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Bravo (search for this): chapter 12
eads. The bust was imposing, and the smile was kindly and genial,--a smile such as one seldom sees attributed to Voltaire. The first speaker, M. Spuller, was a fine-looking man, large, fair, and of rather English bearing; he rested one hand on the table, and made the other hand do duty for two, and I might almost say for a dozen, after the manner of his race. Speaking without notes, he explained the plan of the celebration, and did it so well that sentence after sentence was received with Bravo! or Admirable! or Oh-h-h! in a sort of profound literary enjoyment. These plaudits were greater still in case of the next speaker, M. Emile Deschanel, the author of a book on Aristophanes, and well known as a politician. He also was a large man of distinguished bearing. In his speech he drew a parallel between the careers of Victor Hugo and Voltaire, but dwelt especially upon that of the latter. One of the most skillful portions of the address touched on that dangerous ground, Volt
Demosthenes (search for this): chapter 12
X. Literary Paris twenty years ago I reached Paris, from London, on the morning of May 30, 1878, arriving just in time for admission to the Theatre des Folies Dramatiques, where the Voltaire centenary celebration was to be held that day, with Victor Hugo for the orator. As I drove up, the surrounding streets were full of people going toward the theatre; while the other streets were so empty as to recall that fine passage in Landor's Imaginary conversations where Demosthenes describes the depopulation of all other spots in Athens except that where he is speaking to the people. The neighborhood of the theatre was placarded with announcements stating that every seat was sold; and it was not until I had explained to a policeman that I was an American who had crossed from London expressly for this celebration, that he left his post and hunted up a speculator from whom I could buy seats. They were twin seats, which I shared with a young Frenchman, who led me in through a crowd so g
Julia Ward Howe (search for this): chapter 12
showing at another assemblage, where we should have been represented by a far larger and abler body of delegates. This was the Association Litteraire Internationale, which was appointed to assemble under the presidency of Victor Hugo, on June 11. I had gone to a few of the committee meetings at the rooms of the Societe des Gens de Lettres, and, after my wonted fashion, had made an effort to have women admitted to the Association Litteraire; this attempt having especial reference to Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, who was then in Paris, and whose unusual command of the French language would have made her a much better delegate than most of the actual American representatives. In this effort I failed, although my judgment was afterwards vindicated when she gave great delight by a speech in French at a women's convention, where I heard her introduced by the courteous and delicately articulating chairman as Meesses Ouardow. As to the more literary gathering, the early meetings were as indeter
Adolphe Belot (search for this): chapter 12
well-known fellow countryman Hans Breitmann (Charles Godfrey Leland), who did not know that there was to be an American delegation, and was naturally claimed by the citizens of both his homes. Edmond About presided, a cheery, middle-aged Frenchman, short and square, with broad head and grayish beard; and I have often regretted that I took no list of the others of his nationality, since it would have doubtless included many who have since become known to fame. It is my impression that Adolphe Belot, Jules Claretie, and Hector Malot were there, and I am inclined to think that Max Nordau also was present. The discussions were in French, and therefore of course animated; but they turned at first on unimportant subjects, and the whole thing would have been rather a disappointment to me — since Victor Hugo's opening address was to be postponed — had it not been rumored about that Tourgueneff was a delegate to the convention. Wishing more to see him than to behold any living Frenchma
M. Marcou (search for this): chapter 12
French Revolution was played by the band, the Chant du Depart, and this was received with almost equal ecstasy, and was indeed fine and stirring. There was also music of Rousseau's own composition, the first I had ever heard, and unexpectedly good. This was finely sung by two vocalists from the Theatre Lyrique, and I was told that they were risking their appointments at that theatre by singing in an assembly so radical. The speaking was eloquent and impressive, being by Louis Blanc, M. Marcou, and M. Hamel. All read their speeches, yet each so gesticulated with the hand and accompanied the action with the whole movement of the body that it seemed less like reading than like conversation. The orators were not so distinguished as at the Voltaire celebration, yet it was impossible to see and hear Louis Blanc without liking and trusting him, while he escaped wholly from that air of posing which was almost inseparable from Victor Hugo, and was, perhaps, made inevitable by the pede
Thomas Carlyle (search for this): chapter 12
r missed a word, even when he was not addressing me. His small size and endless vivacity made him look like a French Tom Moore. He told many stories about the revolution,--one of an occasion where flags were to be presented by the provincial government to the regiments, and he was assigned to the very tallest colonel, a giant in size, who at once lifted Louis Blanc in his arms and hugged him to his breast. The narrator acted this all out inimitably, and told other stories, at one of which Carlyle had once laughed so that he threw himself down and rolled on the floor, and Louis Blanc very nearly acted this out, also. He seemed wonderfully gentle and sweet for one who had lived through so much; and confirmed, without bitterness, the report I had heard that he had never fully believed in the National Workshops, which failed under his charge in 1848, but that they were put into his hands by a rival who wished them and him to fail. Everything at the meal was simple, as our hosts liv
Louis Blanc (search for this): chapter 12
d during our host's long exile in England. Louis Blanc, the historian, was present, with Mr. and Mof tongues, though the Talandier family and Louis Blanc were at home in both languages. I was deliolonel, a giant in size, who at once lifted Louis Blanc in his arms and hugged him to his breast. w himself down and rolled on the floor, and Louis Blanc very nearly acted this out, also. He seet of the dates. Committee men were busy in Louis Blanc's little parlor, and this as noisily and ea events of Rousseau's life. When at last Louis Blanc came in with others -all towering above himVive l'amnistie! Vive la Republique! Vive Louis Blanc! The demand for amnesty referred to the palauding gust, and then an absolute quiet as Louis Blanc arose. It all brought home to me that braking was eloquent and impressive, being by Louis Blanc, M. Marcou, and M. Hamel. All read their sI found, with my two young companions. Yet Louis Blanc was of all Frenchmen I had ever met the eas[5 more...]
Perry (search for this): chapter 12
e shops, and his name proved wholly unfamiliar. He was about to leave Paris, and I lost the opportunity of further acquaintance. Since then his fame has been temporarily obscured by the commanding figure of Tolstoi, but I fancy that it is now beginning to resume its prestige; and certainly there is in his books a more-wholly sympathetic quality than in Tolstoi's, with almost equal power. In his Poems in prose --little known among us, I fear, in spite of the admirable translation made by Mrs. Perry--there is something nearer to the peculiar Hawthornesque quality of imagination than in any other book I know. As to the Association Litteraire Internationale, it had the usual provoking habit of French conventions, and met only at intervals of several days,--as if to give its delegates plenty of leisure to see Paris,--and I could attend no later meeting, although I was placed on the Executive Committee for America; but it has since held regular annual conventions in different capitals
M. Emile Deschanel (search for this): chapter 12
ller, was a fine-looking man, large, fair, and of rather English bearing; he rested one hand on the table, and made the other hand do duty for two, and I might almost say for a dozen, after the manner of his race. Speaking without notes, he explained the plan of the celebration, and did it so well that sentence after sentence was received with Bravo! or Admirable! or Oh-h-h! in a sort of profound literary enjoyment. These plaudits were greater still in case of the next speaker, M. Emile Deschanel, the author of a book on Aristophanes, and well known as a politician. He also was a large man of distinguished bearing. In his speech he drew a parallel between the careers of Victor Hugo and Voltaire, but dwelt especially upon that of the latter. One of the most skillful portions of the address touched on that dangerous ground, Voltaire's outrageous poem of La Pucelle, founded on the career of Jeanne d'arc. M. Deschanel claimed that Voltaire had at least set her before the world
French Tom Moore (search for this): chapter 12
orn in England of French parents, there was some confusion of tongues, though the Talandier family and Louis Blanc were at home in both languages. I was delighted to meet this last-named man, whose career had been familiar to me since the revolution of 1848. He was very short, yet square in person, and not insignificant; his French was clear and unusually deliberate, and I never missed a word, even when he was not addressing me. His small size and endless vivacity made him look like a French Tom Moore. He told many stories about the revolution,--one of an occasion where flags were to be presented by the provincial government to the regiments, and he was assigned to the very tallest colonel, a giant in size, who at once lifted Louis Blanc in his arms and hugged him to his breast. The narrator acted this all out inimitably, and told other stories, at one of which Carlyle had once laughed so that he threw himself down and rolled on the floor, and Louis Blanc very nearly acted this ou
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