PARIS, _January 1st, 1871._
Our forts still, like breakwaters before a coast, keep back the storm
which the Prussians are directing against us. I went out yesterday by
the Vincennes gate to see how matters were looking. In the Bois de
Vincennes there were troops of every description, and a large number of
guns. The usual scenes of camp life were going on, although, owing to
the cold, everyone seemed gloomy and depressed. I confess that if I were
called upon to camp out in this weather under a _tente d'abri_, and only
given some very smoky green wood to keep me warm, I should not be quite
so valorous as I should wish to be. Passing through the Bois, which is
rapidly becoming a treeless waste, I went forward in the direction of
Fontenay. As the Prussian bombs, however, were falling thickly into the
village, I executed a strategical movement to the left, and fell back by
a cross road into Montreuil. In this village several regiments were
installed. It is just behind Fort Rosny, and on the upper portion,
towards the fort, the Prussian shells fell. It is very singular what
little real danger there is to life and limb from a bombardment. Shells
make a hissing noise as they come through the air. Directly this warning
hiss is heard, down everyone throws himself on the ground. The shell
passes over and falls somewhere near, it sinks about two feet into the
hard ground, and then bursts, throwing up great clouds of earth, like a
small mine. The Prussians are unmasking fresh batteries every day, and
approaching nearer and nearer to the forts. Their fire now extends from
behind Le Bourget to the Marne, and at some points reaches to within a
mile of the ramparts. Bondy is little more than a heap of ruins. As for
the forts, we are told that, with the exception of their barracks having
been made untenable, no harm has been done. Standing behind and looking
at the shells falling into them, they certainly do not give one the idea
of places in which anyone would wish to be, unless he were obliged; and
they seemed yesterday to be replying but feebly to the fire of the
enemy. I suppose that the Prussians know their own business, and that
they really intend wholly to destroy Fort Rosny. Before you get this
letter the duel between earth and iron will be decided, so it is useless
my speculating on the result. If Rosny or Nogent fall, there will be
nothing to protect Belleville from a bombardment. Many military sages
imagine that this bombardment is only a prelude to an attack upon Mont
Valérien. About 3,500 metres from that fort there is a very awkward
plateau called La Bergerie. It is somewhat higher than the hill on which
Valérien stands. The Prussians are known to have guns on it in position,
and as Valérien is of granite, if bombarded, the value of granite as a
material for fortifications will be tested.
Since the Prussians have opened fire, there have been numerous councils
of war, and still more numerous proclamations. General Trochu has issued
an appeal to the city to be calm, and not to believe that differences of
opinion exist among the members of the Government. General Clément
Thomas has issued an address to the National Guards, telling them that
the country is going to demand great sacrifices of them. In fact, after
the manner of the Gauls, everybody is addressing everybody. _Toujours
des proclamations et rien que cela_, say the people, who are at last
getting tired of this nonsense. Yesterday there was a great council of
all the generals and commanders. General Trochu, it is said, was in
favour of an attempt to pierce the Prussian lines; the majority being in
favour of a number of small sorties. What will happen no one seems to
know, and I doubt even if our rulers have themselves any very definite
notion. The Ultra journals clamour for a sortie _en masse_, which of
course would result in a stampede _en masse_. One and all the newspapers
either abuse Trochu, or damn him with faint praise. It is so very much a
matter of chance whether a man goes down to posterity as a sage or a
fool, that it is by no means easy to form an opinion as to what will be
the verdict of history on Trochu. If he simply wished to keep the
Prussians out of Paris, and to keep order inside until the provisions
were exhausted, he has succeeded. If he wished to force them to raise
the siege he has failed. His military critics complain that, admitting
he could not do the latter, he ought, by frequent sorties, to have
endeavoured to prevent them sending troops to their covering armies. One
thing is certain, that all his sorties have failed not only in the
result, but in the conception. As a consequence of this, the French
soldiers, who more than any other troops in the world require, in order
to fight well, to have faith in their leader, have lost all confidence
in him.
We have had no pigeon for the last eighteen days, and the anxiety to
obtain news from without is very strong. A few days ago a messenger was
reported to have got through the Prussian lines with news of a French
victory. The next day a Saxon officer was said, with his last breath, to
have confided to his doctor that Frederick Charles had been defeated.
Yesterday Jules Favre told the mayor that there was a report that
Chanzy had gained a victory. Everything now depends upon what Chanzy is
doing, and, for all we know, he may have ceased to exist for the last
week.
A census which has just been made of the population within the lines,
makes the number, exclusive of the Line, Mobiles, and sailors,
2,000,500. No attempt has yet been made to ration the bread, but it is
to be mixed with oats and rice. The mayor of this quarter says that in
this arrondissement--the richest in Paris--he is certain that there is
food for two months. Should very good news come from the provinces, and
it appear that by holding out for two months more the necessity for a
capitulation would be avoided, I think that we should hold on until the
end of February, if we have to eat the soles of our boots. If bad news
comes, we shall not take to this food; but we shall give in when
everything except bread fails, and we shall then consider that our
honour is saved if nothing else is. M. Louis Blanc to-day publishes a
letter to Victor Hugo, in which he tells the Parisians that if they do
capitulate they will gain nothing by it, for the Prussians will neither
allow them to quit Paris, nor, if the war continues, allow food to enter
it.
As yet there are no signs of a real outbreak; and if a successful one
does occur, it will be owing to the weakness of the Government, which
has ample means to repress it. The Parisian press is always adjuring the
working men not to cut either each others' or their neighbours' throats,
and congratulating them on their noble conduct in not having done so.
This sort of praise seems to me little better than an insult. I see no
reason why the working men should be considered to be less patriotic
than others. That they are not satisfied with Trochu, and that they
entertain different political and social opinions to those of the
bourgeoisie, is very possible. Opinions, however, are free, and they
have shown as yet that they are willing to subordinate the expression
of theirs to the exigencies of the national defence. I go a good deal
among them, and while many of them wish for a general system of
rationing, because they think that it will make the provisions last
longer, they have no desire to pillage or to provoke a conflict with the
Government. I regard them myself, in every quality which makes a good
citizen, as infinitely superior to the journalists who lecture them, and
who would do far better to shoulder a musket and to fall into the ranks,
than to waste paper in reviling the Prussians and bragging of their own
heroism. As soldiers, the fault of the working men is that they will not
submit to discipline; but this is more the fault of the Government than
of them. As citizens, no one can complain of them. To talk with one of
them after reading the leading article of a newspaper is a relief. A
French journalist robes himself in his toga, gets upon a pedestal, and
talks unmeaning, unpractical claptrap. A French workman is, perhaps, too
much inclined to regard every one except himself, and some particular
idol which he has set up, as a fool; but he is by no means wanting in
the power to take a plain practical view, both of his own interests, and
those of his country. Since the commencement of the siege, forty-nine
new journals have appeared. Many of them have already ceased to exist,
but counting old and new newspapers, there must at least be sixty
published every day. How they manage to find paper is to me a mystery.
Some of them are printed upon sheets intended for books, others upon
sheets which are so thick that I imagine they were designed to wrap up
sugar and other groceries. Those which were the strongest in favour of
the Empire, are now the strongest in favour of the Republic. Editors and
writers whose dream it was a few months ago to obtain an invitation at
the Tuileries or to the Palais Royal, or to merit by the basest of
flatteries the Legion of Honour, now have become perfect Catos, and
denounce courts and courtiers, Bonapartists and Orleanists. War they
regard as the most wicked of crimes, and they appear entirely to have
forgotten that they welcomed with shouts of ecstacy in July last the
commencement of the triumphal march to Berlin.
_January 2nd._
Yesterday evening, notwithstanding the cold, there were groups on the
Boulevards shouting "_à bas Trochu_." It is understood that henceforward
no military operation is to take place before it has been discussed by a
Council of War, consisting of generals and admirals. As the moment
approaches when we shall, unless relieved, be obliged to capitulate,
everyone is attempting to shift from himself all responsibility. This is
the consequence of the scapegoat system which has so long prevailed in
France. Addresses are published from the commanders outside
congratulating the National Guard who have been under their orders. The
_Vérité_, in alluding to them, asks the following questions:--"Why are
battalions which are accused by General Thomas, their direct superior,
of chronic drunkenness, thus placed upon a pinnacle by real military
men? Why do distinguished generals, unless forced by circumstances,
declare the mere act of passing four or five cold nights in the trenches
heroic? Why is so great a publicity given to such contradictory orders
of the day?"
The _Journal Officiel_ contains a long address to the Parisians. Beyond
the statement that no news had been received since the 14th ult., this
document contains nothing but empty words. Between the lines one may,
perhaps, read a desire to bring before the population the terrible
realities of the situation.
The deaths for the last week amount to 3,280, an increase on the
previous week of 552. I am told that these bills of mortality do not
include those who die in the public hospitals. Small-pox is on the
increase--454 as against 388 the previous week.
Nothing new outside. The bombardment of the eastern forts still
continues. It is, however, becoming more intermittent. Every now and
then it almost ceases, then it breaks out with fresh fury. The Prussians
are supposed to be at work at Chatillon. If they have heavy guns there,
it will go hard with the Fort of Vanves. The rations are becoming in
some of the arrondissements smaller by degrees and beautifully less. In
the 18th (Montmartre) the inhabitants only receive two sous worth of
horse-flesh per diem. The rations are different in each arrondissement,
as the Mayor of each tries to get hold of all he can, and some are more
successful than others. These differences cause great dissatisfaction.
The feeling to-day seems to be that if Trochu wishes to avoid riots, he
must make a sortie very shortly.
The _Gaulois_ says:--
"How sad has been our New Year's-day! Among ourselves we may own it,
although we have bravely supported it, like men of sense, determined to
hold good against bad fortune, and to laugh in the face of misery. It is
hard not to have had the baby brought to our bedside in the morning; not
to have seen him clap his hands with pleasure on receiving some toy; not
to have pressed the hands of those we love best, and not to have
embraced them and been able to say--'The year which has passed has had
its joys and its sorrows, sun and shadow--but what matters it? We have
shared them together. The year which is commencing cannot bring with it
any sorrows that by remaining united we shall not be able to support?'
Most of us breakfasted this morning--the New Year's breakfast, usually
so gay--alone and solitary; a few smoky logs our only companions. There
are sorrows which no philosophy can console. On other days one may
forget them, but on New Year's-day our isolation comes home to us, and,
do what we may, we are sad and silent. Where are they now? What are they
doing now? is the thought which rises in every breast. The father's
thoughts are with his children; he dimly sees before him their rosy
faces, and their mother who is dressing them. How weary, too, must the
long days be for her, separated from her husband. Last year she had
taught the baby to repeat a fable, and she brought him all trembling to
recite it to the father. She, too, trembles like a child. She follows
him with her looks, she whispers to him a word when he hesitates, but so
low that he reads it on her lips, and the father hears nothing. Poor
man! Sorry indeed he would have been to have had it supposed that he had
perceived the mother's trick. He was himself trembling, too, lest the
child should not know his lesson. What a disappointment it would have
been to the mother! For a fortnight before she had taken baby every
night on her knees and said, 'Now begin your fable.' She had taught it
him verse by verse with the patience of an angel, and she had encouraged
him to learn it with many a sugarplum. 'He is beginning to know his
fable,' she said a hundred times to her husband. 'Really,' he answered,
with an air of doubt. The honest fellow was as interested in it as his
wife, and he only appeared to doubt it in order to make her triumph
greater. He knew that baby would know the fable on New Year's morn. You
Prussian beggars, you Prussian scoundrels, you bandits, and you Vandals,
you have taken everything from us; you have ruined us; you are starving
us; you are bombarding us; and we have a right to hate you with a royal
hatred. Well, perhaps one day we might have forgiven you your rapine and
your murders; our towns that you have sacked; your heavy yokes; your
infamous treasons. The French race is so light of heart, so kindly, that
we might perhaps in time have forgotten our resentments. What we never
shall forget will be this New Year's Day, which we have been forced to
pass without news from our families. You at least have had letters from
your Gretchens, astounding letters, very likely, in which the melancholy
blends with blue eyes, make a wonderful literary salad, composed of
sour-krout, Berlin wool, forget-me-nots, pillage, bombardment, pure
love, and transcendental philosophy. But you like all this just as you
like jam with your mutton. You have what pleases you. Your ugly faces
receive kisses by the post. But you kill our pigeons, you intercept our
letters, you shoot at our balloons with your absurd _fusils de rempart_,
and you burst out into a heavy German grin when you get hold of one of
our bags, which are carrying to those we love our vows, our hopes, our
remembrance, our regrets, and our hearts. It is a merry farce, is it
not? Ah, if ever we can render you half the sufferings which we are
enduring, you will see _des grises_. Perhaps you don't know what the
word means, and, like one of Gavarni's children, you will say, 'What!
_des grises?_' You will, I trust, one of these days learn what is the
signification of the term at your own cost. One of your absurd
pretensions is to be the only people in the world who understand how to
love, or who care for domestic ties. You will see, by the hatred which
we shall ever bear to you, that we too know how to love--our time will
come some day, be assured. This January 1 of the year 1871 inaugurates a
terrible era of bloody revenge. Poor philosophers of universal peace,
you see now the value of your grand phrases and of your humanitarian
dreams! Vainly you imagined that the world was entering into a period of
everlasting peace and progress. A wonderful progress, indeed, has 1870
brought us! You never calculated on the existence of these Huns. We are
back again now in the midst of all the miseries of the 13th and 14th
centuries. The memory of to-day will be written on the hearts of our
children. 'It was the year,' they will say, 'when we received no
presents, when we did not kiss our father, because of the Prussians.
They shall pay for it!' Let us hope that the payment will commence this
very day. But if we are still to be vanquished, we will leave to our
children the memory of our wrongs, and the care to avenge them."
The following article is from the _Vérité_:--
"What troubles would not have been spared to our unhappy country if only
it had been told the truth. If only anyone had been courageous enough to
tell us what were our resources when Grammont made his famous
declaration from the tribune, the war would not have taken place. On the
4th of September, many members of the new Government were under no
delusions, but as it was necessary to say that we were strong, in order
to be popular, they did not hesitate to proclaim that the Republic would
save France. To-day the situation has not changed. On the faith of the
assertions of their rulers, the population of Paris imagines that
ultimate victory is certain, and that our provisions can never be
exhausted. They have no idea that if we are not succoured we must
eventually succumb. What a surprise--and perhaps what a catastrophe--it
will be when they learn that there is no more bread, and no chance of
victory. The people will complain that they have been deceived, and they
will be right. They will shout 'treason,' and seek for vengeance. Will
they be entirely in the wrong? If the Government defends itself, what
future awaits us! If it does not defend itself, through what scenes
shall we pass before falling into the hands of the Prussians! The
Republic, like the Empire, has made mendacity the great system of
government. The Press has chosen to follow the same course. Great
efforts are being made to destroy the reciprocal sentiments of union and
confidence, to which we owe it that Paris still resists, after 100 days
of siege. The enemy, despairing to deliver over Paris to Germany, as it
had solemnly promised, on Christmas, adds now the bombardment of our
advanced posts and our forts to the other means of intimidation by which
it has endeavoured to enervate the defence. Use is being made, before
public opinion, of the deceptions which an extraordinary winter and
infinite sufferings and fatigues are causing us. It is said, indeed,
that the members of the Government are divided in their views respecting
the great interests the direction of which has been confided to them.
The army has suffered great trials, and it required a short repose,
which the enemy endeavours to dispute by a bombardment more violent than
any troops were ever exposed to. The army is preparing for action with
the aid of the National Guards, and all together we shall do our duty. I
declare that there are no differences in the councils of the Government,
and that we are all closely united in the presence of the agonies and
the perils of the country, and in the thought and the hope of its
deliverance."
_La Patrie_, of Jan. 2, says:--
"Perhaps Bourbaki has gone to meet General von Werder. If he is
victorious, the road to Paris by the valley of the Seine will be open to
him, or the road to Southern Germany by Besançon and Belfort, and the
bridge of Bâle, the neutrality of which we are not obliged to respect
any more than that of Belgium, since Europe has allowed Bismarck to
violate that of Luxemburg. Ah! if Bourbaki were a Tortensen, a Wrangel,
or a Turenne--perhaps he is--what a grand campaign we might have in a
few weeks on the Danube, the Lech, and the Saar."
The _Liberté_, of Jan. 2, says:--
"A great manifestation is being organised against the Government. The
object is to substitute in its place the college of Mayors of Paris and
their adjuncts. The manifestation, if it occurs, will not get further
than the Boulevards. General Trochu is in no fear from Mayor Mothe, but
he must understand that the moment for action has arrived. His
proclamation has only imperfectly replied to the apprehensions of Paris.
A capitulation, the very idea of which the Government recoils from, and
which would only become possible when cold, hunger, and a bombardment
have made further resistance impossible, besieges the minds of all, and
presses all the hearts which beat for a resistance _à outrance_ in a
vice of steel. Trochu should reply to these agonies no longer by
proclamations, but by acts."
_January 4th._
It is said, I know not with what truth, that there always are, on an
average, 5000 families who are in destitute circumstances, because their
chiefs never would play out their trumps at whist until it became too
late to use them effectively. If Trochu really was under the impression
that he had trumps in his hand good enough to enable him to win the game
he is playing against the Prussians, he has kept them back so long that
they are worthless. If he could not break through the Prussian lines a
month ago, _à fortiori_, he will not be able to do so now. They are
stronger, and he is weaker; for the inaction of the last few weeks, and
the surrender of Avron, would have been enough to damp the ardour of far
more veteran troops than those which he has under his command. The
outcry against this excellent but vain man grows stronger every day, and
sorry, indeed, must he be that he "rushed in where others feared to
tread." "Action, speedy action," shout the newspapers, much as the
Americans did before Bull's Run, or as M. Felix Pyat always calls it,
Run Bull. The generals well know that if they yield to the cry, there
will most assuredly be a French edition of that battle. In fact, the
situation may be summed up in a very few words. The generals have no
faith in their troops, and the troops have no faith in their generals.
Go outside the walls and talk to the officers and the soldiers who are
doing the real fighting, and who pass the day dodging shells, and the
night freezing in their tents. They tell you that they are prepared to
do their duty, but that they are doubtful of ultimate success. Come
inside, and talk to some hero who has never yet got beyond the ramparts,
Cato at Utica is a joke to him, Palafox at Saragossa a whining coward.
Since the forts have been bombarded, he has persuaded himself that he is
eating, drinking, and sleeping under the fire of the enemy. "Human
nature is a rum 'un," said Mr. Richard Swiveller; and most assuredly
this is true of French nature. That real civil courage and spirit of
self-sacrifice which the Parisians have shown, in submitting to hardship
and ruin rather than consent to the dismemberment of their country, they
regard as no title to respect. Nothing which does not strike the
imagination has any value in their eyes. A uniform does not make a
soldier; and although they have all arrayed themselves in uniform, they
are far worse soldiers than the peasantry who have been enrolled in the
Mobiles. To tell them this, however, would make them highly indignant.
Military glory is their passion, and it is an unfortunate one. To admire
the pomp and pride of glorious war no more makes a warrior than to
admire poetry makes a poet. The Parisian is not a coward; but his
individuality is so strongly developed that he objects to that
individuality being destroyed by some stray shot. To die with thousands
looking on is one thing; to die obscurely is another. French courage is
not the same as that of the many branches of the great Saxon family. A
Saxon has a dogged stubbornness which gives him an every-day and
every-hour courage. That of the Frenchman is more dependent upon
external circumstances. He must have confidence in his leader, he must
have been encouraged by success, and he must be treated with severity
tempered with judicious flattery. Give him a sword, and let him prance
about on a horse like a circus rider, and, provided there are a
sufficient number of spectators, he will do wonders, but he will not
consent to perish obscurely for the sake of anything or anyone. Trochu
has utterly failed in exciting enthusiasm in those under his command; he
issues many proclamations, but they fail to strike the right chord.
Instead of keeping up discipline by judicious severity, he endeavours to
do so by lecturing like a schoolmaster. And then, since the commencement
of the siege he has been unsuccessful in all his offensive movements. I
am not a military man, but although I can understand the reasons against
a sortie _en masse_, it does appear to me strange that the Prussians are
not more frequently disquieted by attacks which at least would oblige
them to make many a weary march round the outer circle, and would
prevent them from detaching troops for service elsewhere.
Not an hour passes without some new rumour respecting the armies of the
Provinces being put in circulation. A letter in which General Chanzy is
said to be playing with Frederick Charles as a cat plays with a mouse,
and which is attributed to Mr. Odo Russell, English Under-Secretary of
State, and Correspondent of the _Times_, has been read by some one, and
this morning all the newspapers are jubilant over it. A copy of the
_Moniteur de Versailles_ of the 1st has found its way in; there is
nothing in it about Frederick Charles, but this we consider evidence
that he has sustained a defeat. Then somebody has found a bottle in the
Seine with a letter in it; this letter alludes to a great French
victory. Mr. Washburne has the English papers up to the 22nd, but he
keeps grim guard over them, and allows no one to have a glimpse of them;
since our worthy friend Otto von Bismarck sent in to him an extract from
a letter of mine, in which I alluded to the contents of some of them
which had reached us. He passes his existence, however, staving off
insidious questions. His very looks are commented on. "We saw him
to-day," says an evening paper I have just bought; "he smiled! Good
sign! Our victory must have been overwhelming if John Bull is obliged to
confess it." Another newspaper asks him whether, considering the
circumstances, he does not consider it a duty to violate his promise to
Count Bismarck, and to hand over his newspapers to the Government. In
this way, thinks this tempter, the debt which America owes to France for
aiding her during her revolution will be repaid. "We gave you Lafayette
and Rochambeau, in return we only ask for one copy of an English paper."
The anxiety for news is weighing heavier on the population than the
absence of provisions or the cold. Every day, and all day, there are
crowds standing upon the elevated points in the city, peering through
glasses, in the wild hope of witnessing the advent of Chanzy, who is
apparently expected to prick in with Faidherbe by his side, each upon a
gorgeously caparisoned steed, like the heroes in the romances of the
late Mr. G.P.R. James. Many pretend to distinguish, above the noise of
the cannon of our forts and the Prussian batteries, the echoes of
distant artillery, and rush off to announce to their friends that the
army of succour has fallen on the besiegers from the rear. In the
meantime the bombardment of the forts and villages to the east of the
city is continuing, and with that passion for system in everything which
distinguishes the Germans, it is being methodized. A fixed number of
shells are fired off every minute, and at certain hours in the day there
are long pauses. What is happening in the forts is, of course, kept very
secret. The official bulletins say that no damage in them has yet been
done. As for the villages round them, they are, I presume, shelled
merely in order to make them untenable.
The Government appears now as anxious to find others to share
responsibility with it as heretofore it has been averse to any division
of power. The Mayors of the city are to meet with their deputies once a
week at the Hôtel de Ville to express their opinions respecting
municipal matters, and once a week at the Ministry of the Interior to
discuss the political situation. As there are twenty mayors and forty
adjuncts, they, when together, are almost numerous enough to form a
species of Parliament. The all important food question remains _in statu
quo_. It is, however, beginning to be hinted in semi-official organs,
that perhaps the bread will have to be rationed; I may be wrong, but I
am inclined to think that the population will not submit to this.
Government makes no statement with respect to the amount of corn in
store. Some say that there is not enough for two weeks, others that
there is enough for two months' consumption; M. Dorien assured a friend
of mine yesterday that, to the best of his belief, there is enough to
carry us into March. Landlords and tenants are as much at loggerheads
here as they are in Ireland; the Government has issued three decrees to
regulate the question. By the first is suspended all judicial
proceedings on the part of landlords for their rent; by the second, it
granted a delay of three months to all persons unable to pay the October
term; by the third, it required all those who wished to profit by the
second to make a declaration of inability to pay before a magistrate.
To-day a fourth decree has been issued, again suspending the October
term, and making the three previous decrees applicable to the January
term, but giving to landlords a right to dispute the truth of the
allegation of poverty on the part of their tenants; the question is a
very serious one, for on the payment of rent depends directly or
indirectly the means of livelihood of half the nation. Thus the
landlords say that if the tenants do not pay them they cannot pay the
interest of the mortgages on their properties. If this interest be not
paid, however, the shareholders of the Crédit Foncier and other great
mortgage banks get nothing. Paris, under the fostering care of the
Emperor, had become, next to St. Petersburgh, the dearest capital in
Europe. Its property was artificial, and was dependent upon a long chain
of connecting links remaining unbroken. In the industrial quarters money
was made by the manufacture of _Articles de Paris_, and for these, as
soon as the communications are reopened, there will be the same market
as heretofore. As a city of pleasure, however, its prosperity must
depend, like a huge watering-place, upon its being able to attract
strangers. If they do not return, a reduction in prices will take place,
which will ruin most of the shopkeepers, proprietors of houses, and
hotel keepers; but this, although unpleasant to individuals, would be to
the advantage of the world at large. Extravagance in Paris makes
extravagance the fashion everywhere; under the Empire, to spend money
was the readiest road to social distinction. The old _bourgeoisie_ still
retained the careful habits of the days of Louis Philippe, and made
fortunes by cheeseparing. Imperial Paris was far above this. Families
were obliged to spend 20 per cent, of their incomes in order to lodge
themselves; shops in favoured quarters were let for fabulous prices, and
charged fabulous prices for their wares. _Cocodettes_ of the Court,
_cocottes_ of the Bois, wives of speculators, shoddy squaws from New
York, Calmues recently imported from their native steppes, doubtful
Italian Princesses, gushing Polish Countesses, and foolish Englishwomen,
merrily raced along the road to ruin. Good taste was lost in tinsel and
glitter; what a thing cost was the only standard of its beauty. Great
gingerbread palaces were everywhere run up, and let even before they
were out of the builder's hands. It was deemed fashionable to drive
about in a carriage with four horses, with perhaps a black man to drive,
and an Arab sitting on the box by his side. Dresses by milliners in
vogue gave a ready currency to their wearers. The Raphael of his trade
gave himself all the airs of a distinguished artist; he received his
clients with vulgar condescension, and they--no matter what their
rank--submitted to his insolence in the hope that he would enable them
to outshine their rivals. Ambassadors' wives and Court ladies used to go
to take tea with the fellow, and dispute the honour of filling his cup
or putting sugar into it. I once went into his shop--a sort of
drawing-room hung round with dresses; I found him lolling on a chair,
his legs crossed before the fire. Around him were a bevy of women, some
pretty, some ugly, listening to his observations with the rapt attention
of the disciples of a sage. He called them up before him like school
girls, and after inspecting them, praised or blamed their dresses. One,
a pretty young girl, found favour in his eyes, and he told her that he
must dream and meditate several days over her, in order to find the
inspiration to make a gown worthy of her. "Why do you wear these ugly
gloves?" he said to another, "never let me see you in gloves of that
colour again." She was a very grand lady, but she slipped off her
gloves, and put them in her pocket with a guilty look. When there was
going to be a ball at Court, ladies used to go down on their knees to
him to make them beautiful. For some time he declined to dress any
longer the wife of a great Imperial dignitary who had not been
sufficiently humble towards him; she came to him in tears, but he was
obdurate, and he only consented at last to make a gown for her on
condition that she would put it on for the first time in his shop. The
Empress, who dealt with him, sent to tell him that if he did not abate
his prices she would leave him. "You cannot," he replied, and in fact
she could not, for she stood by him to the last. A morning dress by this
artist, worth in reality about 4l., cost 30l.; an evening dress, tawdry
with flounces, ribbons, and bad lace could not be had under 70. There
are about thirty shops in Paris where, as at this man-milliner's, the
goods are not better than elsewhere, but where they cost about ten
times their value. They are patronised by fools with more money than
wits, and chiefly by foreign fools. The proprietor of one of these
establishments was complaining to me the other day of what he was losing
by the siege; I told him that I sympathised with him about as much as I
should with a Greek brigand, bewailing a falling off of wealthy
strangers in the district where he was in the habit of carrying on his
commercial operations. Whenever the communications are again open to
Paris, and English return to it, I would give them this piece of
advice--never deal where _ici on parle Anglais_ is written up; it means
_ici on vole les Anglais_. The only tradesmen in Paris who are making a
good thing out of their country's misfortunes are the liquor sellers and
the grocers; their stores seem inexhaustible, but they are sold at
famine prices. "I who speak to you, I owe myself to my country. There is
no sacrifice I would not make rather than capitulate to those Huns,
those Vandals," said a grocer to me, with a most sand-the-sugar face,
this morning, as he pocketed about ten times the value of a
trifle--candles, in fact, which have risen twenty-five per cent. in the
last two days--and folding his arms, scowled from under his kepi into
futurity, with stern but vacuous resolution.
_January 6th._
I have just returned from Point-du-Jour, where I went with Mr. Frank
Lawley in order to see myself what truth there was in the announcement
that we were being bombarded. Point-du-Jour is the point where the Seine
issues from Paris. The circular railroad passes over the river here on a
high brick viaduct, which makes a species of fortification. The hills
outside the city form a sort of amphitheatre, in which are situated the
towns of Sèvres and Meudon. To the right of the river is Mont Valérien
and the batteries in the Bois de Boulogne; to the left the Fort of
Issy. The noise of the cannonade was very loud; but very little could be
seen, owing to the sun shining on the hills outside. Speculators,
however, with telescopes, were offering to show the Prussian
artillerymen for one sou--one of them offered to let me see a general
for two sous. When I got within about half a mile of the ramparts I
began to hear the whistling of the shells. Here the sightseers were not
so numerous. Whenever a shell was heard, there was a rush behind walls
and houses. Some people threw themselves down, others seemed to imagine
that the smallest tree would protect them, and congregated behind the
thinnest saplings. Boys were running about picking up pieces of shells,
and offering them for sale. Women were standing at their doors, and
peeping their heads out: "Brigands, bandits, they dare to bombard us;
wait till to-morrow, we will make them rue it." This, and expressions of
a similar nature, was the tone of the small talk. My own impression is,
that the Prussians were firing at the ramparts, and that, as often
occurs, their projectiles overshot the mark. I did not see anyone either
killed or wounded, and it seems to me that the most astonishing thing in
a bombardment is the little damage it does to life and limb. I saw a bit
of iron cut away a branch from one of the trees, and one shell I saw
burst on the road by the river. In 15 minutes we counted 11 shells
whizzing through the air, over our heads, which fell I presume somewhere
behind us. The newspaper which I have just bought, I see, says that two
shells have fallen close by the Invalides, and that they have been
coming in pretty thickly all along the zone near the southern ramparts.
This may or may not be the case. Like Herodotus in Egypt, I make a
distinction between what I am told and what I see, and only guarantee
the authenticity of the latter. The only house which as far as I could
perceive had been struck was a small one. A chimney-stack had been
knocked over; an old lady who inhabited it pointed this out to me. She
seemed to be under the impression that this was the result of design,
and plaintively asked me what she had done to "William" and to Bismarck
that they should knock over her chimney. On the ramparts no damage
seemed to have been done. The National Guard on duty were in the
casemates. The noise, however, was tremendous. Issy, Valérien, the guns
of the bastions and those of the cannon-boats were firing as hard as
they could, and the Prussian batteries were returning their fire with a
will. After the sun went down the dark hills opposite were lit up with
the flashes of light which issued every second from the batteries.
The Government has issued a proclamation; in it is announced that we are
to be relieved by the Army of the North. Another proclamation has been
posted, purporting to proceed from the "delegates of the twenty
arrondissements," calling upon the population to turn out Trochu. It has
attracted little notice. Several mayors, too, it is reported, have
threatened to resign unless more energetic counsels prevail in high
places. Frenchmen, however, as one of their statesmen said, cannot grasp
two ideas at a time, and for to-day at least the bombardment is the
all-absorbing idea. Whether Frederick Charles has been really defeated I
do not know, but we are all assured that he has been. Paris journals
state that he has been wounded, and that 45,000 of his army have
surrendered. It is asserted, too, that the prisoners who were taken
yesterday admit that one of their armies has had a very serious reverse.
The bombardment of the forts still continues, and it has extended to the
southern ones. With respect to its effect, I will say nothing, lest I be
accused of giving aid and comfort to the enemy. _La Vérité_ of yesterday
already calls upon the Government to open and either suppress or
expurgate the letters of English correspondents.
The vin ordinaire is giving out. It has already risen nearly 60 per
cent. in price. This is a very serious thing for the poor, who not only
drink it, but warm it and make with bread a soup out of it. Yesterday, I
had a slice of Pollux for dinner. Pollux and his brother Castor are two
elephants, which have been killed. It was tough, coarse, and oily, and I
do not recommend English families to eat elephant as long as they can
get beef or mutton. Many of the restaurants are closed owing to want of
fuel. They are recommended to use lamps; but although French cooks can
do wonders with very poor materials, when they are called upon to cook
an elephant with a spirit lamp the thing is almost beyond their
ingenuity. Castor and Pollux's trunks sold for 45fr. a lb.; the other
parts of the interesting twins fetched about 10fr. a lb. It is a good
deal warmer to-day, and has been thawing in the sun; if the cold and the
siege had continued much longer, the Prussians would have found us all
in bed. It is a far easier thing to cut down a tree than to make it
burn. Proverbs are not always true; and I have found to my bitter
experience of late that the proverb that "there is no smoke without a
fire" is untrue. The Tupper who made it never tried to burn green wood.