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Max Nordau (search for this): chapter 12
at 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 Frenchman, I begged the ever kind secretary, M. Zaccone, to introduce me to him after the adjournme
July 14th, 1789 AD (search for this): chapter 12
e Executive Committee for America; but it has since held regular annual conventions in different capitals, and has doubtless helped the general agitation for better copyright laws. I went again to the apartments of Louis Blanc on July 14, with a young American friend, to get tickets for the Rousseau centenary, which was also to be, after the convenient French habit of combination, a celebration of the capture of the Bastille. Rousseau died July 2, 1778, and the Bastille was taken on July 14, 1789, so that neither date was strictly centennial, but nobody ever minds that in Paris; and if it had been proposed that our Declaration of Independence or the Landing of the Pilgrims should also be included in the festival, there would have been no trouble in any mind on account of the dates. Committee men were busy in Louis Blanc's little parlor, and this as noisily and eagerly as if the Bastille were again to be taken: they talked and gesticulated as only Latin races can; in fact, the sm
ere seemed nothing really incongruous in all this exuberant gayety beneath the windows, while the two veteran radicals — who had very likely taken their share in such amusements while young — were fighting over again their battles of reform. Both now have passed away. Louis Blanc's Ten years still finds readers, and some may remember the political papers written a few years later by Talandier for the International review, published in Boston. By invitation of M. Talandier I spent a day (June 3) at Versailles, where the Chambre des Deputes was then sitting, and discovered in the anteroom, or salle d'attente, that, by a curious rule, foreigners were excluded until four P. M.; yet the name of my host brought me in after a little delay. The hall was full of people waiting, each having to send his card to some member, naming on it the precise hour of arrival. The member usually appeared promptly, when an immense usher called in a stentorian voice for la personne qui a fait demander M
sociation 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, and has doubtless helped the general agitation for better copyright laws. I went again to the apartments of Louis Blanc on July 14, with a young American friend, to get tickets for the Rousseau centenary, which was also to be, after the convenient French habit of combination, a celebration of the capture of the Bastille. Rousseau died July 2, 1778, and the Bastille was taken on July 14, 1789, so that neither date was strictly centennial, but nobody ever minds that in Paris; and if it had been proposed that our Declaration of Independence or the Landing of the Pilgrims should also be included in the festival, there wou
r 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 adugh 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 lived in honorable poverty afte,--it was the old oriflamme, the flag of Jeanne d'arc. The tricolor had represented the three orders of the state, which were united into one by the revolution of 1848, so that the symbol was now meaningless; and the demand for the red flag was resisted only by the bourgeoisie. The red flag, moreover, had always been the summons
May 30th, 1878 AD (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 gr
latter place, to see the high deference yielded by French experts to our American leader, the late Dr. E. C. Wines, and also the familiar knowledge shown by these gentlemen in regard to American methods and experiments. Less satisfactory was our national 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 vind
July 2nd, 1778 AD (search for this): chapter 12
no later meeting, although I was placed on the Executive Committee for America; but it has since held regular annual conventions in different capitals, and has doubtless helped the general agitation for better copyright laws. I went again to the apartments of Louis Blanc on July 14, with a young American friend, to get tickets for the Rousseau centenary, which was also to be, after the convenient French habit of combination, a celebration of the capture of the Bastille. Rousseau died July 2, 1778, and the Bastille was taken on July 14, 1789, so that neither date was strictly centennial, but nobody ever minds that in Paris; and if it had been proposed that our Declaration of Independence or the Landing of the Pilgrims should also be included in the festival, there would have been no trouble in any mind on account of the dates. Committee men were busy in Louis Blanc's little parlor, and this as noisily and eagerly as if the Bastille were again to be taken: they talked and gesticula
and so on. Then he talked about Spain, the Italian republic, and other matters, saying that he had read it all in the school-books of the children and in other books. It was delightful to find a plain Frenchman in a blouse who, although coarse and rough-looking, could talk so intelligently; and his manners also had perfect courtesy. I could not but contrast him with the refined Italian youth who once asked a friend of mine in Florence what became of that young Genoese who sailed westward in 1492 to discover a new continent, and whether he had ever been heard of again. On another day I dined with Louis Blanc in bachelor quarters, with the Talandiers, Conways, and one or two others. He was less gay than before, yet talked much of the condition and prospect of affairs. France, he said, was not a real republic, but a nominal one; having monarchical institutions and traditions, with a constitution well framed to make them perpetual. All the guests at his house seemed alike anxious f
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