Tremendous Trifles

In the Place de La Bastille

On the first of May I was sitting outside a caf in the Place de

la Bastille in Paris staring at the exultant column, crowned with

a capering figure, which stands in the place where the people

destroyed a prison and ended an age. The thing is a curious

example of how symbolic is the great part of human history.

As a matter of mere material fact, the Bastille when it was taken

was not a horrible prison; it was hardly a prison at all.

But it was a symbol, and the people always go by a sure

instinct for symbols; for the c******n, for instance,

at the last General Election, or for President Kruger's hat

in the election before; their poetic sense is perfect.

The c******n with his pigtail is not an idle flippancy.

He does typify with a compact precision exactly the thing

the people resent in African policy, the alien and grotesque

nature of the power of wealth, the fact that money has no roots,

that it is not a natural and familiar power, but a sort of airy

and evil magic calling monsters from the ends of the earth.

The people hate the mine owner who can bring a Chinaman

flying across the sea, exactly as the people hated the wizard

who could fetch a flying dragon through the air. It was the same

with Mr. Kruger's hat. His hat (that admirable hat) was not merely

a joke. It did symbolise, and symbolise extremely well, the exact

thing which our people at that moment regarded with impatience and

venom; the old-fashioned, dingy, Republican simplicity, the

unbeautiful dignity of the bourgeois, and the heavier truisms of

political morality. No; the people are sometimes wrong on the

practical side of politics; they are never wrong on the artistic

side.

. . . . .

So it was, certainly, with the Bastille. The destruction of the Bastille

was not a reform; it was something more important than a reform.

It was an iconoclasm; it was the breaking of a stone image.

The people saw the building like a giant looking at them with

a score of eyes, and they struck at it as at a carved fact.

For of all the shapes in which that immense illusion called materialism

can terrify the soul, perhaps the most oppressive are big buildings.

Man feels like a fly, an accident, in the thing he has himself made.

It requires a violent effort of the spirit to remember that

man made this confounding thing and man could unmake it.

Therefore the mere act of the ragged people in the street

taking and destroying a huge public building has a spiritual,

a ritual meaning far beyond its immediate political results.

It is a religious service. If, for instance, the Socialists were

numerous or courageous enough to capture and smash up the Bank

of England, you might argue for ever about the inutility of the act,

and how it really did not touch the root of the economic problem

in the correct manner. But mankind would never forget it.

It would change the world.

Architecture is a very good test of the true strength

of a society, for the most valuable things in a human

state are the irrevocable things--marriage, for instance.

And architecture approaches nearer than any other art to

being irrevocable, because it is so difficult to get rid of.

You can turn a picture with its face to the wall; it would be a

nuisance to turn that Roman cathedral with its face to the wall.

You can tear a poem to pieces; it is only in moments of

very sincere emotion that you tear a town-hall to pieces.

A building is akin to dogma; it is insolent, like a dogma.

Whether or no it is permanent, it claims permanence like a dogma.

People ask why we have no typical architecture of the modern world,

like impressionism in painting. Surely it is obviously

because we have not enough dogmas; we cannot bear to see

anything in the sky that is solid and enduring, anything in

the sky that does not change like the clouds of the sky.

But along with this decision which is involved in creating a building,

there goes a quite similar decision in the more delightful

task of smashing one. The two of necessity go together.

In few places have so many fine public buildings been set up

as here in Paris, and in few places have so many been destroyed.

When people have finally got into the horrible habit of preserving

buildings, they have got out of the habit of building them.

And in London one mingles, as it were, one's tears because so few

are pulled down.

. . . . .

As I sat staring at the column of the Bastille, inscribed to Liberty

and Glory, there came out of one corner of the square (which, like

so many such squares, was at once crowded and quiet) a sudden and

silent line of horsemen. Their dress was of a dull blue, plain and

prosaic enough, but the sun set on fire the brass and steel of their

helmets; and their helmets were carved like the helmets of the Romans.

I had seen them by twos and threes often enough before.

I had seen plenty of them in pictures toiling through the snows

of Friedland or roaring round the squares at Waterloo.

But now they came file after file, like an invasion,

and something in their numbers, or in the evening light that lit

up their faces and their crests, or something in the reverie

into which they broke, made me inclined to spring to my feet

and cry out, "The French soldiers!" There were the little men

with the brown faces that had so often ridden through the capitals

of Europe as coolly as they now rode through their own.

And when I looked across the square I saw that the two other corners

were choked with blue and red; held by little groups of infantry.

The city was garrisoned as against a revolution.

Of course, I had heard all about the strike, chiefly from a baker.

He said he was not going to "Chomer." I said, "Qu'est-ce que

c'est que le chome?" He said, "Ils ne veulent pas travailler."

I said, "Ni moi non plus," and he thought I was a class-conscious

collectivist proletarian. The whole thing was curious, and the true

moral of it one not easy for us, as a nation, to grasp, because our

own faults are so deeply and dangerously in the other direction.

To me, as an Englishman (personally steeped in the English optimism

and the English dislike of severity), the whole thing seemed a fuss

about nothing. It looked like turning out one of the best armies

in Europe against ordinary people walking about the street.

The cavalry charged us once or twice, more or less harmlessly.

But, of course, it is hard to say how far in such criticisms

one is assuming the French populace to be (what it is not)

as docile as the English. But the deeper truth of the matter tingled,

so to speak, through the whole noisy night. This people has

a natural faculty for feeling itself on the eve of something--of the

Bartholomew or the Revolution or the Commune or the Day of Judgment.

It is this sense of crisis that makes France eternally young.

It is perpetually pulling down and building up, as it pulled down

the prison and put up the column in the Place de La Bastille.

France has always been at the point of dissolution. She has found

the only method of immortality. She dies daily.