THE FRENCH NATIONAL ASSEMBLY.
We have been to Versailles. Of course our first visit was to the great
palace built by Louis XIV., which is over a quarter of a mile long,
and which stands, like some of the remains of antiquity, as a monument
of royal pride and ambition. It was built, as the kings of Egypt built
the Pyramids, to tell to after ages of the greatness of his kingdom
and the splendor of his reign. A gallant sight it must have been when
this vast pile, with its endless suites of apartments, was filled with
the most brilliant court in Europe; when statesmen and courtiers and
warriors, "fair women and brave men," crowded the immense saloons, and
these terraces and gardens. It was a display of royal magnificence
such as the world has seldom seen. The cost is estimated at not less
than two hundred millions of dollars--a sum which considering the
greater value of money two centuries ago, was equal to five times that
amount at the present day, or a thousand millions, as much as the
whole indemnity paid to Germany. It was a costly legacy to his
successors--costly in treasure and costly in blood. The building of
Versailles, with the ruinous and inglorious wars of Louis XIV.,
drained the resources of France for a generation, and by the burdens
they imposed on the people, prepared the way for the Revolution. I
could not but recall this with a bitter feeling as I stood in the
gilded chamber where the great king slept, and saw the very bed on
which he died. That was the end of all his glory, but not the end of
the evil that he wrought:
"The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones."
The extravagance of this monarch was paid for by the blood of his
descendants. If he had not lifted his head so high, the head of Louis
XVI. might not have fallen on the scaffold. It is good for France that
she has no longer any use for such gigantic follies; and that the day
is past when a whole nation can be sacrificed to the vanity and
selfishness of one man. In this case the very magnitude of the
structure defeated its object, for it was so great that no government
since the Revolution has known what to do with it. It required such an
enormous expenditure to keep it up, that the prudent old King Louis
Philippe _could not afford to live in it_, and at last turned it into
a kind of museum or historical gallery, filled with pictures of French
battles, and dedicated in pompous phrase, TO ALL THE GLORIES OF
FRANCE.
But it was not to see the palace of Louis XIV. that I had most
interest in revisiting Versailles, but to see the National Assembly
sitting in it, which is at present the ruling power in France. If
Louis XIV. ever revisits the scene of his former magnificence, he must
shake his kingly head at the strange events which it has witnessed.
How he must have shuddered to see his royal house invaded by a mob, as
it was in the time of the first Revolution; to see the faithful Swiss
guards butchered in his very palace, and the Queen, Marie Antoinette,
escaping with her life; to see the grounds sacred to Majesty trampled
by the "fierce democracie" of France; and then by the iron heel of the
Corsican usurper; and by the feet of the allied armies under
Wellington. His soul may have had peace for a time when, under Louis
Philippe and Louis Napoleon, Versailles was comparatively silent and
deserted. But what would he have said at seeing, only four winters
ago, the Emperor of Germany and his army encamped here and
beleaguering the capital? Yet perhaps even that would not so have
offended his royal dignity as to see a National Assembly sitting in a
part of this very palace in the name of a French Republic!
Strange overturning indeed; but if strange, still true. They have a
proverb in France that "it is always the improbable which happens,"
and so indeed it seems to be in French history; it is full of
surprises, but few greater than that which now appears. France has
drifted into a Republic, when both statesmen and people meant not so.
It was not the first choice of the nation. Whatever may have been true
of the populace of Paris, the immense majority of the French people
were sincerely attached to monarchy in some form, whether under a king
or an emperor; and yet the country has neither, so that, as has been
wittily said, France has been "a Republic without Republicans." But
for all that the Republic is _here_, and here it is likely to remain.
When the present Assembly first met, a little more than four years
since, it was at Bordeaux--for to that corner of France was the
government driven; and when the treaty was signed, and it came north,
it met at Versailles rather than at Paris, as a matter of necessity.
Paris was in a state of insurrection. It was in the hands of the
Commune, and could only be taken after a second siege, and many bloody
combats around the walls and in the streets. This, and the experience
so frequent in French history of a government being overthrown by the
mob of Paris invading the legislative halls, decided the National
Assembly to remain at Versailles, even after the rebellion was
subdued; and so there it is to this day, even though the greater part
of the deputies go out from Paris twelve miles every morning, and
return every night; and in the programme which has been drawn up for
the definite establishment of the Republic, it is made an article of
the Constitution that the National Assembly shall always meet at
Versailles.
The place of meeting is the former theatre of the palace, which
answers the purpose very well--the space below, in what was _the pit_,
sufficing for the deputies, while the galleries are reserved for
spectators. We found the approaches crowded with persons seeking
admission, which can only be by ticket. But we had no difficulty.
Among the deputies is the well-known Protestant pastor of Paris,
Edouard de Pressense, who was chosen to the Assembly in the stormy
scenes of 1871, and who has shown himself as eloquent in the tribune
as in the pulpit. I sent him my card, and he came out immediately with
two tickets in his hand, and directed one of the attendants to show us
into the best seats in the house, who, thus instructed, conducted us
to the diplomatic box (which, from its position in the centre of the
first balcony, must have been once the royal box), from which we
looked down upon the heads of the National Assembly of France.
And what a spectacle it was! The Assembly consists of over seven
hundred men, who may be considered as fair representatives of what is
most eminent in France. Of course, as in all such bodies, there are
many elected from the provinces on account of some local influence, as
landed proprietors, or as sons of noble families, who count only by
their votes. But with these are many who have "come to the front" in
this great national crisis, by the natural ascendancy which great
ability always gives, and who by their talents have justly acquired a
commanding influence in the country.
The President of the Assembly is the Duke d'Audiffret Pasquier, whose
elevated seat is at the other end of the hall. In front of him is "the
tribune," from which the speakers address the Assembly: it not being
the custom here, as in our Congress or in the English Parliament, for
a member to speak from his place in the house. This French custom has
been criticized in England, as betraying this talkative people into
more words, for a Frenchman does not wish to "mount the tribune" for
nothing, and once there the temptation is very strong to make "a
speech." But we did not find that the speeches were much longer than
in the House of Commons, though they were certainly more violent.
Looking down upon the Assembly, we see how it is divided between the
two great parties--the Royalists and the Republicans. Those sitting on
the benches to the right of the President comprise the former of every
shade--Legitimists, Orleanists, and Imperialists, while those on the
left are the Republicans. Besides these two grand divisions of the
Right and the Left there are minor divisions, such as the Right Centre
and the Left Centre, the former wishing a Constitutional Monarchy, and
the latter a Conservative Republic.
Looking over this sea of heads, one sees some that bear great names.
One indeed, and that the greatest, is not here, and is the more
conspicuous by his absence. M. Thiers, to whom France owes more than
to any other living man, since he retired from the Presidency, driven
thereto by the factious opposition of some of the deputies, and
perhaps now still more since the death of his life-long friend, De
Remusat, has withdrawn pretty much from public life, and devotes
himself to literary pursuits. But other notable men are here. That
giant with a shaggy mane, walking up the aisle, is Jules Favre--a man
who has been distinguished in Paris for a generation, both for his
eloquence at the bar, and for his inflexible Republicanism, which was
never shaken, even in the corrupting times of the Empire, and who in
the dark days of 1870, when the Empire fell, was called by acclamation
to become a member of the Provisional Government. He is the man who,
when Bismarck first talked of peace on the terms of a cession of
territory, proudly answered to what he thought the insulting proposal,
"Not a foot of our soil, not a stone of our fortresses!" but who, some
months after, had to sign with his own hand, but with a bitter heart,
a treaty ceding Alsace and Lorraine, and agreeing to pay an indemnity
of one thousand millions of dollars! Ah well! he made mistakes, as
everybody does, but we can still admire his lion heart, even though we
admit that his oratorical fervor was greater than his political
sagacity. And yonder, on the left, is another shaggy head, which has
appeared in the history of France, and may appear again. That is Leon
Gambetta! who, shut up in Paris by the siege, and impatient for
activity, escaped in a balloon, and sailing high over the camps of the
German army, alighted near Amiens, and was made Minister of War, and
began with his fiery eloquence, like another Peter the Hermit, to
arouse the population of the provinces to a holy crusade for the
extermination of the invader. This desperate energy seemed at first as
if it might turn the fortunes of the war. Thousands of volunteers
rushed forward to fill the ranks of the independent corps known as the
_Franc-tireurs_. But though he rallied such numbers, he could not
improvise an army; these recruits, though personally brave enough--for
Frenchmen are never wanting in courage--had not the discipline which
inspires confidence and wins victory. As soon as these raw levies were
hurled against the German veterans, they were dashed to pieces like
waves against a rock. The attempt was so daring and patriotic that it
deserved success; but it was too late. Gambetta's work, however, is
not ended in France. Since the war he has surprised both his friends
and his enemies by taking a very conciliatory course. He does not
flaunt the red flag in the eyes of the nation. So cautious and prudent
is he that some of the extreme radicals, like Louis Blanc, oppose him
earnestly, as seeking to found a government which is republican only
in name. But he judges more wisely that the only Republic which
France, with its monarchical traditions, will accept, is a
conservative one, which shall not frighten capital by its wild
theories of a division of property, but which, while it secures
liberty, secures order also. In urging this policy, he has exercised a
restraining influence over the more violent members of his own party,
and thus done much toward conciliating opposition and rendering
possible a French Republic.
On the same side of the house, yet nearer the middle, thus occupying a
position in the Left Centre, is another man, of whom much is hoped at
this time, M. Laboulaye, a scholar and author, who by his prudence
and moderation has won the confidence of the Assembly and the country.
He is one of the wise and safe men, to whom France looks in this
crisis of her political history.
But let us suspend our observation of members to listen to the
discussions. As we entered, the Assembly appeared to be in confusion.
The talking in all parts of the house was incessant, and could not be
repressed. The officers shouted "Silence!" which had the effect to
produce quiet _for about one minute_, when the buzz of voices rose as
loud as ever. The French are irrepressible. And this general talking
was not the result of indifference: on the contrary, the more the
Assembly became interested, the more tumultuous it grew. Yet there was
no question of importance before it, but simply one about the tariff
on railways! But a Frenchman will get excited on anything, and in a
few minutes the Assembly became as much agitated as if it were
discussing some vital question of peace or war, of a Monarchy or a
Republic. Speaker after speaker rushed to the tribune, and with loud
voices and excited looks demanded to be heard. The whole Assembly took
part in the debate--those who agreed with each speaker cheering him
on, while those who opposed answered with loud cries of dissent. No
college chapel, filled with a thousand students, was ever a scene of
more wild uproar. The President tried to control them, but in vain. In
vain he struck his gavel, and rang his bell, and at length in despair
arose and stood with folded arms, waiting for the storm to subside.
But he might as well have appealed to a hurricane. The storm had to
blow itself out. After awhile the Assembly itself grew impatient of
further debate, and shouted "_Aux voix! aux voix!_" and the question
was taken; but how anybody could deliberate or vote in such a roaring
tempest, I could not conceive.
This disposed of, a deputy presented some personal matter involving
the right of a member to his seat, for whom he demanded _justice_,
accusing some committee or other of having suppressed evidence in his
favor. Then the tumult rose again. His charge provoked instant and
bitter replies. Members left their seats, and crowded around the
tribune as if they would have assailed the obnoxious speaker with
violence. From one quarter came cries, "_C'est vrai; C'est vrai!_" (It
is true; it is true), while in another quarter a deputy sprang to his
feet and rushed forward with angry gesture, shouting, "You are not an
honest man!" So the tumult "loud and louder grew." It seemed a perfect
Bedlam. I confess the impression was not pleasant, and I could not but
ask myself, _Is this the way in which a great nation is to be
governed, or free institutions are to be constituted?_ It was such a
contrast to the dignified demeanor of the Parliament of England, or
the Congress of the United States. We have sometimes exciting scenes
in our House of Representatives, when members forget themselves; but
anything like this I think could not be witnessed in any other great
National Assembly, unless it were in the Spanish Cortes. I did not
wonder that sober and thoughtful men in France doubt the possibility
of popular institutions, when they see a deliberative body, managing
grave affairs of State, so little capable of self-control.
And yet we must not make out things worse than they are, or attach too
much importance to these lively demonstrations. Some who look on
philosophically, would say that this mere talk amounts to nothing;
that every question of real importance is deliberated upon and really
decided in private, in the councils of the different parties, before
it is brought into the arena of public debate; and that this
discussion is merely a safety-valve for the irrepressible Frenchman, a
way of letting off steam, a process which involves no danger, although
accompanied with a frightful hissing and roaring. This is a kindly as
well as a philosophical way of putting the matter, and perhaps is a
just one.
Some, too, will add that there is another special cause for
excitement, viz., that this legislative body is at this moment _in the
article of death_, and that these scenes are but the throes and pangs
of dissolution. This National Assembly has been in existence now more
than four years, and it is time for it to die. Indeed it has had no
right to live so long. It was elected for a specific purpose at the
close of the war--to make peace with the Germans, and that duty
discharged, its functions were ended, and it had no legal right to
live another day, or to perform another act of sovereignty. But
necessity knows no law. At that moment France was without a head. The
Emperor was gone, the old Senate was gone, the Legislative Body was
gone, and the country was actually without a government, and so, as a
matter of self-preservation, the National Assembly held on. It elected
M. Thiers President of the State, and he performed his duties with
such consummate ability that France had never been so well governed
before. Then in an evil hour, finding that he was an obstacle to the
plans of the Legitimists to restore the Monarchy, they combined to
force him to resign, and put Marshal MacMahon in his place, a man who
may be a good soldier (although he never did anything very great, and
blundered fearfully in the German war, having his whole army captured
at Sedan), but who never pretended to be a statesman. He was selected
as a convenient tool in the hands of the intriguers. But even in him
they find they have more than they bargained for; for in a moment of
confidence they voted him the executive power for seven years, and now
he will not give up, even to make way for a Legitimate sovereign, for
the Comte de Chambord, or for the son of his late Emperor, Napoleon
III. All this time the Assembly has been acting without any legal
authority; but as power is sweet, it held on, and is holding on still.
But now, as order is fully restored, all excuse is taken away for
surviving longer. The only thing it has to do is to die gracefully,
that is, to dissolve, and leave it to the country to elect a new
Assembly which, being fresh from the people, shall more truly
represent the will of the nation. And yet these men are very reluctant
to go, knowing as many of them do, that they will not return. Hence
the great question now is that of _dissolution_--"to be or not to be";
and it is not strange that many postpone as long as they can "the
inevitable hour." It is for this reason, it is said, because of its
relation to the question of its own existence, that the Assembly
wrangles over unimportant matters, hoping by such discussions to cause
delay, and so to throw over the elections till another year.
But as time and tide wait for no man, so death comes on with stealthy
step, and this National Assembly must soon go the way of all the
earth. What will come after it? Another Assembly--so it seems
now--more Republican still. That is the fear of the Monarchists. But
the cause of the Republic has gained greatly in these four years, as
it is seen to be not incompatible with order. It is no longer the Red
Republic, which inspired such terror; it is not communism, nor
socialism, nor war against property. _It is combined order and
liberty._ As this conviction penetrates the mass of the people, they
are converted to the new political faith, and so the Republic begins
to settle itself on sure foundations. It is all the more likely to be
permanent, because it was not adopted in a burst of popular
enthusiasm, but _very slowly_, and from necessity. It is accepted
because no other government is possible in France, at least for any
length of time. If the Comte de Chambord were proclaimed king
to-morrow, he might reign for a few years--_till the next revolution_.
It is this conviction which has brought many conservative men to the
side of the Republic. M. Thiers, the most sagacious of French
statesmen, has always been in favor of monarchy. He was the Minister
of Louis Philippe, and one of his sayings used to be quoted: "A
constitutional monarchy is the best of republics." Perhaps he would
still prefer a government like that of England. But he sees that to
be impossible in France, and, like a wise man that he is, he takes the
next best thing--which is A CONSERVATIVE REPUBLIC, based on a written
constitution, like that of the United States, and girt round by every
check on the exercise of power--a government in which there is the
greatest possible degree of personal freedom consistent with public
order. To this, as the final result of all her revolutions, France
seems to be steadily gravitating now, as her settled form of
government. That this last experiment of political regeneration may be
successful, must be the hope of all friends of liberty, not only in
America, but all over the world.