A French Folly
—It is interesting to note that while day after day " all Paris ” crowds the alleys of the Trocadéro for a view of the Eiffel Tower, the more thoughtful few see in it only a wild freak of engineering skill, and estimate the achievement as of little value. The crowds stare at " the biggest tower on earth,” but the feeling of the best minds is that of M. François Coppée : “ C’est énorme, — ce n’est pas grand.”Clutching the balustrade, I climbed,
Bewildered, stupefied, by height,
As in a web — a web of iron —
A little quivering spider might.
Perhaps it is worth while to listen to the dictum of this distinguished Academician in the verses he has written about the tower, a translation of which I give below. They are an interesting commentary on the work from the standpoint of a man whose judgment is of more value than that of the capricious and sometimes terrible thing which in France is called " the people.”
ON THE EIFFEL TOWER.
At last I’ve seen the enormous tower,
The iron mast, with rigging rude.
Confused, unfinished, and deformed,
The monster ’s hideous, closely viewed.
The iron mast, with rigging rude.
Confused, unfinished, and deformed,
The monster ’s hideous, closely viewed.
Gigantic, without form or grace,
A brazen idol (sans remorse),
The triumph of a brutal fact
And symbol of a useless force.
A brazen idol (sans remorse),
The triumph of a brutal fact
And symbol of a useless force.
This foolish miracle I’ve tried,
This absurd prodigy I know ;
Its endless lengths of winding stair
I’ve mounted, braving vertigo.
This absurd prodigy I know ;
Its endless lengths of winding stair
I’ve mounted, braving vertigo.
And as at last the bird alights,
I made its topmost floors resound
Beneath my stumbling feet, which tripp’d
’ Mid bolts and cables iron-bound.
I made its topmost floors resound
Beneath my stumbling feet, which tripp’d
’ Mid bolts and cables iron-bound.
There I could see, spread out for miles,
Paris, — with towers and dome it lay
Arena’d in its purpling hills, —
And still beyond, far, far away !
Paris, — with towers and dome it lay
Arena’d in its purpling hills, —
And still beyond, far, far away !
But in this yawning gulf, the Town
Nor charm nor terror had ; in brief,
A panorama wrapped in gloom,
A plan of Paris in relief,
Nor charm nor terror had ; in brief,
A panorama wrapped in gloom,
A plan of Paris in relief,
Transforming palace History knows,
Gay quarter, faubourg without joys,
To little playthings, just tossed out
Of a Black-Forest box of toys.
Gay quarter, faubourg without joys,
To little playthings, just tossed out
Of a Black-Forest box of toys.
Yes, our great swarming Paris now
Is commonplace from this high plane :
The Obelisk a needle’s point,
And but a ribbon seems the Seine ;
Is commonplace from this high plane :
The Obelisk a needle’s point,
And but a ribbon seems the Seine ;
And one is sad at heart to view,
Low-leveled, from this spot mid-air,
The Are de Triomphe and Notre Dame,
Alas! our glory and our prayer.
Low-leveled, from this spot mid-air,
The Are de Triomphe and Notre Dame,
Alas! our glory and our prayer.
What use to climb from point to point ?
Of this vast world 1 cannot see
More than my little hit of earth,
And heaven is never nearer me.
Of this vast world 1 cannot see
More than my little hit of earth,
And heaven is never nearer me.
The tower of Babel build again ?
Why, children of our Gaul, so proud?
Mont Blanc, in dreaming of your tower,
But shrugs his shoulders, bathed in cloud.
Why, children of our Gaul, so proud?
Mont Blanc, in dreaming of your tower,
But shrugs his shoulders, bathed in cloud.
Well, let our masters run to find
Some artist, ignorant, second-rate.
This tower three hundred metres high
Is overgrown, — it is not great.
Some artist, ignorant, second-rate.
This tower three hundred metres high
Is overgrown, — it is not great.
O Middle Age ! O Renaissance !
O those good workers of the Past!
Days of a genial innocence,
Art for art’s sake, first thought, and last;
O those good workers of the Past!
Days of a genial innocence,
Art for art’s sake, first thought, and last;
When, burning with a simple faith,
For twenty years the sculptor wrought
His cunning work on one ogive,
Which no stray sunbeam ever caught;
For twenty years the sculptor wrought
His cunning work on one ogive,
Which no stray sunbeam ever caught;
When, fired by all that’s great in art,
The king adorned his donjon-hall
With marble chiseled by Goujon,
To shelter swallows on the wall !
The king adorned his donjon-hall
With marble chiseled by Goujon,
To shelter swallows on the wall !
O older centuries of art!
What shame, to show our Iron cage
And awestruck bumpkins to the crowd —
The hundred peoples of our age !
What shame, to show our Iron cage
And awestruck bumpkins to the crowd —
The hundred peoples of our age !
But, spite of failure sad to see,
Our genius has not cried retreat,
And laurels on our brows conceal
The bitter wrinkles of defeat.
Our genius has not cried retreat,
And laurels on our brows conceal
The bitter wrinkles of defeat.
That Europe, who stands jeering by,
Should be eclipsed by something tall,
— For this ferraille we only pay
Our twenty million, — that is all !
Should be eclipsed by something tall,
— For this ferraille we only pay
Our twenty million, — that is all !
A masterpiece is worth still more;
Although, no doubt, the workman said
This task was just as good for him,
And, singing, gained his daily bread.
Although, no doubt, the workman said
This task was just as good for him,
And, singing, gained his daily bread.
No. Out on struggles for ideals,
On tourneys waged in beauty’s part!
Markets and stations let us build.
The future themes, the newer art.
On tourneys waged in beauty’s part!
Markets and stations let us build.
The future themes, the newer art.
Long-drawn, as speech by deputy
Or minister, our tower won’t fail,
At a fixed price,” to welcome all
Who buy the welcome, — 't is for sale.
Or minister, our tower won’t fail,
At a fixed price,” to welcome all
Who buy the welcome, — 't is for sale.
For here ’s at last the end, the aim,
The underlying thought, the true
Reason for being, of the fane :
“ Admission to the top, cent sous.”
The underlying thought, the true
Reason for being, of the fane :
“ Admission to the top, cent sous.”
The idler, looking from below,
Its hundred stories fail to awe.
He, sneering at the monster, asks,
What earthly use can this serve for?
Its hundred stories fail to awe.
He, sneering at the monster, asks,
What earthly use can this serve for?
Is Tamerlane without our gates,
And this the vantage-place to taunt
His hosts with knowledge of their ways ?
— Oh, no! This is a restaurant.
And this the vantage-place to taunt
His hosts with knowledge of their ways ?
— Oh, no! This is a restaurant.
Upon these dizzying heights, perhaps,
Better can note the watching seer
The shock of worlds and nebulæ?
Oh, not a bit! There they 'll take beer.
Better can note the watching seer
The shock of worlds and nebulæ?
Oh, not a bit! There they 'll take beer.
Our waning century ’s not too nice ;
We build for pourboires, not for art.
The Eiffel Tower ’s a mere pretext
For gaining money, — that ’s the smart.
We build for pourboires, not for art.
The Eiffel Tower ’s a mere pretext
For gaining money, — that ’s the smart.
Building of decadence, too soon
We 'll read in letters seen afar :
“Here you may drink,” " Here you can dance.”
— Who knows ? perhaps to Ca ira ? —
We 'll read in letters seen afar :
“Here you may drink,” " Here you can dance.”
— Who knows ? perhaps to Ca ira ? —
Thou monstrous work, thou failure great,
Ugly colossus, black and blind,
Great iron tower, a Yankee’s dream,
Thy hideous image haunts my mind.
Ugly colossus, black and blind,
Great iron tower, a Yankee’s dream,
Thy hideous image haunts my mind.
In revery on thy highest plane,
By sad presentiment I hear
The German cannon’s sullen roar
Far eastward, on the French frontier.
By sad presentiment I hear
The German cannon’s sullen roar
Far eastward, on the French frontier.
For on the day when France in arms
Shall cast, with fatal throw, the die,
With bitter tears shall we not look
Where gold and iron wasted lie,
Shall cast, with fatal throw, the die,
With bitter tears shall we not look
Where gold and iron wasted lie,
And curse the Herculean task which placed,
At so much toil, at such a cost,
This foolish mast upon the ship
Of Paris, — Paris tempest-tossed ?
At so much toil, at such a cost,
This foolish mast upon the ship
Of Paris, — Paris tempest-tossed ?
“ Adieu-vat,” our symbolic ship,
The surging wave breaks on thy prow !
The heavens are black, the seas yawn deep.
Oh, towards what reefs now driftest thou ?
The surging wave breaks on thy prow !
The heavens are black, the seas yawn deep.
Oh, towards what reefs now driftest thou ?