Kitabı oku: «Personal Sketches of His Own Times, Vol. 2 (of 3)», sayfa 19

In contrast with this scene, I digress to remark that there were few circumstances attending that memorable era which struck me more forcibly than the miserable condition of those groups of fugitives who continued every hour arriving in Paris during the few days immediately succeeding their signal discomfiture at Waterloo. These unfortunate stragglers arrived in parties of two, three, or four, and in a state of utter destitution – most of them without arms, many without shoes, and some almost naked. A great proportion of them were wounded and bandaged: they had scarcely rested at all on their return; in short, I never beheld such pitiable figures.

One of these unfortunate men struck me forcibly one evening as an object of interest and compassion. He was limping along the Boulevard Italien: his destination I knew not; he looked elderly, but had evidently been one of the finest men I ever saw, and attached, I rather think, to the imperial guard. His shoes were worn out; his clothes in rags; scanty hairs were the only covering of his head; one arm was bandaged with a bloody rag, and slung from his neck by a string; his right thigh and leg were also bandaged, and he seemed to move with pain and difficulty, yet proudly.

Figures of a similar description were, it is true, so common during that period, that nobody paid them much attention: this man, however, somehow or other, interested me peculiarly. It was said that he was going to some hospital where he would be taken good care of: but I felt greatly for the old warrior; and crossing the street, put, without saying a word, a dollar into his yellow and trembling hand.

He stopped, looked at me attentively, then at the dollar; and appearing doubtful whether he ought to receive it, said, with an emphatic tone, “Not for charity! pas – pour l’amour de Dieu!”

I saw his pride was kindled, and replied, “No, my friend, in respect to your bravery!” and I was walking away, when I heard his voice exclaiming, “Monsieur, Monsieur!” I turned, and, as he hobbled up to me, he surveyed me in silence from head to foot; then, looking earnestly in my face, he held out his hand with the dollar: “Excuse me, Monsieur,” said he, in a firm and rather proud tone, – “you are an Englishman, and I cannot receive bounty from the enemy of my emperor!”

Good God! thought I, what a man must Napoleon have been! This incident alone affords a key to all his victories.

CAPITULATION OF PARIS

Retirement of the army of Vilette behind the Loire – Occupation of the French capital by the allies – Thoughts on the disposition of the Bourbon government toward Great Britain – Conduct of the allies after their possession of Paris – Infringements of the treaty – Removal of the works of art from the Louvre – Reflections on the injurious result of that measure to the British student —Liberal motive operating on the English administration of that period – Little interludes got up between the French king and the allies – Louis the Eighteenth’s magnanimous letters – Threatened destruction of the Pont de Jena by Marshal Blucher – Heroic resolution of His Most Christian Majesty to perish in the explosion.

The rapid succession of these extraordinary events bore to me the character of some optical delusion, and my mind was settling into a train of reflections on the past and conjectures as to the future, when Fouché surrendered Paris, and gave up France to the discretion of its enemies; at least, on a capitulation, the terms of which were too indefinite to protect the spirit of it. In a few hours after I saw that enthusiastic, nay that half-frantic army of Vilette (in the midst of which I had an opportunity of witnessing a devotion to its chief which no defeat could diminish) on the point of total annihilation. I saw the troops, sad and crestfallen, marching out of Paris to consummate, behind the Loire, the fall of France as a warlike kingdom. With arms still in their hands, with a great park of artillery, and commanded by able generals, yet were they constrained to turn their backs on their metropolis, abandoning it to the “tender mercies” of the Russian Cossacks, whom they had so often conquered.

I saw likewise Fouché, Duke of Otranto (who had with impunity betrayed his patron and his master) betraying, in their turn, his own tools and instruments – signing lists of proscription for the death or exile of those whose ill fortune or worse principle had rendered his dupes; and thus confirming, in my mind, the scepticism as to all public men and measures which had long been growing on me. With all the faults of Napoleon, he never could have merited the superlative ingratitude of those whom he had raised from nothing, and fostered in his bosom, to destroy himself.

The only political point I fancy at present that I can see any certainty in is, that the French nation is not mad enough to engage lightly in a fresh war with England. The highest-flown ultras, even the Jesuits themselves, cannot forget that to the inexhaustible perseverance of the United Kingdom is attributable the present political condition of Europe. – The people of France may not, it is true, owe us much gratitude as to their magnificence or power; but, considering that we transmitted both his present and his late majesty safely from exile here to their exalted station among the potentates of Europe, I do hope, for the honour of our common nature, that the government of that country would not willingly turn the weapons which we put into their hands against ourselves. If they should, however, it is not too much to add, bearing in mind what we have successfully coped with, that their hostility would be as ineffectual as ungrateful. And here I cannot abstain from briefly congratulating my fellow-countrymen on the manly and encouraging exposition of our national power recently put forth by Mr. Canning in the House of Commons. It has been felt by every cabinet in Europe – even to its core. The Holy Alliance has dwindled into insignificance; and Great Britain, under an energetic and liberal-minded administration, re-assumes that influence to which she is justly entitled, as in the first order of European empires.⁵⁰

To return: – The conduct of the allies after their occupation of Paris was undoubtedly strange, to say the least of it; and nothing could be more inconsistent than that of the populace on the return of King Louis. That Paris was betrayed is certain; and that the article of capitulation which provided that “wherever doubts existed, the construction should be in favour of the Parisians,” was not adhered to, is equally so. It was never in contemplation, for instance, that the capital was to be rifled of the monuments of art and antiquity, whereof she had become possessed by right of conquest. If such a right exists, it should be respected: if it does not exist, there have not been a more illegal body of depredators in the universe than ourselves. A reclamation of the great mortar in St. James’s Park, or of the throne of the king of Ceylon, would have just as much appearance of fairness as that of Apollo by the Pope, and Venus by the Grand Duke of Tuscany. What preposterous affectation of justice was there in employing British engineers to take down the brazen horses of Alexander the Great, in order that they may be re-erected in St. Mark’s Place at Venice, – a city to which the Austrian emperor has no more equitable a claim than we have to Vienna! I always was, and still remain to be, decidedly of opinion that, by giving our aid in emptying the Louvre, we authorised not only an act of unfairness to the French, but of impolicy as concerned ourselves; – since by so doing, we have removed beyond the reach of the great majority of British artists and students the finest specimens and models of sculpture and of painting this world has produced. Besides, to send a heathen god to the pope might certainly have been dispensed with.

When this step was first determined on the Prussians began with moderation; they rather smuggled away than openly stole, fourteen paintings only; but no sooner was this rifling purpose generally made known, than the legate of his holiness the pope was all anxiety to have his master’s gods again locked up in the dusty store-rooms of the Vatican! The Parisians now took fire. They remonstrated, and protested against this infringement of the treaty; and a portion of the national guards stoutly declared that they would defend the gallery! But the king loved the pope’s toe better than all the works of art ever achieved; and the German autocrat being also a devoted friend of St. Peter’s (while at the same time he lusted after the “brazen images”), the assenting fiat was given, and the plundering proceeded with the utmost voracity. Wishing, however, to throw the stigma from the shoulders of Catholic monarchs upon those of Protestant soldiers, these wily allies determined that, although England was not to share the spoil, she should bear the trouble and discredit; and therefore the national guards in the Louvre were threatened with a regiment of Scotchmen – which threat produced the desired effect.

Now it may be said, that the “right of conquest” is as strong on one side as on the other, and justifies the reclamation as fully as it did the original capture of these chef-d’œuvres: – to which plausible argument I oppose two words —the treaty! – the treaty! Besides, if the right of conquest is to decide, then I fearlessly advance the claim of Great Britain, who was the principal agent in winning the prize at Waterloo, and had therefore surely a right to wear at least some portion of it; but who nevertheless stood by and sanctioned the injustice, although she affected to have too high a moral sense to participate in it. What will my fellow-countrymen say, when they hear that the liberal motive which served to counterbalance, in the minds of the British ministry of that day, the solid advantages resulting from the retention of the works of art at Paris, was, a jealousy of suffering the French capital to remain “the Athens of Europe?”⁵¹

The farce played off between the French king and the allies was considered supremely ridiculous. The Cossacks bivouacked in the square of the Carousel before his majesty’s windows; and soldiers dried their shirts and trowsers on the iron railings of the palace. This was a nuisance; and for the purpose of abating it, three pieces of ordnance duly loaded, with a gunner and ready-lighted match, were stationed day and night upon the quay, and pointed directly at his majesty’s drawing-room; so that one salvo would have despatched the Most Christian King and all his august family to the genuine Champs Elysées. This was carrying the jest rather too far, and every rational man in Paris was shaking his sides at so shallow a manœuvre, when a new object of derision appeared in shape of a letter purporting to be written by King Louis the XVIIIth, expressing his wish that he was young and active enough (who could doubt his wish to grow young again?) to put himself at the head of his own army, attack his puissant allies, and cut them all to pieces for their duplicity to his loving and beloved subjects.

A copy of this alleged letter was given me by a colonel of the national guards, who said that it was circulated by the highest authority. I still retain it.

“Lettre du Roi au Prince Talleyrand

“Du 22 Juillet, 1815.

“La conduite des armées alliées réduira bientôt mon peuple à s’armer contre elles, comme on a fait en Espagne.

“Plus jeune, je me mettrais à sa tête: – mais, si l’âge et mes infirmités m’en empêchent, je ne veux pas, au moins, paroître conniver à des mesures dont je gémis! je suis résolu, si je ne puis les adoucir, à demander asile au roi d’Espagne.

“Que ceux qui, même après la capture de l’homme à qui ils ont déclaré la guerre, continuent à traiter mon peuple en ennemi, et doivent par conséquent me regarder comme tel, attentent s’ils le veulent à ma liberté! ils en sont les maîtres! j’aime mieux vivre dans ma prison que de rester ici, témoin passif des pleurs de mes enfans.”

But, – to close the scene of his majesty’s gallantry, and anxiety to preserve the capitulation entire. After he had permitted the plunder of the Louvre, a report was circulated that Blucher had determined to send all considerations of the treaty to the d – , and with his soldiers to blow up the Pont de Jena, as the existence of a bridge so named was an insult to the victorious Prussians! This was, it must be admitted, sufficiently in character with Blucher: but some people were so fastidious as to assert that it was in fact only a clap-trap on behalf of his Most Christian Majesty; and true it was, that next day copies of a very dignified and gallant letter from Louis XVIII. were circulated extensively throughout Paris. The purport of this royal epistle was not remonstrance: that would have been merely considered as matter of course: it demanded, that Marshal Blucher should inform his majesty of the precise moment the bridge was to be so blown up, as his majesty (having no power of resistance) was determined to go in person – stand upon the bridge at the time of the explosion, and mount into the air amidst the stones and mortar of this beautiful piece of architecture! No doubt it would have been a sublime termination of so sine cura a reign; and would have done more to immortalise the Bourbon dynasty than any thing they seem at present likely to accomplish!

However, Blucher frustrated that gallant achievement, as he did many others; and declared in reply, that he would not singe a hair of his majesty’s head for the pleasure of blowing up a hundred bridges!⁵²

THE CATACOMBS AND PERE LA CHAISE

The Catacombs of Paris – Ineffective nature of the written description of these as compared with the reality – Author’s descent into them – His speedy return – Contrast presented by the cemetery of Père la Chaise – Tomb of Abelard and Heloise – An English capitalist’s notions of sentiment.

The stupendous catacombs of Paris form perhaps the greatest curiosity of that capital. I have seen many well-written descriptions of this magazine of human fragments, yet on actually visiting it, my sensations of awe, and I may add, of disgust, exceeded my anticipation.

I found myself (after descending to a considerable depth from the light of day) among winding vaults, where, ranged on every side, are the trophies of Death’s universal conquest. Myriads of grim, fleshless, grinning visages seem (even through their eyeless sockets) to stare at the passing mortals who have succeeded them, and ready with long knotted fingers to grasp the living into their own society. On turning away from these hideous objects, my sight was arrested by innumerable white scalpless skulls and mouldering limbs of disjointed skeletons – mingled and misplaced in terrific pyramids; or, as if in architectural mockery of nature, framed into mosaics, or piled into walls and barriers with taste fantastic!

There are men of nerve strong enough to endure the contemplation of such things without shrinking. I participate not in this apathetic mood. Almost at the first step which I took between these ghastly ranks in the deep catacomb d’Enfer, (whereinto I had plunged by a descent of ninety steps,) my spirit no longer remained buoyant: it felt subdued and cowed; my feet reluctantly advanced through the gloomy mazes; and at length a universal thrill of horror crawled along the surface of my skin. It would have been to little purpose to protract this struggle, and force my will to obedience: I therefore, instinctively as it were, made a retrograde movement; I ascended into the world again, more rapidly than I had gone downward, and left my less sensitive and wiser friends to explore at leisure those dreary regions. And never did the sun appear to me more bright; never did I feel his rays more cheering and genial, than as I emerged from the melancholy catacombs, to resume the sight of man and the sensations of existence.

The visitor of Paris will find it both curious and interesting to contrast with these another receptacle for the dead – the cemetery of Père la Chaise. It is strange that there should exist among the same people, in the same city, and almost in the same vicinity, two Golgothas, in their nature so utterly dissimilar and repugnant from each other.

The soft and beautiful features of landscape which characterise Père la Chaise are scarcely describable: so harmoniously are they blended together, – so sacred does the spot appear to quiet contemplation and hopeful repose, – that it seems almost profane to attempt description, or to submit its charms in detail before the reader’s eye. All in fact that I had ever read about it fell, as in the case of the catacombs, (“alike, but ah, how different!”) far short of the reality.

I have wandered whole mornings together over its winding paths and venerable avenues. Here are no “ninety steps” of descent to gloom and horror: on the contrary, a gradual ascent leads to the cemetery of Père la Chaise, and to its enchanting summit, on every side shaded by brilliant evergreens. The straight lofty cypress and spreading cedar uplift themselves around; and the arbutus, exposing its deceptive berries, tenders to the walker at once its shade and fragrance. In lieu of the damp mouldering scent exhaled by three millions of human skeletons, we are presented with the perfumes of jasmines and of myrtles – of violet-beds or variegated flower-plats decked out by the ministering hand of love or duty; – as if benignant Nature had spread her most splendid carpet to cover, conceal, and render alluring even the abode of death, and commemorate the noblest passions and the purest sympathies of mortality.

Whichever way we turn, the labours of art combine with the luxuriance of vegetation to raise in the mind new reflections: marble, in all its varieties of shade and grain, is wrought by the hand of man into numerous bewitching shapes; while one of the most brilliant and cheerful cities in the universe seems to lie, with its wooded boulevards, gilded domes, palaces, gardens, and glittering waters, just beneath our feet. One sepulchre, alone, of a decidedly mournful character, attracted my notice – a large and solid mausoleum, buried amidst gloomy yews and low drooping willows; and this looked only like a patch on the face of loveliness. Père la Chaise presents a solitary instance of the abode of the dead ever interesting me agreeably.

I will not remark on the well-known tomb of Abelard and Eloisa: a hundred pens have anticipated me in most of the observations I should be inclined to make respecting that celebrated couple. The most obvious circumstance in their “sad story” always struck me as being – that he turned priest when he was good for nothing else, and she became “quite correct” when opportunities for the reverse began to slacken. They no doubt were properly qualified to make very respectable saints: but since they took care previously to have their fling, I cannot say much for their morality.

I am not sure that a burial-place similar to Père la Chaise would be admired in England: it is almost of too picturesque and sentimental a character. The humbler orders of the English people are too coarse to appreciate the peculiar feeling such a cemetery is calculated to excite; the higher orders too licentious; the trading classes too avaricious. The plum-holder of the city would very honestly and frankly “d – n all your nonsensical sentiment!” I heard one of these gentlemen, last year, declare that what poets and such-like called sentiment, was neither more nor less than deadly poison to the Protestant religion!

Though there is perhaps as much real refinement in London as in Paris, the French certainly mingle more mind with their vices. Those of the Englishman are merely sensual: those of the French seasoned with intellect. – The Englishman’s the result of instinct– the Frenchman’s of excitement: an Englishman is always, a Frenchman never, in earnest.

Père la Chaise would only remind a cockney of suicide: it sets a Parisian gabbling about the meadows of Elysium. A Paris shopkeeper can descant on the heathen mythology: the cockney talks of heaven from his bible and the pulpit; and if the river Styx should be mentioned, he probably considers it scaffolding at London Bridge.

As to the French ladies, they all fancy that they are saturated with refinement. A very spirited and handsome Frenchwoman told me some time since, with as much gravity as she was susceptible of, that she had more refinement than she knew what to do with, and most ardently wished that she could have the honour of transferring the balance to some of my fair countrywomen, who, she understood, considered it a particular dainty.