A very nationally minded sovereign was this Louis XIV, entirely in the French tradition, and I therefore fail to understand why the French got so out of hand… at the end of the last century, I mean. They had their fun and games and went back to the old tradition; that is the way things are shaping; but eloquence, eloquence, oh – it is a stumbling block for a Parisian. He is ready to forget the past entirely, the whole of it, ready to engage in the most sensible conversations and be a most obedient and diligent little boy, but eloquence, eloquence alone he cannot forget even yet.
He pines and sighs after eloquence, recalls Thiers, Guizot, Odilon Barrot.* “Ah,” he murmurs to himself sometimes, “what eloquence there was then!” and begins to think. Napoleon III realized this, came at once to the conclusion that Jacques Bonhomme must not think and little by little brought back eloquence. Six liberal deputies are kept for this purpose in the legislative assembly, six permanent, immutable, real liberal deputies of the kind, I mean, that probably could not be bribed if one tried.
But all the same there are only six of them – there were six, there are six, and six there always will be. You needn’t worry, there will never be more, but there will never be any fewer either. It looks very cunning at first sight. In practice, however, it is quite simple and done by means of the suffrage universel.* Naturally all appropriate measures are taken to prevent them talking too much. But they are allowed to chatter.
Every year at the requisite time the most important state problems are discussed and the Parisian is blissfully thrilled. He knows there will be eloquence and is pleased. Naturally he knows very well that there will be nothing but eloquence, that there will be words, words, words and that these words will lead to absolutely nothing. But this too pleases him very, very much indeed. And he is the first to find it all extremely sensible.
The speeches of some of these six deputies are particularly popular. And a deputy is always ready to make speeches for the sake of public entertainment. Oddly enough he is quite sure himself that his speeches will lead to nothing, and that the whole thing is but a joke, an innocent game, a masquerade and nothing else, and yet he speaks, speaks for a number of years on end, speaks excellently, and even takes great pleasure in it.
And all the other members who listen to him swoon away with delight. “Wonderful speaker, that man!” – and the President and the whole of France swoon away with delight. The deputy comes to the end of his speech and the tutor of these nice and well-behaved children gets up in his turn.
He solemnly declares that the essay on the set subject – ‘The Sunrise’ – has been excellently prepared and developed by the honourable member. “We have,” he says, “admired the honourable speaker’s talent, his ideas and the admirable conduct these ideas reveal, he has given us all a great deal of pleasure… However, although the honourable member has fully deserved his prize – a book bearing the inscription “For Good Conduct and Progress in Study” – in spite of this, I say, for reasons of a higher order, the honourable member’s speech will not do at all. I hope the right honourable members will agree with me.”
At this point he turns to all the deputies and gives them a stern glance. The deputies, still swooning with delight, immediately break into frantic applause at the tutor’s words, yet at the same time, with touching enthusiasm, they grasp the liberal deputy’s hands and thank him then and there for the pleasure he has given them and beg him to give them his liberal pleasure again next time, with the tutor’s permission.
The tutor graciously permits; the author of ‘The Sunrise’departs, proud of his success; the deputies go back, smacking their lips, to the bosom of their families, and in the evening, give vent to their delight by walking about in the Palais-Royal arm in arm with their spouses and listening to the splash of little fountains, while the tutor, after submitting a full report to the authority concerned, declares to the whole of France that everything is all right.
Sometimes, however, when some more important business is in hand, the stakes for which the game is played are higher, more important too. Prince Napoleon himself is brought to one of the assembly’s sittings. Prince Napoleon suddenly begins to act the part of the opposition and quite frightens all these young pupils. A solemn hush descends upon the classroom. Prince Napoleon plays the liberal, the Prince does not agree with the government, he considers that such and such measures should be adopted.
The Prince censures the government, in other words things are being said which (it is assumed) these very same nice children could say if only their tutor were to leave the classroom for one minute. Within reason, of course, even so; besides, the assumption is absurd, because all these nice children are so nicely brought up that they would not so much as budge even if the tutor left them for a whole week.
And so when Prince Napoleon’s speech is over, the tutor gets up and solemnly declares that the essay on the set subject – ‘The Sunrise’ – has been excellently prepared and developed by the honourable speaker. “We have admired the talent, the eloquently expressed ideas and the virtue of the gracious Prince… We are quite prepared to let him have a prize for diligence and progress in his studies, but…” and so forth, in other words all the things that have been said before.
Naturally, the entire form is delighted and breaks into frantic applause, the Prince is taken back home, the virtuous pupils disperse and leave the classroom like the virtuous little goodies they are, and in the evening go out for a walk in the Palais-Royal together with their spouses and listen to the pleasant plash of little fountains etc. etc. etc. In short, order reigns supreme.
We lost our way once in the salle des pas perdus* and instead of a criminal court we stumbled into a court dealing with civil cases.
A curly-headed lawyer in cap and gown was making a speech, scattering pearls of eloquence. The presiding judge, the other judges, the lawyers and the public wallowed in all this with obvious delight. The hush was awe inspiring; we tiptoed in. The case dealt with a legacy; some monks were mixed up in the case. Monks are now constantly mixed up in legal proceedings, mainly dealing with legacies.
The most disgraceful, the most scandalous occurrences are now being brought out into the light of day; but the public keeps silent and is very little scandalized, because monks wield considerable power now, and the bourgeois is very docile. The holy fathers are becoming increasingly convinced of the superiority of a bit of capital over all else, over dreams and similar things, increasingly convinced, in fact, that a little money on the side brings power with it. For what’s in mere eloquence? Eloquence by itself does not suffice nowadays. But there, I personally think, they are slightly mistaken. Of course, a bit of capital is a twice-blessed thing, but eloquence, too, will get you a long way with a Frenchman. The wives generally fall under the spell of the monks – and much more so now than at any other time in the past. There is every hope too that the bourgeois will follow suit.
The case revealed how for years on end the holy fathers had worked cunningly and scientifically (they have evolved a science for this sort of thing), bringing moral pressure to bear on a lovely and very wealthy lady, how they had induced her to live in a convent, and how they had terrorized her there till she became ill and hysterical, and how they had done it all in a calculated and scientifically graduated way.
Finally, having made a sick woman of her and reduced her to imbecility, they persuaded her that to see relatives was a great sin in the sight of the Lord, and little by little they succeeded in keeping away all her relations. “Even her fifteen-year-old niece with a soul as virgin-pure as a newborn babe’s, an angel of purity and innocence, even she dared not enter the cell of her adored aunt, who loved her beyond all else and who, as a result of crafty machinations, could no longer take her in her arms and give her a kiss in her front virginal, where the white angel of innocence had his seat” …And so in the same strain; it was wonderful.
The lawyer making the speech was obviously melting with joy at the thought of being able to speak so well, the president of the court was melting too, and so was the public. The holy fathers lost their battle solely on account of this eloquence. But this does not dishearten them, of course; for each battle lost they win fifteen.
“Who is the lawyer?” I asked
