From London to New Haven by rail, and there took steamer to cross the
English Channel. It was stormy and very rough, and nearly all but our
party succumbed to sea-sickness. We could not remain outside, the storm
was so severe, and the close proximity of the _mal-de-mer_ victims
proved a little contagious. The gong sounded for dinner, but I feared
dinner and my stomach would not agree, and remembering my determination
not to be sick, turned my back upon those that were, took a bright
little story, and soon got so interested in it that I entirely got over
my nearness to a capitulation. But we decided we liked the sea better
than the choppy Channel.
We landed at Dieppe, and stepped upon French soil! We looked about the
queer old French town with our usual enthusiasm and curiosity, and then
proceeded to Rouen. Had three hours there. We dined in the garden of our
inn, on a table in an arbor covered with yellow roses of a peculiarly
sweet fragrance. The people looked at us with as much wonderment in
their faces as we at them. And what a bedlam their clatter makes to be
sure. Well for us that our escort can understand every language under
the sun--good, bad, or indifferent. We took a carriage and were driven
about the town. We went inside of three cathedrals, and we saw the spot
where Joan of Arc was burned. The streets of the old town are very
narrow, the houses queer and foreign. All of the women and children
seemed to be sitting out of doors, with knitting work in hand. They wear
little close caps and wooden shoes, and the skin of the women looks like
shrivelled leather. I am told that the lower class of the citizens of
Dieppe are very superstitious, that they believe, if the souls of those
drowned are not prayed for by their living relatives, at every
midnight, for one year, a terrible storm will arise, and the ghosts of
the departed appear to them.
At four P.M. we took train for Paris, running through a pretty country,
with fields of red poppies and large orchards of cherry trees, red with
ripe fruit. We bought them at every station, and most delicious were
they. The many hamlets or clusters of little thatched cottages, so very
close together, looked at least social.
At eleven P.M. our train rolled into the station in the city of Paris;
and such a babel! Why will these people chatter so fast? We had no
trouble with our trunks, and with them were immediately driven to our
engaged apartments, in Rue Clement Marot, where we are to remain during
our stay. The name of the street has the right sound, at any rate, for
Marot was not only a poet but a philosopher, and his philosophy we may
need in ‘doing’ Paris.
_Paris, Wednesday, June 27th, 1888._--Our hostess and her family have
given us a cordial welcome, and we already feel quite at home. Our
apartments are convenient and prettily furnished, and we are to be very
happy here, I am sure. Our journey of yesterday tempted me to sleep late
this morning, but F---- let in the bright daylight, with an exclamation
of disapprobation at time in Paris being spent in slumber. So I was soon
ready, feeling like ‘a new top,’ for the day’s whirl. We have here,
served early in our rooms, or in the breakfast room, as we choose, rolls
and coffee. At noon we have ‘déjeuner à la fourchette;’ at five, tea;
and at seven a sumptuous dinner. A sweet young lady from Beverly and
several New Yorkers are of the household, so we make a pleasant family
party. We are near the Champs Elysées, and this part of the city is
beautiful--broad, fine streets shaded with trees. We took an early drive
in this vicinity, and were later left at the Salon, spending several
hours there. What a bewildering collection of pleasing pictures! I do
love these paintings of lovely faces, of home scenes, of restful bits of
scenery, by these modern artists. We so feel them; we comprehend them;
they gladden the heart as well as the eye. The painting which won the
first prize this year was a battle-piece by D’Etaille. I recall a
picture at the Metropolitan Museum, in New York, by this same artist.
Meissonier had been his teacher, and he had also been chosen to award
the prizes, but when he attempted to address this man, his successful
pupil, he could not speak, and impulsively threw his arms about him and
burst into tears and kissed him. Surely there was no envy there. We have
seen many of Meissonier’s pictures here, and they are all wonderful in
their exactness to nature. His portraits are very life-like, and one
almost sees the blood go and come under the skin, so natural are the
flesh-tints. Pictures, like poems, must be read to be appreciated. But
to me, the most that I have seen of Turner’s I should label ‘Sanscrit,’
not being able to read them. For instance, the one called ‘Tapping the
Furnace:’ I searched in vain in it for any object that looked like a
furnace, and I thought of the story I had heard of the farmer’s wife,
whose city cousin took her to see paintings in London. She looked at
Turner’s ‘The Day after the Deluge’--put on her spectacles, and read the
title: ‘Well! I should think it wur,’ said she and passed on. Great
minds possess an intuition by which they can see farther into things
than ordinary minds can, and such minds probably understand and admire
Turner.
On the river Seine are hundreds of little steamers plying up and down,
from which one gets good views of the river’s banks. From one we were
much amused to see how the washing of Paris is done. The washerwomen
bring their clothes to the river and wade in quite a distance, and rub
them in the muddy-looking water. We saw old women, pretty girls, and
children all thus at work. I cannot imagine what keeps them from having
rheumatism, neuralgia, and all the diseases that flesh is heir to. How
linen can be made to look white in such water I do not understand, and
yet some which we had laundered, and returned to us this morning, was
immaculate--white skirts and furbelows included, all for two francs a
dozen.
We stepped from our steamer on shore, near Notre Dame, and entered this
cathedral, which, from pictures and descriptions familiar to us, seemed
quite like an old acquaintance. The exterior is a regular cruciform,
with an octagon end. At the other extreme are two lofty square towers,
and back of them a spire, surmounted with a gilt cross. The outside is
also adorned with some massive statues. The multitude of statues, of
bas-reliefs, of beautiful sculpture, in the interior of the building, is
wonderful in design, richness and beauty. The subjects are mostly from
church history. There are many statues of the Virgin and Child, and the
expressions of all are angelic and peaceful, and yet each one greatly
differs from the rest. The face of St. Martin, who is represented in the
act of sharing his mantle with a beggar, to protect him from the cold,
is heavenly in its sweetness and beauty, and one turns again and again
to look at it. Some of the subjects, however, are not as pleasing or as
helpful. The Last Judgment is portrayed in three parts: the second scene
represents the separation of the righteous from the sinners, but the
faces of the ‘elect’ had such a victorious, triumphant, ‘I told you so’
look, as they gazed down upon their condemned brothers and sisters, that
my sympathies were entirely with the sinners, and I thought I should
rather have cast my lot with them. Amongst the sculptures of the Arch is
a remarkable one of the Saviour trampling the wicked under His feet, and
motioning to Satan to drag them off to hell. This is not our idea of the
Saviour, who has said, ‘Come unto me,’ and ‘There shall be one fold and
one Shepherd.’ The sacristy of the cathedral consists of a lofty hall
(all of the large churches of Europe have sacristies and treasuries, in
which are kept the valuables belonging to the church) and in this one we
saw wealth untold. Church utensils, mitres, crosses, crosiers, swords,
and many other articles, studded with precious stones, dazzling in their
splendor. The robes which were worn by Pius VII. at the coronation of
Napoleon I. were exhibited to us: they were very richly embroidered with
silver and gold. A statue, as large as life, of the Virgin and Child,
made of solid silver, is also here.
We next went to the church of St. Eustache. The altar of this church is
exceedingly high, and composed of pure white marble, exquisitely
sculptured, and the church also contains fine frescoes. Took a glance
at the church of St. Germaine, which was the favorite place of worship
of the Empress Eugénie. Also took in St. Chappelle, where we heard some
soul-stirring music. All of these cathedrals are rich in stained glass,
and are of immense proportions and varied beautiful architecture.
Feeling that we could not comprehend the wonders of any more churches in
one day, we changed our train of thoughts to justice, by going through
the Palais de Justice and into several other handsome public buildings.
My eyes were brightened, also, by a look at the glitter of brilliant
gems in the shops of the Palais Royal, although the other wise minds
thought time thus spent a waste. ‘Stores enough in New York and Boston,’
they said; but oh, not such stores! How bright, how tempting the
contents of those windows were! The shopkeepers of Paris think all
Americans millionaires, and under some circumstances it might be
flattering to be thus considered, but in shopping in Paris it is
unfortunate, as in many stores here I am sure they advance the price of
articles when an American seems to wish to purchase. I very much
desired to obtain an odd little pin in one of the shops, but found it
much dearer than I expected. The next day the daughter of my hostess
secured it for me for about half the amount they valued it at when they
thought _I_ wished to buy it. But this is not the principle of all the
stores, by any means.
The cabs of Paris are a great convenience. They are cheap to employ, and
are handsome and most comfortable, much the shape of our Victorias. They
use good, well-kept looking horses, well harnessed, and the _cochers_
are attentive and polite. For all of this one has only to pay one franc
to be carried anywhere within the city limits, or two persons can ride
one hour for two francs. When I think of my carriage bills at home, in
the party season especially, I feel like staying in Paris--and riding on
forever--it is such a great pleasure for so little money.
During the day, we secured tickets for the opera this evening, but there
were as many forms to go through with as we have for the inauguration of
the President of the United States, and when the desired articles are
at last transferred to the purchasers’ hands, at the rate of five
dollars apiece, they are so cumbrous that one needs a valet to carry
them. Our own method of going to the ticket window and quickly securing
our little pieces of pasteboard, for half the money, is much better.
After a fully appreciated dinner at home we arrayed ourselves for the
entertainment, knowing better than to go in street costume, or with
bonnets on, this time. Our box was a lower one, in the centre of the
row, and from which we had a fine opportunity of seeing the audience and
the beautiful interior of this house. It is simply magnificent. The
decorations are rich, light, and cheerful. The vestibule and stairways
are gorgeous and dazzling. About the halls and corridors are placed
tables, where between acts the ladies and gentlemen sit, and sip cool
drinks and ices, chatting and laughing as if life were all a gala day.
All are in full dress, and the ladies’ gowns are exquisitely made and
worn; low corsages, with diamond necklaces clasped around the throats of
the fair wearers, predominate. As these French ladies and their
dark-moustached escorts promenade over the white marble stairs to the
strains of the sweet music, it is a gay and festive scene. We watched,
with much interest and admiration, one very beautiful girl, the very
loveliest of them all, and how delighted we were when we heard her
speak, and found her to be an American. The opera was ‘L’Africaine,’ and
was gorgeously set and grandly rendered. It was one A.M. when we reached
home, but our kind hostess was waiting for us, to have the pleasure, as
she said, of serving us with strawberries and cream.
By the way, such delicious cherries, strawberries, raspberries, and
apricots as we have here do not grow in America. The market women drag
the fresh, luscious fruits in wagons through the streets, and for a few
sous one gets his fill.
_Thursday, June 28, 1888._--Another morning spent in the Salon, and I
wish we could have had time to have given the entire day there. We
lingered before our favorite pictures, and at last turned reluctantly
away from them, as from living friends. Spent the next hour at the
Trocadero and its beautiful garden. The hall in the ‘Palace of the
Trocadero’ will seat 10,000 people. The aquarium and museum connected
are of much interest. Some of the statuary and sculpture are so
beautiful that it seems impossible that human hands could have carved
the speaking faces from blocks of marble. It is opposite here that the
Exposition of 1889 is to be held. Museums in Paris are as thick as plums
in a Thanksgiving pudding. Going toward the Madeleine, we stopped in the
flower-market; tables and baskets were piled with flowers,--tons of
them--cut flowers, and potted plants in bloom, and selling for a ‘mere
song’ compared with home prices. We have so often looked eagerly in the
florists’ windows on Tremont Street, just wishing and longing for even
one jacquiminot, but when that took a dollar we had often to be
satisfied with looking. ‘And now,’ said F., ‘we will have all we want;
we will wear them, and smell them, to our hearts’ content, and is not
Paris delightful, and what a good time we are having!’ Loaded with sweet
blossoms, we strayed into the Madeleine, and seated ourselves just as a
bridal party was entering the other aisle. We were uninvited but
sympathetic guests. The bride looked very young, with a pretty face and
figure, and a confiding, trustful manner; and when the groom, rather a
distinguished-looking Frenchman, took her hand, and promised to love and
cherish always, our hearts and lips cried Amen! We hope this little
bride chose her own husband, for husbands, here, we are told, are
generally selected by the parents of the girls for them, and they rarely
rebel. Nearly all marriages among the wealthy class are ‘mariages de
convenance.’ Indeed, a young girl here has a sorry sort of a time of it
before she is married; she cannot be alone with gentlemen long enough to
know whom she would like to choose for a husband, and consequently is
more willing to accept submissively the one chosen for her, for marriage
brings to her more freedom, liberty of action, and pleasure.
Since here, we invited a French lady to go to an entertainment with us.
She accepted, but came to us later to apologize and decline, as she
found herself obliged to chaperone her daughter, who was going to a
garden party with Monsieur M., and of course could not go with a man
alone. ‘Why, what is the matter with her man? Is he a lunatic?’ said F.
‘I went shopping alone yesterday, and asked information about the shops
and streets of several of the genus, and they all seemed sane and
gentlemanly.’ ‘Yes,’ was the lady’s reply, ‘they knew you to be an
American, and American girls can do as they please here, unmolested, for
they have always so respected themselves that all respect them.’ We were
glad of the compliment for our countrywomen. The new-made wife and
husband, with bridesmaids and ‘assistants’ (as they term, here, the
ushers) and their friends, passed from the church, with our best wishes.
This noted church is Grecian in style. Its altars are of carved wood and
gold. The huge bronze doors have illustrations of the Ten Commandments
in bas-relief. The altar is richly sculptured, and one portion of it
represents angels bearing Magdalen to Paradise on their wings. Our good
escort lights candles in all churches we enter, and the longest ones
too, for the forgiveness of our sins, so I trust ere we leave this land
we may be immaculate.
Out of the church, with all its holy sacredness and beauty, into the
sunlight and the brightness of the streets. A barouche is waiting for
us, in which we are soon seated, and rapidly dashing along on the
asphalt pavement of the most beautiful boulevard in the whole world, the
Champs Elysées. The avenue is broad, flanked with stately residences and
beautiful rows of elms and limes, and long shady parks. We sped along,
meeting showy equipages filled with gay people, behind high steppers
managed by light-colored costumed coachmen, with remarkably big buttons.
Many are on horseback, and the broad sidewalks are filled with happy
promenaders. Surely it was a merry sight, and all were enjoying it in
the rich atmosphere of this lovely June day. We paused, to see the Arc
de Triomphe, then passed under it to the Bois de Boulogne, a lovely park
and driveway, with lakes, cool groves, fountains, cascades, rustic
houses and seats, and everything beautiful to make it what it is, a
delightful resort. We alighted, sailed about the lake in a
Cleopatra-like barge, sat at a vine-covered table, and drank the sweet
milk that a pretty, black-eyed milkmaid brought to us fresh from her
cow, and felt that this was our ‘life’s holiday.’
A lady, a Bostonian too, but whose home has been here for several years,
said to me to-day: ‘And so you live in Boston. Why, it makes me blue to
even think of Boston, with its stiff society, its spectacled women, and
its doleful teas!’ But I could not agree with her. Another lady, now
living here, a woman of wealth and rare intelligence, told me that she
spent a year in Boston, and that repeatedly she had been a guest at
small parties and large ones, where she had not been introduced to any
one of the assemblage. Such a neglect, in the best society of Europe,
would be considered a great breach of politeness or a marked rudeness.
Here, all persons invited to meet at the house of a friend consider it
almost obligatory to speak with each other, if by chance or oversight
they are not presented, and it is the custom for the hostess of an
invited company to have her daughters and their young lady friends move
amongst the guests, to see that all are introduced, and are having a
pleasant, enjoyable time.
Shall I tell you our menu for dinner to-night? It will be, I am sure,
rather different from your own. But at our Paris home everything is
deliciously cooked and served, and E. says we had better make the most
of it; food will not be as temptingly prepared for us in Germany. First,
soup, followed by fish, cheese, and radishes, preserves and mustard,
roast beef and maccaroni, potatoes, chicken and salad, cake,
strawberries, cherries, and apricots, with wines of various kinds, all
followed by coffee.
I forgot to tell you that in our drive to-day we met Sara Bernhardt; she
looked very bright and happy, and not at all the dying ‘Camille’ that
she was the last time my eyes gazed upon her. She has a fine home here,
and receives all who choose to call upon her one day each week. She is
charitable, helpful, and sympathetic to all, and the Parisians adore
her.
_Paris, June 29th._--It rained to-day, for even in Paris it must
sometimes rain. We went to the galleries of the Louvre early, and were
so absorbed that we remained until 4 P.M. E., our escort to-day, once
lived six years in Paris, and the paintings in the Louvre were his old
friends, so that the information he gave us was of great instruction and
benefit. F., too, had been well drilled for the enjoyment by studying
the old masters and by her readings of the schools of early art. Not
being an artist myself like my two companions, I could scarcely enter
their sphere of enjoyment, or see with their eyes, so looked in my own
way. This, you know, is the largest gallery in the world, and contains
the most of the valuable works of all the great masters, Rubens,
Raphael, Murillo, Titian, Rembrandt, Claude Lorraine, Paul Veronese, and
other world-renowned artists. The works of no artist are placed here
until the artist himself has been dead ten years or more; they are
retained in the Luxembourg galleries during the life of the painter. E.
wished us to take certain pictures of Rubens first, of which artist he
has great knowledge and a keen appreciation. He says it is impossible
for us to see best many pictures in a short time, so we must take the
best pictures and see them in many ways. The allegorical pictures
relating to Marie de Medici were our first study, but the angels were
very unangelic-looking to me. Each one looked as if tipping the scales
at two hundred pounds would be an easy matter. In fact, all of Rubens
women that I have so far seen look more earthly than spiritual. These
pictures bring up many thoughts of the hapless Marie de Medici, a woman
of great beauty, and of Richelieu, the intriguing, powerful Cardinal,
whose influence was so great over the King, her son, Louis XIII. This
woman, Rubens so often painted, died at last, after the implacability of
Richelieu caused her to be banished from France, in the attic of the
house where Rubens was born, in Cologne. The Salon Carré contains the
great treasures of the Louvre, or the most of them. Here we saw the
indeed beautiful painting of Mary Anointing the Feet of Jesus, and the
even more wonderful one of The Marriage Feast at Cana, both by Paul
Veronese. I cannot imagine a human mind even conceiving such a picture,
much more putting it on canvas. It is simply perfect. Titian’s works
have a great charm for me, and Raphael’s, also. We roam from room to
room; my delighted companions turn their attentions to me often with
remarks of this nature: ‘Now do look at this; it is one of the great
works of the world.’ ‘You remember this happened in the reign of King or
Queen So-and-so.’ ‘You recollect the story in the Old Testament of ----,’
and so forth and so on! I look; say, Oh yes! Am sometimes a little
inwardly muddled, but quietly decide to know for myself what I honestly
like best. Of all the Madonnas, I like Murillo’s the most. His colors,
not as positive as those of Rubens, are warm, deep, and rich, with a
certain peculiar softness of finish that no other artist has. Surely
genius is God-given. We made no attempt to see the antiquities this
time, but could not leave without paying our respects to the most
beautiful of all women--the Venus de Milo. Our ever-gallant escort says,
‘No;’ no woman can be the most beautiful to him, who cannot extend her
arms to greet him; but beautiful she is. A whole day in the Louvre, and
yet comparatively how little of it have we seen. This evening we saw
‘Adrienne Lecouvrer’ played at the Comédie Française.
_Saturday, June 30th._--The sun shone for us brightly again this
morning, and we took an early drive through the always attractive
streets and parks of Paris. Early as it was, crowds of people were to be
seen, driving, walking, and sitting in the ‘sidewalk cafés,’ and under
the trees, chatting, laughing, and everybody seeming to have plenty of
leisure time. How is it that no one appears to be in a hurry here? One
reason that the ladies have so much more time is because their
housekeeping cares are so much less than those of Americans. Always, all
of the laundry work is sent out, and much of the cooking of a household
is done outside: bread, pastry, cakes, and roasts are prepared in
special establishments, and sent hot and deliciously cooked to private
tables, without a suggestion of ‘bakehouse’ flavor about them. The
servants, or one of them does all the ‘planning’ and the marketing,
rendering her accounts to her mistress weekly. Everything connected
with the domestic part of a Paris home runs very smoothly, and with much
less care and expense than in Bostonian homes. I remember once visiting
a dear, busy, neat, systematic young housekeeper at her home in a
country town in New England. One Monday morning her maid of all work
overslept, and we heard this wide-awake, orderly mistress call her,
saying, ‘Katie, get up; why, it is seven o’clock now, and to-day is
washing day, to-morrow will be ironing day, and the next day baking.’
There are no such days in Paris! And I should think Parisians would say,
‘For which we devoutly give thanks.’
The gardens of the Tuileries brought up thoughts of Eugénie, who used to
love the spot so well. The once-beautiful Empress whom the French people
followed is now never mentioned, not even a picture of her seen in Paris
windows; and once when I spoke of her to a dealer in photographs, asking
why he had not a picture of her, he answered, ‘Remember Sedan.’
The long walk in the cool, crisp air made us hungry, and seeing some
neatly prepared tables near we seated ourselves for a luncheon. The
bouillon was good, and the chop fairly so, and the charges reasonable we
thought, but when the bill was presented we were charged extra for
service, for the napkins we used, and for the chairs we sat on. I asked
the garçon why they did not charge for the air we breathed. Moral!
Always make your bargains in Paris before consummating them.
The Luxembourg was near, and we spent most of the rest of the day in its
galleries. Some of the masterpieces of Rosa Bonheur, Gerome, Couture and
Meissonier are here. To see Cabanel’s Venus was of itself a great
delight. I remember seeing the portrait of Miss Wolf, in the
Metropolitan Art Museum, in New York, painted by this same Alexander
Cabanel. There are two of Henner’s pictures here, one exquisitely
lovely. He is considered one of the best living painters of the nude;
his figures are remarkably graceful and modest, poetical studies of the
flesh; and it is often an intense delight and relief to turn toward
them, from the nudes of some other artists. We have seen his works also
in several private collections, and wherever there is a Henner there is
always a crowd, so lovely are they. One characteristic of them we
observed, namely, that in every picture of his that we have seen his
figures are not far from a lake, brook, or river, with the figure
partially hid by shrubbery and trees, and one of our trio said that he
was forcibly reminded of the old nursery rhyme,--
“‘Mother, may I go out to swim?’
‘Yes, my darling daughter;
Hang your clothes on a hickory limb--
But don’t go near the water!’”
A stroll in the beautiful gardens of the Luxembourg, and a visit to the
Jardin des Plantes, with its botanical, mineralogical, and geological
museums, and a visit to the monkeys--the cutest of all
monkeys,--finished the day; and to-night we are to dine with a duchess.
How fortunate we have a ‘noble’ escort. Otherwise, although we did ‘come
over in the Mayflower,’ we might not have been called upon by, and
invited to dine with, the Duke and Duchess de la R---- at their chateau
near San Cloud.
Some of the customs here seem very odd to us. After a couple are
married, they go to drive about the city; the wealthier class in their
own carriages, the less wealthy in hired ones, and the poor on foot, but
all arrayed in the wedding dress, with veil and the orange flowers. We
met eight brides in one afternoon’s drive, and we have seen many others
in the different museums and galleries. The French are indeed a
pleasure-loving people. Every green spot, and they are legion, here is
bright with life. Lovely children are out in great numbers with their
dark-eyed, handsome _bonnes_. These nurses are very picturesque, with
their white-frilled turbans on, from which hang lengths of broad white
ribbon nearly to their feet. The babies themselves are generally
costumed in the richest of laces, and often look uncomfortably loaded
down with the big white hats even the tiniest of them wear, well covered
with ostrich plumes. All seem to enjoy life--the middle classes and the
poor in their own way as entirely as the rich in theirs. The parks and
numerous gardens are filled with women sitting about with work or book
in hand, seemingly perfectly contented with their condition and
beautiful surroundings. They wander into the cathedrals and picture
galleries at will, and surely such constant familiarity with beauty and
art must have a refining influence. Of these poorer people, who have
really been taught nothing, some have more knowledge of art than many
Americans who have studied it. I, one morning, asked my chambermaid to
assist me in wrapping up a few photographs I had in my room. In doing so
she told me I ought to get Murillo’s ‘Birth of the Virgin’ and Titian’s
‘Holy Family,’ and recommended several art stores as excellent places to
select photographs and etchings. The many and great variety of
exhibitions of pictures here, offer instruction to all and are a
constant spur to one’s ambition. The Parisians should be thanked by the
people of every nation for throwing open their public institutions to
all classes to enter ‘without money and without price.’ Paris thus gives
freely to all who will accept a liberal education. The Comédie Française
and the Conservatoire of Music and Acting give free instruction to all
who have talent sufficient to be admitted. With the French people’s love
for the beautiful, with their especial love for Paris, with their
seeming contentment of position, with their hospitality and their
never-failing politeness as we now see them, it does not seem possible
that in times of rebellion and riot they so lose themselves as to burn
and destroy that they have so dearly loved, and that they become
disloyal and unreasonable toward each other. The burning of the
Tuileries in 1871 was an exhibition of their insanity in times of
excitement.
Here is my Paris edition of the _New York Herald_. I bless James Gordon
Bennett every time I take up this little paper, so grateful am I to him
for it. After struggling with French conversation, French books, French
signs, French everything, all the day, it is a delight to me to see my
own language in print, to see American news, and often to see the name
of some one I know or know of. Oh, we do not realize how dear America is
to us until we are far from her shores.
_Paris, Sunday, July 1st._--And so the month dedicated to Juno is
really gone. A month filled with joys has it been to us! It does not
seem possible that it can be July. It has been so cool here,--cool and
bright, just the weather for tramps.
First of all, dear, I must tell you a little of our dinner with the
Duchess last night. How I did wish you were with me, and how every hour
you are in loving thought and memory with me everywhere. I know just
what you will do to-day. But no one will ever know all the kind acts you
perform, all the sacrifices you make, save the recording angels. We gave
considerable time to our toilettes last evening, even to having a French
hairdresser. F. looked ‘smart’ in her Wörth-made pink gown, and in
French conversation did us all credit. Only two of the sixteen guests
spoke English, beside our host and hostess and ourselves. We were not
only cordially received, but affectionately. Our hostess was charming in
face and grace, and her husband not far behind. The halls, dining-rooms,
and salon of the house were immense, with polished floors, and rugs, and
the woodwork and furniture of the latter in white and gold. Everything
was massive and stately, but with a cheerful, bright effect. The menu
consisted of fourteen courses, served table d’hôte. The hostess was
first helped, then the oldest lady at the table, and so on, down to the
youngest lady present. Then the gentlemen in the same manner. I should
think this custom would sometimes puzzle the waiters to know whom first
to serve. The table was decorated with flowers, and the cumbrous gold
candelabra were, with the gold service, very imposing. There was not an
article of silver on the table. Every utensil was gold, china, or glass.
It is a great error to suppose that, because Frenchwomen love dress and
pleasure, they are not devoted mothers, true wives, and intelligent
companions. Of course there are exceptions, and so there are in all
countries. Our little party of last night was unusually bright,
intelligent, and familiar with American history, her institutions, and
her literature. They thought our language the hardest of all languages
to comprehend or to speak. They referred to our many words ending with
‘gh,’ and each one pronounced so entirely differently. A gentleman who
had been in New York said, if a business was to be _stopped_ there they
‘wound it up,’ if clocks were to _go_ they wound them up. Strings were
wound up, and he one day received a telegram from the wife of a friend
whom he expected to meet, which read thus: ‘Henry is wound up for the
day; hopes to see you to-morrow.’ Did not know whether Henry was
‘stopped’ or ‘going,’ but understood later that he was indisposed. They
asked us many questions about our own city, and one lady told me that
she read in a paper that not long ago a man was imprisoned for preaching
on Boston Common, but she supposed it was a mistake, as such a thing
could scarcely have taken place in a free country. After dinner we had
music and dancing, and bade our entertainers ‘Bon soir,’ having had a
delightful evening with them, and feeling that the nice points of the
social code, with dukes and duchesses, are not much different from our
own.
Sunday in Paris is a great contrast to our New England Sunday. People go
to church, to be sure, but they go to the theatre after if they wish
to, and think it all right. It is the one great day for families to go
into the parks and the woods and the gardens near the city. The larger
shops are closed, not because it is Sunday, but because one day in the
week is demanded by the employees for rest and recreation. Theatres,
circuses, and hundreds of places of amusement are open, and are all
thronged, notwithstanding the great exodus into the suburbs. One can
hardly blame clerks and working people, who are in cages, as it were,
every other day, for taking Sunday to see the green hills, breathe the
country air, and gather flowers with their little ones, for Monday puts
them in harness again. Going to places of amusement on Sunday is not
just our way, but we are not here to criticise.
After early service in the American Church we took a boat up the Seine
for St. Cloud, where have lived many kings of France. The palace where
Eugénie, in the height of her popularity, so magnificently entertained,
has never been rebuilt since its destruction in the siege of 1870. We
sat on the broad, handsome steps which had led to the palace, with the
leafy avenues of the parks before us, over which the lovely Eugénie,
with her imperial husband, and the ladies of her court, clad in their
costumes of the chase, had many times cantered. Here they entertained,
at certain seasons, sovereigns, princes of the blood, ambassadors, and
‘lords and ladies of high degree,’ and everything that could be devised
or money procure was placed before them for their pleasure. Music,
games, dancing, and feasting went on--and the people paid for it.
Although there never was and never could be the slightest unfavorable
criticism upon the moral life of the Empress, her intense love of
gayety, admiration, dress, and power caused her to forget the thousands
of suffering poor so near her. Had she given more thought to them, with
a helping hand, she could so easily have made their dark days less so.
Beauty of person and power are rare gifts, but if they so dazzle as to
make dim the more divine gift of a charitable heart and hand, they are
to be undesired, and--
‘It were better to be lowly born
And range with humble lives in content.’
But the golden-haired, sweet-faced Empress, in her green riding habit,
with the flowing white plumes in her hat, rides on under the arches of
these beautiful linden trees, and is gone from our thoughts, and the
memory of a gray-haired, childless widow in Chiselhurst rises before us.
God help her! The fountains and cascades here, scintillating in the rays
of the sun this bright morning, are beautiful, and the walks about are
superb. We went to the very top of the hill, and were well repaid by the
admirable views of Paris, the Seine, and the surrounding scenery.
Our long tramp made us hungry, so we turned our footsteps toward the
café at the gate. The tables inside looked very attractive, but my
comrades thought the ones outside more so, so we seated ourselves at one
in a vine-covered arbor, for dinner table d’hôte. We have got so used to
eating out-of-doors--in arbors in the country, and on pavements in
town,--that you need not be surprised if I, some Sunday morning, invite
you to baked beans and brown bread on the curbstones of the Oxford, and
every bean served as a course.
The town of St. Cloud is built on the slope of the hill. The streets are
very narrow, and the stores to-day are all open and well filled.
Wandering about, I was attracted by the sound of music in a
quaint-looking little church and stepped in. Upon coming out, my
companions were nowhere visible. I sat down in a conspicuous place on
some steps, to wait for them to find me. A richly dressed Frenchman
walked past me several times. I felt that I was the object of his
gaze--so looked in every direction but toward him, for here let me say
that the French are really prolonged starers, notwithstanding their
uniform courtesy and politeness. My imagination got the better of me,
and I prepared for battle, trying to think of annihilating names in
French, that I might call him should he dare address me, and looking at
the strong handle of my parasol with renewed confidence. Secondly, I
thought it might be good policy to pretend to be deaf and dumb--yes,
should he speak, I will really put my finger to my ears and my mouth
and he will think I am a dummy, planned I. Thus, with a reinforced
feeling of safety and victory, I looked squarely up at him. Imagine my
surprise when he raised his hat, and in fair English said: ‘Pardon me,
but are you not Mrs. ---- of Boston?’ It was Monsieur C----, who formerly
taught French in my family. I need not tell you that I gave him a
vigorous Yankee hand-shaking. He left America a year ago to take
possession of an inherited property. Moral: Consider every man,
everywhere, a gentleman, until you have proof that he is not. A
Frenchman never sits when a lady in his presence stands, nor does he
ever smoke or expectorate in a lady’s presence. Do the Americans? A
French lady asked me, and I had to say with humility, ‘Yes.’ After this
little incident my friends appeared, more worried about me than I about
them, and we soon took ‘top seats’ on steam-cars and were carried to
Versailles.
The gardens of Versailles are superior in beauty to any others that I
have seen. I wish I could give you a good idea of them, as they appear
to me this lovely day. Beautiful trees, shrubs, flowers of every size,
fragrance, and color, orangeries, conservatories, palms, ferns, lakes,
vine-covered seats, shaded walks, arbors, statues, grottoes cool and
mossy, cascades, and the large fountains playing, with the Palace
beyond, and the blue sky above it all--were indeed worth seeing. Linger
longer outside we would like to, but the big, huge Palace is before us,
and we must see a little of its contents. The galleries, or rooms, are
of vast size, and are filled with paintings, sculpture, bric-a-brac,
tapestries, and articles of intense historical interest. The State
apartments, the living rooms of kings and queens, the theatre, and the
chapel, with their frescoes and paintings, are a delight to us. In a
suite of eleven rooms are pictures illustrating all the most noted
events in the history of France. A white marble statue of the Duke of
Orleans is very beautiful and remarkably graceful. We also noticed a
fine statue of Joan of Arc. The chamber of Louis XIV. is absorbingly
interesting, and is one of the gems of the Palace. The ceiling was
painted by Paul Veronese, and was brought here by Napoleon I. from
Venice. It represents Jupiter punishing Crime, and is of itself a day’s
study, and more. The furniture and decorations of the room are rich and
grand, said to be about as when the ‘Grand Monarque’ died in the room,
entirely against his intentions and inclinations. The bedstead upon
which he breathed his last, with the same hangings and coverlid, are
here. It is a two-story one, and we wonder how he ever got on to it with
any degree of dignity. This magnificent apartment of Louis Quatorze,
peopled with ghosts of his time, brought to us many thoughts. This
place, under his management, was made grand and beautiful, but at the
cost of crippling the treasury of France and exciting discontent amongst
her already overtaxed people, and it was not for their enjoyment, but
for his own and his satellites’. In the queen’s card room the painted
ceiling, by Le Brun, represents France, dispensing peace and abundance
_to all_. What a mockery! At this very time, while royalty at Versailles
was sipping wine from cups of gold, the hunger of the poor outside was
beginning to make them mad. The painting of the marriage of Louis XIV.
with Maria Theresa, and some of the battle pieces, are fairly well done.
All that one has ever read of the greatness of Louis XIV., the evil of
Louis Quinze, and the horrors of the Revolution, comes to one’s mind at
Versailles. It seems to me that nowhere else could one so thoroughly
feel and comprehend France,--her history and her changes. We saw the
room in which Louis Quinze died alone, of small-pox, just as if he had
never been a king. We saw the narrow passage where the beautiful Marie
Antoinette went through to escape the fury of the Parisian mob, while
the brave, noble Swiss Guards were cut down like grass. We thought of
her standing on the balcony, between her innocent little ones, crying in
vain to the howling throng for mercy; and yet Louis XVI., although a
weak king, did not mean to be a bad one. F. says, her sympathy aroused
for the ill-fated family, ‘How horrid the people were!’ Yes; but let not
the name of Marie Antoinette make us forget the rights of the
long-suffering and wronged people. These rulers were living in
profligacy and luxury: the people, many of them, were in a starving
condition, made so by the exorbitant demands upon them by Louis. Justice
was not given them, and they took it, and the forced necessity of such
terrible work made them maniacs. We feel sorry for mistaken royalty, and
more sorry for the innocent, but let us go out into the beautiful
gardens of Versailles, and see there the multitude enjoying its
delights, instead of a few kings and queens, and be thankful. The palace
and its gems are educators for them, and the gardens a place of rest,
and may they ever thus remain. It was at Versailles that ‘good Queen
Vic’ was royally entertained by Louis Napoleon, and it was also here
that Emperor William was, later, crowned King of Prussia.
A hasty visit to Great and Little Trianon ended our day at Versailles.
The first named was built by Louis XIV. for Madam de Maintenon, and
although we had about had our fill of luxury, we grew enthusiastic over
the Malachite Hall and the mosaics and bronzes we here saw. The Little
Trianon, Louis XV. gave to Madame du Barry. Here we saw the old state
carriages and harnesses. Madame du Barry’s carriage, in which she used
to take her airings, cost 60,000 francs, and on state occasions she
carried a bouquet of diamonds, which Louis had made for her at a cost of
300,000 francs. She had also a dressing-stand of gold studded with gems,
and two cupids held a crown of diamonds above it, so made that whenever
the owner looked into the mirror this crown was reflected as if resting
upon her own head. This is an example of the way the revenues of France
were then expended. Is it any wonder that there was a revolution?
An open carriage took us to the station, and again we took our places,
on top of a steam-car, for Paris. This would be a delightful way of
riding if only the engine would be sufficiently polite to turn its smoke
in another direction than our faces. We had a fine view of the city and
its suburbs as we approached it, and with dirty faces, tired feet, and
our hands filled with French wild flowers and grasses, we reached Paris;
and the ever-convenient cab soon landed us in Clement Marot. A friend
had sent us tickets for the theatre, but we decided that we would spend
the evening in the pretty drawing-room of our hostess and make it as
nearly like a Sunday evening at home as possible. One of our number
remarked how fortunate no one of our party has felt at all homesick. A
bunch arose in my throat, but I swallowed it down, and I have told no
one that often, when I think of the dear ones far away, longings for a
sight of their faces will creep in.
_Monday, July 2d._--Galleries and churches are not open to visitors on
Mondays, so we planned for out-of-door sights to-day. The cheapness of
these little, open barouches make us feel able to ride at any time. I
wish I could take one home to Boston with me, cocher and all. We first
went to the Arc d’Etoile, for the second time, and ascended to the top,
for the views. It is said that the views from the Eiffel Tower, when
completed, will surpass anything gained elsewhere, but those from the
Arc d’Etoile are very grand.
This huge, superb monument of Napoleon I. stands in a ‘round square’
called the ‘Place d’Etoile.’ From this street twelve beautiful avenues
lead, somewhat like spokes from the hub of a wheel. Now imagine this,
and these streets built up with elegant residences, with pretty grounds
about them, and the avenues filled with showy turnouts and merry throngs
of people, promenading on the broad sidewalks, shaded by two rows of
magnificent trees, and you get a little idea, with the picture I send
you, of the Arc de Triomphe and its surroundings. The figures you see,
which will look small on paper, are, some of them, over twenty feet
high, representing Victory, Fame, etc. When we first walked under the
arch, F. said, ‘I think this is a good deal like walking under the body
of Jumbo,’--which experience we once had.
From the Arch we were driven straight down the beautiful Avenue des
Champs Elysées to the Place de la Concorde, in which square stands the
obelisk, the gift of the Pacha of Egypt. Immense bronze fountains are in
the square, and large marble statues on pedestals, representing the
country’s largest cities, around it. It is a lovely, peaceful spot, this
glorious morning, with no signs of the terrible deeds that were once
enacted here. But here it was the guillotine stood and did its murderous
work. Here the rabble surged, crying for more blood. Here Charlotte
Corday, here Marie Antoinette, met death. And here heads were cut off at
the rate of forty or fifty a day; and men looked on, women sat about
with their knitting, occasionally saying, ‘Look, there goes another.’
Do not dwell upon such horrors! we will go and buy some ribbons! Our
first look into the Bon Marché. What a beautiful store it is, to be
sure. The largest in the world. How the bargains tempt us! The clerks
look bright and fresh, and are remarkably well dressed and intelligent
appearing. And they have reason to be--they are all partners of this
great money-making establishment, and time, opportunities, and means
given them for study. The little articles here, fans, ornaments, toilet
articles, handkerchiefs, gloves, etc., are irresistible, so pretty and
so cheap. In one apartment, cake, cookies, bread, crackers, wine, tea
and coffee, and the very best of their kind, are served to all who come,
gratuitously. Wanamaker’s store in Philadelphia, and Shepard &
Norwell’s, of Boston, are somewhat similar,--the first mentioned
comparing very favorably, the second not as extensive but conducted
partly on the same principle.
Leaving the Bon Marché we knew we had got our money’s worth, but had
precious few coins left, so thought it a good time to see a little of
the poorer class of this rich-appearing city. So into the Latin quarter
are we driven. That sounds very intellectual and classical, but is
really the old and poorer part of Paris. Here the streets are narrow,
the men wear blue blouses, and the women look coarse and hard;
exceptions there are, certainly, but such the general appearance.
Next, to Père La Chaise, the city of the dead. Much disappointed in its
appearance. Does not compare with our beautiful Forest Hills. The walks
are not well kept. Immortelles and shrivelled wreaths decorate the
graves, instead of fresh flowers. Numerous monuments are here, and some
very fine ones, but the most are costly without beauty. On the graves of
children we saw toys, dolls, wooden horses, etc. We saw Rachel’s
monument, and that of Abélard and Héloise, which is really beautiful. F.
said she always meant to make a pilgrimage to this spot, from pure
sympathy. We saw many names, on monuments, familiar to us from history;
but as a whole, everything is too mixed up for it to be considered a
beautiful cemetery. We saw a young girl bending over a grave in tears,
and our own fell for her. She left a wreath on the, to her, precious
earth, composed of white immortelles, with words made of the yellow
flowers embedded in the white, which read, as nearly as we could
translate, ‘To the loved man who was to have been my husband.’ That told
the sad story. We thought Victor Hugo rested here, but one of our trio
said no; at the Pantheon, he felt sure. ‘Well, he was a good and great
man enough to have had two burial places,’ said F. And so say we all of
us!
We went to the Hippodrome this evening,--sort of a fashionable circus;
but not caring much for the entertainment, came out and walked about to
see a little of Paris by gaslight--and such a sight! The entire
population of the city seems to be poured into the streets. Bands of
music playing in the squares; the sidewalk cafés have their tables
surrounded with ‘evening dressed’ ladies and gentlemen. There are
illuminated swings, merry-go-rounds, inclined planes, roller skating
platforms, for the children, and all seeming to be respectably
conducted. Paris is a clean city; the streets are like a well-swept
floor all the time, no dirt to be seen. Two-thirds of the families live
in apartment houses. These are better arranged than our Boston flats.
The rooms are spacious, and no dark, windowless ones, as there is always
an open court in the centre, to admit light and air, and about the
windows facing these courts are balconies, pleasant to sit out on. The
courts are cultivated, and either have shrubbery and flowers growing, or
have grassy lawns, and this is all cared for by the landlords. The rents
are much lower, also, than with us.
_Tuesday, July 3d._--Too quickly the days go by. The weather is so
deliciously fair and bright this morning that it is a joy to be alive.
Out into the sunshine we go, ‘not caring a sou where, if only these days
could last forever,’ said F. Yes, Paris is indeed fascinating, but we
must remember that life is not all a holiday, nor would we wish it to
be. We owe to our Maker something higher in aim and in good works. We
owe to our beloved country ourselves, and the help of our acts and
purposes. When human beings are born and bred in the same air, speak the
same tongue, it is a disloyal thing to turn faces from each other.
‘United we stand,’ We heard of a party of Americans finding difficulty
in entering Germany not long ago because they had no passports, so I
thought we had better fortify ourselves with the documents. Hunted up
the abode of the American Legation. Found the apartments to resemble the
rooms of a private family, more than those of business. We were duly
questioned, measured, and pen-portraits taken of us, and after a
sufficient amount of ‘red-tape delay,’ the desired papers were in our
hands. Very likely we shall not be obliged to use them, but they serve
to tell us how tall we are, and, better still, that my nose is straight,
which I never knew before.
We next went to the Pantheon, which is something of a reproduction of
St. Peter’s at Rome, and is now devoted to receiving the remains of
great men who have merited the gratitude of France. The church was
formerly called the church of St. Geneviève, she having been the patron
saint of Paris. There are some beautiful frescoes here relating to her
life. The rich Corinthian columns, the marble groups, frescoes, and
bas-reliefs, are all an interesting study. France is represented
bestowing honors on her noted sons. On the frieze is this inscription:
‘Aux Grands Hommes La Patrie Reconnaissante.’ There are some beautiful
frescoes here by Cabanel, which represent different scenes in the life
of St. Louis. The one where Blanche of Castile, his mother, is talking
with him is very lovely. The artist has succeeded in investing the faces
of St. Louis with much beauty and spirituality. I looked at these
paintings with great satisfaction, as I admire the results of Cabanel’s
brush always. I thought, too, not only of St. Louis, but of Louis S. S.,
and wished I could see his pleasant face. I have so often called him my
St. Louis. Please tell him this when you see him, and love to them all.
Yet, with all of the objects I have told you of, and many, many others,
the interior of the Pantheon has a cold, bare look. Underneath this
building are immense vaults, and Victor Hugo’s remains are here. The
coffin, covered with cloth, mounted and embroidered with silver, stands
on trestles facing the tomb of Rousseau,--although the remains of the
latter are at Geneva. A huge pyramid of immortelles is before us, that
were brought, by those who loved the great man, on the day of his
funeral. All that was mortal of him is here, but a mind that could give
‘Les Miserables’ must be working for good still, in the ‘great
somewhere.’
Noticing the interest I felt in everything pertaining to Victor Hugo, a
Paris friend, with us to-day, said, ‘Let us sit down and rest near these
withered blossoms, and I will tell you a little about his funeral, which
took place just three years ago this month, and of which I was an
eye-witness.’ Although Victor Hugo was born an aristocrat, and was the
greatest poet of France, his sympathy and love for the common people,
and his strong and earnestly avowed republican tendencies, led him to
request in his will that he should be carried to his grave in the hearse
of the poor. And although this was done, never were such preparations
made before for the celebration and the honoring of any dead. France
claimed him as her greatest, noblest son. His body was laid in state,
under the Arch of Triumph, on a catafalque draped with black velvet
embroidered with silver, standing in a bank of flowers. Bands of crape
were draped from the top of the huge arch to the ground. Through the
day, and through the night, torches were lighted, and thousands of
people visited the spot. It was known that he said it would be his
choice to be laid without ceremony by the side of his wife, in the
little country churchyard, but the people would not have it thus; only
to the Pantheon should he be carried! But the Pantheon bore a visible
cross, indicating dedication to the Roman church. Hugo could not rest
there. His religion was of no sect. He believed in God and loved Him. He
believed in his fellow-man--loved and helped him. His creed was the
Golden Rule, and he lived by it. The Government ordered the cross
removed from the building, and it was done, and on June 1st, 1885, all
that was mortal of Victor Hugo--whose motto was ever ‘Fraternity,
Equality, and Liberty’--was carried there, followed by the greatest and
wisest citizens of France, her ministers, her soldiers, and her people.
We arose, laid our corsage ornament--a beautiful fleur-de-lis--by the
great man’s last resting-place, and turned away.
By the way, the French love this flower, the national emblem of their
country. There is a legend about it, that runs like this: Clovis, who
was an infidel, went to battle with the Germans. He fought bravely, but
was losing ground, when he remembered his young Queen’s faith in God. He
called in his despair upon this Great Being the Christians so trusted
in, pledging himself to this God’s service forever if He would but give
him this one victory. The battle was his, and he was immediately
baptized. During the solemn ceremony an angel appeared and threw about
King Clovis an exquisite banner embroidered with the lovely flowers of
the fleur-de-lis. From that time to the French Revolution the kings of
France bore the flower on their banners.
From the Pantheon to the Hotel des Invalides, a comfortable home for
disabled soldiers and for aged ones, containing kitchens, dormitories,
libraries, museums, etc. We chatted with a very old soldier with but one
leg, and he said that he was much happier with that one than most men
were with two legs, so well was he there cared for. Next, to the Tomb of
Napoleon the First, and I should have known it to have been his burial
place had I opened my eyes upon it unexpectedly, anywhere, so
‘Napoleonically’ magnificent is it all, in the Church of the Invalides,
so called. Napoleon so loved Paris, that in his will he requested ‘that
his body might rest on the banks of the Seine, amongst the French people
he loved so well.’ Light for the interior of this building comes through
violet-colored glass in the immense cupola, and falls with a peculiar,
weird effect upon the sarcophagus, which seems to be of granite, and
rests upon two large blocks of different colored stone, one upon the
other, making a high pile. The foundation upon which this all stands is
a crown of laurels, in green marble, on a floor of black and white, and
upon which are seen the names of many of his victories. Twelve victories
are also represented by the same number of colossal statues. The crypt
containing the sarcophagus is round, and immediately under the dome, in
the exact centre, and has around it a marble railing. We went down into
this crypt, around the sarcophagus, to a chapel, where we saw the very
sword he wore at Austerlitz, the insignia he wore, the battle colors,
and the crown of gold given to him by the citizens of Cherbourg. At the
farther end is the statue of the Emperor, with the characteristic lines
of his face strongly portrayed, and it is clothed in the imperial robes.
The gallery leading to this is always lighted by bronze funeral lamps.
Other chapels, dedicated to different saints, are richly decorated, and
the remains of a number of the relatives of Napoleon rest within them.
At the entrance to the tomb, as the whole building or church is called,
are two sarcophagi, dedicated, the one to Marshal Duroc, and the other
to Marshal Bertrand, the devoted and true friends of the Emperor in his
hours of trial. Way high up in the cupola, which is, I have already told
you, right over the sarcophagus containing Napoleon’s dust, is a
beautiful picture of Jesus, in the midst of angels, looking tenderly
down. This crypt is in the centre to be sure, and yet is in front of
steps which lead to the beautiful altar. The steps are of white marble,
and the high, superb altar is of both black and white marble, with a
canopy of gold, beneath which is a figure of Christ on the cross. The
cost of this entire monument was nearly two million dollars, and is all
so rich and effective that I hope my description of it will enable you
to see it, a little, as with my eyes. The life of conquest and glory,
defeat and suffering, which this man knew is without a parallel. His
spirit left the body in obscurity and exile; that body now rests in the
costliest of mausoleums. Here in this very city he once lived in a
garret, and wandered hopelessly about seeking employment; here also he
lived in palaces, and ruled everything before him. We have seen the
Hotel de la Colonnade, Rue des Capucines, where he was married to
Josephine, and it was at the Tuileries his divorce from her was
proclaimed. His ambition was indeed his ruling passion, when he could
put from him the woman who loved him, saying to her, ‘Josephine, thou
knowest I love thee; to thee alone do I owe the only moments of true
happiness that I have ever had, but my destiny overrules my will.’ Dying
on his lonely bed, on the bleak, rude heights of St. Helena, without
kith or kin to love him, what then to him were ambition, fame, or
victories, even such as his had been?
We spent the rest of the day in the Cluny, an extensive old museum,
containing statues, paintings, armor, and wonderfully beautiful
tapestries, and rare antiquities of all descriptions. One exquisite and
very odd piece of pottery so interested me, being entirely different
from anything I had ever before seen, that I asked one of the near
attendants where it came from; he answered, ‘Hades.’ Fearing I did not
understand him, I asked the question for the second time, and called my
companions to interpret, but ‘Hades’ he repeated, and we could say no
more. F. said it seemed well baked, and told us a story of an Englishman
who was travelling in France, and had with him a French courier, the
latter speaking English a little, but making some peculiar translations.
The English gentleman asked concerning a friend whom he knew to be
residing somewhere in France. The interpreter innocently assured him
that his friend had gone to Thunder in Burgundy. The Englishman, not
knowing of the town Tounerre, drew his own conclusions.
_Wednesday, July 4th._--A pleasant surprise awaited us this morning. Our
hostess, in our honor, had thrown from our balcony our own glorious
flag! Our stars and stripes! None other as beautiful in all the world
floats. It seemed a part of our own dear land, our home and friends. We
are up in the fifth story; the horses are kept in the first. The higher
up the rooms are, the more desirable are they considered here, and the
greater is the rent. We took an early drive, then spent a little time
shopping, and made our way to the monumental chapel containing the tombs
and monuments of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI., called the Chapel
Expiatoire. Here is a beautiful statue of the unfortunate Queen, and one
also of her husband, on the pedestal of which is inscribed, in letters
of gold, his will, in which he commends his wife and children to his
Maker, and expresses a wish that his wife may be allowed to keep their
children, for her maternal tenderness for them he has never doubted. It
all expresses the thoughts and feelings of a good man. The remains of
the brave Swiss Guard who so faithfully defended the royal family, are
also here.
A little more sight-seeing, a few social calls made, last lingering
glances at the Palais Royal and the Rue de Rivoli shops, and home to
dine. After dinner we, with the entire household, went to an out-of-door
fête, in the streets and on the sidewalks of Paris, and a grotesque,
comical, ridiculous celebration it was. Old and young were dancing in
the streets; open booths for shooting, angling, and all sorts of games
of chance were well patronized; cheap shows, theatres, concerts,
cycloramas, and panoramas, all in full blast, and Punch and Judy doing
their part vigorously; a beautiful girl, with a fine voice, and dressed
in white silk, thus exposed to the public gaze, was giving a concert in
the open air, and the crowd about her were really ladies and gentlemen;
every jim-crack ever manufactured was for sale in the miles of tents
temporarily erected;--and altogether it was a strange sight. I could not
have believed it possible that intelligent men and women could have
enjoyed such a conglomeration, but they seemed to. At midnight, after
walking some distance to find our cabs, we were driven to Rue Clement
Marot, through the Arch, and this grand monument looked even more grand
in the full blaze of the electric lights. To-morrow we regretfully leave
this beautiful city and our pleasant friends, who have done so much to
make our stay here a happy one. Whatever is rich, Paris is richer.
Whatever is grand, Paris is grander! Whatever is beautiful, Paris is
more so. I hope to see it all again.
_July 5th._.--We left Paris at 10 A.M. to-day, leaving the house early
enough to step into St. Chapelle for one more look at the incomparable
rose window and the other remarkably beautiful stained-glass windows of
this gorgeous church. The morning was a bright one, and as the rays of
the sun streamed in upon us, through the rich colors of the glass, and
mingled with the delicate blue tone reflected from the arched roof of
the edifice, the effect was glorious. This exquisite ceiling is thickly
dotted with gilt stars. The whole interior is decorated with gilt
diamonds, with paintings of fleur-de-lis, St. Louis’s flower between. We
went into the little chamber where the saintly King used to sit and
listen to the church services, through a window opening into the nave.
On reaching the station we found our friends waiting for us, to give us
a pleasant send-off toward Geneva.
[Illustration: decorative bar]