes to the leading Bonapartes and some of
their most influential supporters. Undoubtedly there is a great deal of
scurrility and even worse in the papers conducted by Rochefort. It is
not in good taste to go on asking who was the mother of De Morny, who
was the father of Walewski; how the present Walewski, Walewski _fils_,
comes to be called a count, and who was his mother, and so on; and the
direct and libellous attacks on the Empress are utterly indefensible. If
one were making up a memoir of Henri Rochefort, or engaged in a debating
society's controversy on his character, one would have to admit that he
is by no means a model demagogue, a pattern patriot. But one might at
the same time hint that, judging by historical precedent, he is probably
all the more formidable as a revolutionary leader for that very reason.
His literary attacks on the Government are by no means all vulgar, or
scurrilous, or contemptible. There was fresh and genuine humor as well
as telling satire in the "Lanterne's" early declaration of allegiance to
the Napoleons, the purport of which was that, feeling bound to express
his devotion to a Napoleon, Rochefort had selected as the object of his
loyal homage Napoleon the Second, the sovereign who never coerced the
press, or corrupted the Senate, or robbed the nation of its liberty, or
exiled its patriots, or carried on a Mexican expedition, or impoverished
the country to maintain a gigantic army. But there is one thing
certain--that whether Rochefort is witty or not, wise or not, he has
waked an echo throughout France and Europe in general which even very
wise and undeniably witty enemies of the Empire did not succeed in
creating. Nothing he has written will compare in artistic strength of
satire or invective with Victor Hugo's "Chatimens" or "Napoleon le
Petit." Eugene Pelletan's "Nouvelle Babylone" was a prolonged outpouring
of indignant eloquence by a gentleman, a scholar, and a thinker.
Rogeard's "Propos de Labienus" was a piece of really fine sarcasm. But
not the most celebrated of these attacks on the Empire created anything
like the sensation which Rochefort has succeeded in creating by the
constant "pegging away" of his bitter, envenomed, and unscrupulous pen.
Indeed, the reason is obvious--at least to those who, like me, believe
that the great mass of the Parisian population (the army, the officials,
and the priests not counted) are heartily sick of Bonapartism, and would
get rid of it if they could. Rochefort assails the Empire and the
Emperor in a style which they can understand. He is a master of a
certain kind of coarse, rasping ridicule, which delights the disaffected
_ouvrier_; and he has no scruple about assailing any weak place he can
find in his enemy, even though in doing so the heart of a woman has
likewise to be wounded. An angry and disaffected populace delights in
this kind of thing. The fact that Rochefort has created such a sensation
is the best proof in the world that the Parisian populace is angry and
disaffected. Rochefort has a happy gift of epithets, which goes a long
way with admirers and followers such as his. I doubt whether a whole
chapter could have described more accurately and vividly the person,
character, and career of Prince Pierre Bonaparte than Rochefort did when
he branded him as "a social bandit." Personally, Rochefort is not
qualified to be a demagogue in the sense that Danton was a demagogue,
and he can make no pretension to be a revolutionary leader of a high
class. But he can incite a populace, madden the hearts of disaffected
crowds, as the bitter tongue of a shrill woman might do, and as the
tongue of a great orator might perhaps fail to do. Doubtless Rochefort
and his literary sword-and-buckler men are not strong enough to create a
serious disturbance of themselves alone. But if a moment of general
uncertainty and unsettlement came, they might prove a dangerous
disturbing force. If, for example, there should come a crisis which of
itself rendered change of some kind necessary, when all the chances of
the future might depend upon a single hour or perhaps a single decisive
command, and when it was not certain who had the right, who would assume
the responsibility to give the command, then indeed the bitter screams,
and jeers, and invectives of these reckless literary bravos might have
much to do with the ordering of the situation. If, for example, the
Emperor were to die just now, who shall venture to say how much the
chances of the Empress and her son might not be affected at that moment
of terrible crisis by the pens and the tongues of Rochefort and his
followers?
Some time, in the natural course of things, the Empress may expect to
have to face such a crisis. It is highly probable that the time will
come while yet her boy is young and dependent upon her guardianship and
care. Has she won for herself the affection, confidence, and loyalty of
France, to such an extent that she could count upon national support? I
am convinced that she has not. She is much liked and even loved by those
who know her. They have countless anecdotes to tell of her affectionate
ways as a mother, of her generosity and kindness as a woman. But
although she has outlived many of the early prejudices against her, she
is still regarded with distrust and dislike by the older families of
France; and I am confident that a large proportion of the working
classes in Paris and the large towns delight to believe the worst things
that malice and slander can say to her detriment. The priests and the
shopkeepers are probably her best friends; but I am not aware that
priests and shopkeepers have ever proved themselves very powerful
bulwarks against sudden popular revolution. The generals and the army
might of course remain perfectly loyal to her; probably would if they
had no time to consider the situation, and there were no favorite rival
in the way (if Prince Napoleon, for example, were a brilliant soldier,
she would not have a ghost of a chance against him); but it must be
remembered that the loyalty of an army is something like the
epigrammatic description of the honor of a woman: when there is any
deliberation, it is likely to be lost; and the claims of the Empress are
certainly not such as absolutely to forbid deliberation and render it
impossible. Much of course would depend on the woman herself. There was
a moment when Catharine of Russia's unfortunate husband might have
carried all before him if he had only seized the chance; and he did not
seize it, and so lost all. There was a moment when Catharine might have
utterly failed if she had not risen to the height of the crisis, and
seized the opportunity with both hands; and she did rise to the height
of the crisis, did seize the opportunity, and so won all. Place Eugenie
in such a position, and is she a woman to win? Is she in fact a woman of
genius? I think not. Nothing that I have ever heard of her--and I have
known many who were her intimate friends--has led me to believe her
endowed with a quick, strong, commanding intellect. Mentally she seems
to be narrow and shallow; in temper she is quick, capricious, full of
warm personal affections and almost groundless personal dislikes. I have
a strong idea that no matter what the urgency of the crisis, she would
stay to make herself picturesque before taking any public action; and I
venture to think she would be guided by counsel only where she happened
to have a personal liking for the counsellor. She cannot, I fancy, be
trusted at a great crisis to make the fortune of her son. Enough if she
do not mar it at such a time.
Political considerations apart, one can only wish her well. Her face is
one which ought to smile sweetly and gracefully through history. If fate
and France will endure the Bonapartes for another generation or so,
there will be some consolation to gallant and romantic souls in the
thought that thereby this gracious, queenly woman will be allowed to
make a happy end of her brilliant, not untroubled life. Thus far we may,
in summing up her career, describe her, first, as a bright, vivacious
young coquette, with a dash of the adventuress about her, ranging the
world in search of a husband; then a woman suddenly and surprisingly
raised to the dazzling rank of an Empress, and a little bewildered by
the change; then a splendid leader of the world's fashion, magnificently
frivolous and heedless; then a political _intrigante_, the supreme
patroness of Ultramontanism; and now a quiet, queenly mother, verging
toward that kind of devoteeism in which some satirical person declares
that coquetry in France is sure to end. She is not a woman to make any
deep impression on history. She has neither gifts enough nor faults
enough. As a politician she has been a failure, and perhaps worse than a
failure; but she has been fortunate enough to escape from all public
responsibility for her mistakes, and may get quietly into history as
merely an intelligent, good-natured, and beautiful woman. Posterity will
probably see her and appreciate her sufficiently in her portrait by
Winterhalter: a name, a vague memory, and a smooth fair picture with
bright complexion, shining hair, and noble shoulders, alone carrying
down to other times the history of the Third Napoleon's wife. Only great
misfortunes could redeem her from this destiny of half oblivion; and
history has names enough that are burnt by misfortune into eternal
memory, and may well spare hers. One great claim she has to a liberal
construction of her character: her personal enemies are those who do not
know her well; her intimates seem to be always her friends. She has one
good quality, which her husband with all his faults likewise possesses:
she has never in her imperial splendor forgotten or neglected or been
ashamed of old acquaintances and friends. I have heard scores of
anecdotes from people who know her well--I have heard one such anecdote
since I began writing this article--which prove her to be entirely above
the mean and vulgar weakness of the _parvenu_, who shrinks in her
magnificence from any acquaintanceship or association likely to remind
her of less brilliant days. Taken on the whole, the Empress Eugenie is
better than her fortunes and her surroundings might have made her. She
is, I think, a woman much more deserving of respect than Josephine
Beauharnais, whose misfortunes, joined with the quiet pathetic dignity
of her retirement and her later years, have made the world forget the
levities, frivolities, and follies of her earlier life. She has shown a
quicker and better appreciation of the duties and difficulties of her
station, and the temper of the people among whom she had to live, than
was at any time shown by Marie Antoinette. Whether she could ever under
the most favorable conditions prove an Anne of Austria may well be
doubted; and we must all hope for her own sake that she may never be put
to the proof. She has at least made it clear that she is no mere Reine
Crinoline; she has shown that she possesses some heart, some courage,
and some brains; she has had sense enough to retrieve blunders, and
merit enough to live down calumny. The best thing one can hope for her
is that she may never again be placed in a position which would tempt
and allow her to make political influence the instrument of religious
bigotry. The greatest woman her native country ever produced, Isabella
of Castile, became with all her virtues and genius a curse to Spain,
because of her bigotry and her power; and there was a time when it
seemed as if the Empress Eugenie was likely to make for herself an
odious fame as the chief patroness of a conspiracy against the religious
and political liberties of the south of Europe. Let us hope that in her
future career she may be saved from any such temptation, and that she
may be kept as much as possible out of all political complications where
religion interferes; and if she be thus graced by fortune, it is all but
certain that whatever her future years may bring, she will deserve and
receive a genial record in the history of France.
THE PRINCE OF WALES.
"It is now sixteen or seventeen years," says Edmund Burke, in that
famous passage to which one is almost ashamed to allude any more, so
hackneyed has it been, "since first I saw the Queen of France, then the
Dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this orb, which
she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision." That glowing,
impassioned apostrophe did more to make partisans and admirers for poor
Marie Antoinette among all English-speaking peoples, probably for all
time, than any charms, or virtues, or misfortunes of the Queen and the
woman could have done. I can never of late read or recall to mind the
burning words of Burke, without thinking of a certain day in March some
seven years ago, when I stood on a platform in Trafalgar Square, London,
and saw a bright, beautiful young face smiling and bending to a vast
enthusiastic crowd on either side, and I, like everybody else, was
literally stricken with admiration of the beauty, the sweetness, and the
grace of the Princess Alexandra of Denmark. In truth, I am not in
general an enthusiast about princes or princesses; I do not believe that
the king's face usually gives grace. In this instance the beauty of the
Princess Alexandra had been so noisily trumpeted by literary lacqueys
already, that one's natural instinct was to feel disappointed, and to
say so, when the Princess herself came in sight. But it was impossible
to feel disappointment, or anything but admiration, at the sight of that
bright, fair face, so transparent in the clearness of its complexion, so
delicate and refined in its outlines, so sweet and gracious in its
expression. I think something like the old-fashioned, chivalric,
chimerical feeling of personal loyalty must have flamed up for the
moment that day in the hearts of many men, who perhaps would have been
ashamed to confess that their first experience of such an emotion was
due to a passing glimpse of the face of a pretty, tremulous girl.
If ours were days of augury, men might have shuddered at the omens which
accompanied the wedding ceremonies of the Prince and Princess of Wales.
When Goethe, then a youth, surveyed the preparations for the reception
of Marie Antoinette at Strasbourg, on her way to Paris, he observed
significantly on the inauspicious fact that in the grand chamber adorned
for her coming, the tapestry represented the wedding of Jason and Medea.
The civil authorities of London certainly did not greet the fair
stranger with any such grisly and ghastly emblazonings; but there were
other and even more inauspicious omens offered by chance and the hour.
The sky darkened, a dreary wind whistled; presently the rain came down
in drenching streams that would not abate. There was a mourning-garb at
the wedding--the black dress of the Queen, who would not lay aside her
widow's-weeds even for that hour; and the night of the wedding, when the
streets of London were illuminated, the crowd was so great that, as on a
memorable occasion in the early married life of Marie Antoinette, people
were crushed and trampled to death amid the universal jubilation.
Well, we defy augury, with Hamlet. But I think some at least in the
crowd who welcomed Alexandra felt a kind of doubt and pity as to her
future, which needed no inspiration from omens and superstition. No
foreign princess has ever been so popular in England as Alexandra; and
assuredly some at least of the affection felt for her springs from a
pity which, whether called for or not, is genuine and universal. The
last time I saw the Princess of Wales was within a very few days of my
leaving England to visit the United States. It was in Drury Lane
Theatre, then fitted up as an opera house in consequence of the recent
burning of Her Majesty's Theatre. The Prince of Wales, his wife, and one
of his sisters were in their box. I had not seen the Princess for some
time, and I was painfully impressed with the change which had come over
her. Remembering, as it was easy to do, the brightness of her beauty
during the early days of her marriage, there was something almost
shocking in the altered appearance of her face. It looked wasted and
haggard; the complexion, which used to be so dazzlingly fair, had grown
dull, and, if I may say so, discolored; and I must be ungracious enough
to declare bluntly that, to my eyes at least, there seemed little trace
indeed of the beauty of a few years before left in that dimmed and worn
countenance. "Only the eyes remained--they would not go." Of course, it
must be remembered that the Princess was then only just recovering from
a long, painful, and exhausting illness; and she may have--I truly hope
she has--since then regained all her brightness and beauty. In any case,
it would be unjust indeed to assume that the wasted look of the Princess
was to be attributed to domestic unhappiness. But even a very
matter-of-fact and unsentimental person, looking at her then, and
remembering what she so lately was, might be excused if he fancied that
some of the unpropitious omens which surrounded the Princess's marriage
had already begun to justify themselves in practical fulfilment.
For even at the time of the marriage of the Prince and Princess there
were not wanting prophets of evil who predicted that this royal union
would not prove much happier than state-made marriages commonly are.
Even then there were stories and reports afloat which ascribed to the
Prince habits and tendencies not likely to promote the domestic
happiness of a delicate and refined young wife, hardly more than a mere
child in years. Indeed, there was already considerable doubt in the
public mind as to the personal character of the Prince of Wales. He
certainly did not look a very intellectual or refined sort of person
even then, and some at least were inclined to think him, as Steerforth
says of little Em'ly's lover, "rather a chuckle-headed kind of fellow,"
to get such a girl. There was, certainly, a breath of serious distrust
abroad. On the Prince's coming of age, and again, I think, on the
announcement of his approaching marriage, the London daily papers had
set themselves to preaching sermons at him; and a very foolish chorus of
sermons that was which broke out from all those tongues together. The
only marked effect of this outburst of lay-preaching was, I fancy, to
impress the public mind with the idea that the Prince was really a very
much more dreadful young man than there was any good reason to believe
him. People naturally imagined that the writers who poured forth such
eloquent, wise, and suggestive admonitions must know a great deal more
than they felt disposed to hint at; whereas, I venture to think that, in
truth, the majority of the writers were disposed to hint at a great deal
more than they knew. For, indeed, almost all that is generally and
substantially known of the Prince of Wales has been learned and observed
since his marriage.