Rheims, founded in 1748, and of Dijon and Nancy, founded in 1787. The
opening in Paris of the Muséum Français in 1792, consisting of the royal
collections and art treasures of suppressed convents, was the beginning
of a great movement in this direction. At Lille the municipal
authorities first got together a few pictures in the convent of the
Récollets, and Watteau the painter was deputed to draw up a catalogue.
On the 12th May, 1795, the collection consisted of 583 pictures and 58
engravings. On the 1st September, 1801, the consuls decreed the
formation of departmental museums and distribution of public art
treasures. It was not, however, till 1848 that the municipal council of
Lille set to work in earnest upon the enrichment of the museum, now one
of the finest in provincial cities. The present superb building was
erected entirely at the expense of the municipality, and was only opened
two years ago. It has recently been enriched by art treasures worth a
million of francs, the gift of a rich citizen and his wife, tapestries,
_faïence_, furniture, enamels, ivories, illuminated MSS., rare bindings,
engraved gems. Before that time the unrivalled collection of drawings by
old masters had lent the Lille museum a value especially its own.
The collections are open every day, Sundays included. Being entirely
built of stone, there is little risk of fire. Thieves are guarded
against by two caretakers inside the building at night and two patrols
outside. It is an enormous structure, and arranged with much taste.
The old wall still encircles the inner town, and very pretty is the
contrast of grey stone and fresh spring foliage; lilacs in full bloom,
also the almond, cherry, pear tree, and many others.
Lille nowadays recalls quite other thoughts than those suggested by
Tristram Shandy. It may be described as a town within towns, the
manufacturing centres around having gradually developed into large rival
municipalities. Among these are Tourcoing, Croix, and Roubaix, now more
than half as large as Lille itself. I stayed a week at Lille, and had I
remained there a year, in one respect should have come away no whit the
wiser. The manufactories, one and all, are inaccessible as the interior
of a Carmelite convent. Queen Victoria could get inside the monastery of
the Grande Chartreuse, but I question whether Her Majesty would have
been permitted to see over a manufactory of thread gloves at Lille!
Such jealousy has doubtless its reason. Most likely trade secrets have
been filched by foreign rivals under the guise of the ordinary tourist.
Be this as it may, the confection of a tablecloth or piece of beige is
kept as profoundly secret as that of the famous pepper tarts of Prince
Bedreddin or the life-sustaining cordial of celebrated fasters.
In the hope of winning over a feminine mind, I drove with a friend to
one of the largest factories at Croix, the property of a lady.
Here, as at Mulhouse, mill-owners live in the midst of their works. They
do not leave business cares behind them, after English fashion, dwelling
as far away as possible from factory chimneys. The premises of Mme. C.
are on a magnificent scale; all in red brick, fresh as if erected
yesterday, the mistress's house--a vast mansion--being a little removed
from these and surrounded by elegantly-arranged grounds. A good deal of
bowing and scraping had to be got through before we were even admitted
to the portress's lodge, as much more ceremonial before the portress
could be induced to convey our errand to one of the numerous clerks in a
counting-house close by. At length, and after many dubious shakes of the
head and murmurs of surprise at our audacity, the card was transmitted
to the mansion.
A polite summons to the great lady's presence raised our hopes. There
seemed at least some faint hope of success. Traversing the gravelled
path, as we did so catching sight of madame's coach-house and half-dozen
carriages, landau, brougham, brake, and how many more! we reached the
front door. Here the clerk left us, and a footman in livery, with no
little ceremony, ushered us into the first of a suite of reception
rooms, all fitted up in the modern style, and having abundance of ferns
and exotics.
At the end of the last salon a fashionably dressed lady, typically
French in feature, manners and deportment, sat talking to two gentlemen.
She very graciously advanced to meet us, held out a small white hand
covered with rings, and with the sweetest smile heard my modestly
reiterated request to be allowed a glimpse of the factory. Would that I
could convey the gesture, expression of face and tone of voice with
which she replied, in the fewest possible words!
After that inimitable, unforgettable "Jamais, jamais, jamais!" there was
nothing to do but make our bow and retire, discomfiture being amply
atoned by the little scene just described.
We next drove straight through Lille to the vast park or Bois, as it is
called, not many years since acquired by the town as a pleasure-ground.
Very wisely, the pretty, irregular stretch of glade, dell and wood has
been left as it was, only a few paths, seats and plantations being
added. No manufacturing town in France is better off in this respect.
Wide, handsome boulevards lead to the Bois and pretty botanical garden,
many private mansions having beautiful grounds, but walled in completely
as those of cloistered convents. The fresh spring greenery and multitude
of flowering trees and shrubs make suburban Lille look its best; outside
the town every cottage has a bit of ground and a tree or two.
During this second week of April the weather suddenly changed. Rain
fell, and a keen east wind rendered fires and winter garments once
more indispensable. On one of these cold, windy days I went with
Lille friends to Roubaix, as cold and windy a town, I should say, as
any in France.
A preliminary word or two must be said about Roubaix, the city of
strikes, pre-eminently the Socialist city.
City we may indeed call it, and it is one of rapidly increasing
dimensions. In the beginning of the century Roubaix numbered 8000 souls
only. Its population is now 114,000. Since 1862 the number of its
machines has quintupled. Every week 600 tons of wool are brought to the
mills. As I have before mentioned, more business is transacted with the
Bank of France by this _cheflieu_ of a canton than by Toulouse, Rheims,
Nîmes, or Montpellier. The speciality of Roubaix is its dress stuffs and
woollen materials, large quantities of which are exported to America. To
see these soft, delicate fabrics we must visit Regent Street and other
fashionable quarters, not an inch is to be caught sight of here.
Roubaix is a handsome town, with every possible softening down of grimy
factory walls and tall chimneys. A broad, well-built street leads to the
Hôtel de Ville; another equally wide street, with mansions of wealthy
mill-owners and adjacent factories, leads to the new Boulevard de Paris
and pretty public park, where a band plays on Sunday afternoons.
But my first object was to obtain an interview with the Socialist mayor,
a man of whom I had heard much. A friend residing at Lille kindly paved
the way by sending his own card with mine, the messenger bringing back a
courteous reply. Unfortunately, the Conseil-Général then sitting at
Lille curtailed the time at the mayor's disposal, but before one o'clock
he would be pleased to receive me, he sent word. Accordingly, conducted
by my friend's clerk, I set out for the Town Hall.
We waited some little time in the vestibule, the chief magistrate of
Roubaix being very busy. Deputy-mayors, adjoints, were coming and going,
and liveried officials bustled about, glancing at me from time to time,
but without any impertinent curiosity. Impertinent curiosity, by the
way, we rarely meet with in France. People seem of opinion that
everybody must be the best judge of his or her own business. I was
finally ushered into the council chamber, where the mayor and three
deputy-mayors sat at a long table covered with green baize, transacting
business. He very courteously bade me take a seat beside him, and we at
once entered into conversation. The working man's representative of what
was then the city _par excellence_ of strikes and socialism is a
remarkable-looking man in middle life. Tall, angular, beardless, with
the head of a leader, he would be noticed anywhere. There was a look of
indomitable conviction in his face, and a quiet dignity from which
neither his shabby clothes nor his humble calling detract. Can any
indeed well be humbler? The first magistrate of a city of a hundred and
fourteen thousand souls, a large percentage of whom are educated,
wealthy men of the world, keeps, as I have said, a small _estaminet_ or
café in which smoking is permitted, and sells newspapers, himself early
in the morning making up and delivering his bundles to the various
retailers. Here, indeed, we have the principles of the Republic--Liberty,
Equality, Fraternity--carried out to their logical conclusion.
Without money, without social position, this man owes his present
dignity to sheer force of character and conviction. We chatted of
socialism and the phases of it more immediately connected with Roubaix,
on which latter subject I ventured to beg a little information.
[Footnote: I give Littré's meaning of _estaminet_.]
"We must go to the fountain-head," he replied very affably. "I regret
that time does not permit me to enter into particulars now; but leave me
your English address. The information required shall be forwarded."
We then talked of socialism in England, of his English friends, and he
was much interested to learn that I had once seen the great Marx and
heard him speak at a meeting of the International in Holborn twenty-five
years before.
Then I told him, what perhaps he knew, of the liberty accorded by our
Government to hold meetings in Trafalgar Square, and we spoke of
Gladstone. "A good democrat, but born too early for socialism--the
future of the world. One cannot take to socialism at eighty-three years
of age," I said.
"No, that is somewhat late in the day," was the smiling reply.
I took leave, much pleased with my reception. From a certain point of
view, the socialist mayor of Roubaix was one of the most interesting
personalities I had met in France.
Roubaix has been endowed by the State with a handsome museum,
library, technical and art school, the latter for young men only.
These may belong to any nationality, and obtain their professional or
artistic training free of charge. The exhibition of students' work
sufficiently proclaims the excellence of the teaching. Here we saw
very clever studies from the living model, a variety of designs, and,
most interesting of all, fabrics prepared, dyed and woven entirely by
the students.
The admirably arranged library is open to all, and we were courteously
shown some of its choicest treasures. These are not bibliographical
curiosities, but albums containing specimens of Lyons silk, a marvellous
display of taste and skill. Gems, butterflies' wings, feathers of
tropical birds are not more brilliant than these hues, while each design
is thoroughly artistic, and in its way an achievement.
The picture gallery contains a good portrait of the veteran song-writer
Nadaud, author of the immortal "Carcassonne." Many Germans and Belgians,
engaged in commerce, spend years here, going away when their fortunes
are made. More advantageous to the place are those capitalists who take
root, identifying themselves with local interests. Such is the case with
a large English firm at Croix, who have founded a Protestant church and
schools for their workpeople.
Let me record the spectacle presented by the museum on Sunday afternoon
during the brilliant weather of April 1893. What most struck me was the
presence of poorly-dressed boys; they evidently belonged to the least
prosperous working class, and came in by twos and threes. Nothing could
equal the good behaviour of these lads, or their interest in everything.
Many young shop-women were also there, and, as usual, a large contingent
of soldiers and recruits.
Few shops remained open after mid-day, except one or two very large
groceries, at which fresh vegetables were sold. It is pleasant to note a
gradual diminution of Sunday labour throughout France.
The celebration of May-Day, which date occurred soon after my visit, was
not calculated either to alarm the Republic or the world in general. It
was a monster manifestation in favour of the Three Eights, and I think
few of us, were we suddenly transformed into Roubaix machinists, would
not speedily become Three Eighters as well.
At five o'clock in the morning the firing of cannon announced the annual
"Fête du Travail," or workmen's holiday, not accorded by Act of
Parliament, but claimed by the people as a legitimate privilege.
Unwonted calm prevailed in certain quarters. Instead of men, women, boys
and girls pouring by tens of thousands into the factories, the streets
leading to them were empty. In one or two cases, where machinery had
been set in motion and doors opened, public opinion immediately effected
a stoppage of work. Instead, therefore, of being imprisoned from
half-past five in the morning till seven or eight at night, the entire
Roubaisien population had freed itself to enjoy "a sunshine holiday."
Such a day cannot be too long, and at a quarter past seven vast crowds
had collected before the Hôtel de Ville.
Here a surprise was in store for the boldest Three Eighter going. The
tricolour had been hoisted down, and replaced, not by a red flag, but by
a large transparency, showing the following device in red letters upon
a white ground:--
FÊTE INTERNATIONALE DU TRAVAIL,
1er Mai 1893.
Huit Heures du Travail,
Huit Heures du Loisir,
Huit Heures du Repos.
[Footnote: Translation-International festival of labour; eight hours'
work, eight hours' leisure, eight hours' repose.]
The mayor, in undress, that is to say in garments of every day, having
surveyed these preparations, returned to his _estaminet_, the Plat d'Or,
and there folded his newspapers as usual for the day's distribution.
In the meantime the finishing touch was put to other decorations,
consisting of flags, devices and red drapery, everywhere the Three
Eights being conspicuous.
A monster procession was then formed, headed by the Town Council and a
vast number of bands. There was the music of the Fire Brigade, the
socialist brass band, the children's choir, the Choral Society of
Roubaix, the Franco-Belgian Choral Society, and many others. Twenty
thousand persons took part in this procession, the men wearing red
neckties and a red flower in their button-holes, the forty-seven groups
of the workmen's federation bearing banners, all singing, bands
playing, drums beating, cannons firing as they went.
At mid-day the defile was made before the Hôtel de Ville, and delegates
of the different socialist groups were formally received by the mayor
and deputy-mayors, wearing their tricolour scarves of office.
I must say the mayor's speech was a model of conciseness, good sense
and, it must be added, courtesy; addressing himself first to his
fellow-townswomen, then to his fellow-townsmen, he thanked the labour
party for the grandiose celebration of the day, dwelt on the
determination of the municipal council to watch over the workmen's
interests, then begged all to enjoy themselves thoroughly, taking care
to maintain the public peace.
Toasts were drunk, the mayor's health with especial enthusiasm, but when
at the stroke of noon he waved the tricolour and an enormous number of
pigeons were let loose, not to be fired at but admired as they flew away
in all directions, their tricolour ribbons fluttering, the general
delight knew no bounds. "Long live our mayor," resounded from every
mouth, "Vive le citoyen Carrette!"
The rest of the day was devoted to harmless, out-of-door amusements: a
balloon ascent, on the car being conspicuous in red, "Les trois huits,"
concerts, gymnastic contests, finally dancing and illuminations.
Thus ended the first of May, 1893, in Lille.
* * * * *
St. Omer is a clean, well-built and sleepy little town, with some fine
old churches. The mellow tone of the street architecture, especially
under a burning blue sky, is very soothing; all the houses have a
yellowish or pinkish hue.
The town abounds in convents and seminaries, and the chief business of
well-to-do ladies seems that of going to church. In the cathedral are
many votive tablets to "Our Lady of Miracles"--one of the numerous
miracle-working Virgins in France. Here we read the thanksgiving of a
young man miraculously preserved throughout his four years' military
service; there, one records how, after praying fervently for a certain
boon, after many years the Virgin had granted his prayer. Parents
commemorate miraculous favours bestowed on their children, and so on.
The ancient ramparts at this time were in course of demolition, and the
belt of boulevards which are to replace them will be a great
improvement. The town is protected by newly-constructed works. Needless
to say, it possesses a public library, on the usual principle--one
citizen one book,--a museum, and small picture gallery. The population
is 21,000.
I was cordially received by a friend's friend, foremost resident in the
place, and owner of a large distillery. As usual, the private dwelling,
with coach-house, stables and garden adjoined the business premises. The
_genièvre_ or gin, so called from the juniper used in flavouring it,
here manufactured, is a choice liqueur, not the cheap intoxicant of our
own public-houses. Liqueurs are always placed with coffee on French
breakfast-tables. Every one takes a teaspoonful as a help to digestion.
French people are greatly astonished at the absence of liqueurs in
England. The excellence of French digestions generally would not seem to
discredit the habit. In the fabrication of gin here only the corn of rye
is used, and in small quantities, the juniper berry; it is ready for
drinking in six months, although improved by keeping. I saw also curaçoa
in its various stages. The orange peel used in the manufacture of this
liqueur is soaked in alcohol for four months.
My object, however, was to see the high farming on an extensive scale
for which this region is famous. Accordingly my host, accompanied by his
amiable wife, placed themselves, their carriage, and time at my
disposal, and we set out for a long round.
In harvest time the aspect of the country must be one of extreme
richness. The enormous sweeps of corn, clover, and beetroot have no
division from each other or the road; no hedges are to be seen, and not
a tree in the middle of the crops, few trees, indeed, anywhere.
Everywhere, on this 17th of April, the corn was a month ahead of former
seasons, and, in spite of the long drought, very flourishing.
The first farm visited consists of 360 hectares (just upon 900 acres),
all in the highest cultivation, and conducted strictly on the footing of
a large industrial concern, with offices, counting-house, carpenters',
saddlers' and wheelwrights' shops, smithies, mills and machinery, every
agricultural process down to grinding the corn being performed on the
premises, and by workmen in the employ of the owner.
As we enter these vast premises, and hear the buzz of machinery, we feel
the complete prosaicization of rustic life. The farmhouse scenes of my
own childhood in Suffolk, the idyllic descriptions of George Eliot, no
more resemble actualities than the poetic spinning-wheel of olden times
the loom of latest invention. Utility is the object aimed at,
incontestably with great results, but in effect unromantic as Chicago.
It is high farming made to pay. All was bustle and activity as we made
the round of the premises, beginning with the vast machinery and
workshops. These walled-in buildings, divided into two portions, each
covering three-quarters of an acre, reminded me of nothing so much as of
the caravanserais of Algerian travel twenty-five years ago. Once the
doors are bolted none can enter, yet to render security doubly sure dogs
are chained up in every corner--we will hope, let loose at night.
I will not here go into agricultural details, only adding a few
particulars.
The splendid wheat, clover, bean and rye crops attested the
excellence of the farming. Dovetailing into these enormous fields
were small patches of peasant owners or tenants, all without division
or apparent boundary.
In the villages I was struck by the tidy appearance of the children
coming out of school. The usual verdict on peasant proprietors
hereabouts was that they do not accumulate, neither are they in want.
Very little, if any, beggary meets the eye, either in town or country.
We then drove to the château, with its English grounds, of the Vicomte
de----, friend of my host, and an ardent admirer of England and English
ways. This gentleman looked, indeed, like an English squire, and spoke
our tongue. He had visited King Edward, then Prince of Wales, at
Sandringham. As an illustration of his lavish method of doing things, I
mention a quantity of building stone lately ordered from Valenciennes.
This stone, for the purpose of building offices, had cost £800. In this
part of France clerks and counting-houses seem an indispensable feature
of farm premises. An enormous bell for summoning work-people to work or
meals is always conspicuous. The whole thing has a commercial aspect.
Here we saw some magnificent animals, among these a prize bull of
Flemish breed. It was said to be very fierce, and on this account had a
ring in its nose. This cruel custom is now, I believe, prohibited here
by the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. On the other
hand, I was glad to find the Vicomte a member of the kindred society in
Paris, and he assured me that he was constantly holding his green card
of membership over offenders _in terrorem_.
We hardly expect a rich aristocrat to make utility the first object in
his agricultural pursuits. High farming was nevertheless here the order
of the day.
We next drove to Clairmarais, a village some miles off in quite another
direction, coming in sight of magnificent forests. Our errand was to
the ancient Cistercian abbey, now the property of a capitalist, and
turned into the business premises of his large farm. Of the original
monastery, founded in 1140, hardly a trace remains. Abutting on the
outer wall is the chapel, and before it a small enclosed flower-garden
full of wallflowers and flowering shrubs, a bit of prettiness welcome to
the eye. Just beyond, too, was an old-fashioned, irregularly planted
orchard, with young cattle grazing under the bloom-laden trees, the turf
dazzlingly bright, but less so than the young corn and rye, now ready
for first harvesting.
The vaulted kitchens with vast fireplaces are relics of the ancient
abbey, and even now form most picturesque interiors. At a long wooden
table in one sat a blue-bloused group drinking cider out of huge yellow
mugs--scene for a painter. Another, fitted up as a dairy, was hardly
less of a picture. On shelves in the dark, antiquated chamber lay large,
red-earthen pans full of cream for cheese-making. The brown-robed figure
of a lay brother would have seemed appropriate in either place.