ment of the public, but, in truth, is seeking to make money, the distressed expression of the paint-laden faces is really but the reflection of the empty cash-box. Poor fellows why should I complain of them so much, since the failure of their undertakings seems to me a good omen? But I will not pause longer before this very evident frivolous element, whose manifestations, gross and generally devoid of taste, disfigure a noble work. Surprised as I may be that so beautiful a robe should have upon it such ugly parasites, I prefer to turn my eyes from a frivolity which I wish I might regard as superficial to a serious side which has all the evidences of real depth. This serious element I find more or less everywhere among the light and graceful edifices, though ephemeral, of which a multitude cover the vast plains of the Invalides and the Champ des Mars. In the first place, whoever has lived these past few years in Paris, and has shared in its emotions, passions, and frenzies, can but be surprised at seeing so many undertakings brought to completion successfully in the midst of the perpetual agitation of mind. To create a work in which each worker does his share, aided by mutual experience, sympathy, and with opportunity for silence and reflection, is relatively easy, despite all the obstacles which human activity incessantly encounters. But to create in full publicity, face to face with the strife of opposing opinions and of general indifference-that is hard indeed. For that there is needed, not only genius and enthusiasm, but a tenacious will which nothing defeats, an invincible determination. Because of this serious purpose, that of a worker fixed in his object, allowing himself to be distracted for no purpose, however important, -the Exposition of 1900 is to me a precious monument. I use the word precious because everything in life is a symbol, and at the same time a reality. And if, for the people of this country, this determined toil which persists and reaches success through all obstacles is an encouraging proof of national vitality and of the power of self-recovery, it is also, for humanity at large, an image or figure of the great human labors of the future, pushing forward despite the sorrows of the present. Thus considered, this whole Exposition, with all its frivolous or merely ephemeral points of view, puts on, to my eyes, a religious aspect. But the serious tendency of our time strikes me through other signs, numerous and difficult to misunderstand. I recognize it in the conscientiousness revealed in countless details-true witnesses of that fidelity in little things in return for which Christ has promised one day to bestow great things. Pass through these galleries of industry, these samplecases, as it were, of commerce. Here there are marvels of careful toil. The gigantic mass of the whole and the limits of the human power of observation prevent us from doing justice to the ingenuity and minuteness; but how worthy of respect it all is! What serious purpose it demonstrates! And, if we pass from the realm of industry to that of science, how the purpose becomes increasingly evident! Man here gives his whole self absolutely to his toil and is absorbed in it, consecrating to it his best vigor, just as the plant sends its most precious sap to the seed by which it is to be perpetuated. What scrupulous exactness, what solicitude for the truth, what system! I know very well that it is always possible to criticise, and that the creations richest in value are also those in which there remains the most to desire. But I love my age for its serious intention, for the difficulty it finds in satisfying itself in its work, for that tenacious purpose to do well what it does, to leave nothing to chance, and to accept nothing incomplete or imperfect. And these qualities of high rank console me for the apparent superficiality and frivolity. That this age is serious appears, moreover, in its forethought for the future in all the problems it has taken up. Social questions, international questions, educational questions, questions of hygiene, all spring up before us as we pass through the aisles of the Exposition. And with each of these questions, enough in itself to require and employ the patience of a generation, efforts at solution have accumulated. Before each of these mountains barring the road a crowd of laborers is at work cutting and opening up roads. I have often admired the patience of ants busy in reconstructing their ant-hill and repairing the damage made even before sum. the foot of a cruel passer-by which has passionately contested game; everywhere broken it down has been removed. But there is struggling rivalry, unbridled the ant acts without knowledge. It is rushing for superiority. But one need absorbed in the toil of the present; the only to reflect a little in calmness to see weariness of past generations does not all these phases of hostility, all these burden it, nor do future ages trouble it. preparations for war without truce, put on Man, for his part, not alone struggles with an unexpected character; these individual present suffering, but drags the past like works belonging to opposed interests can a chain and ball behind him, and often really be added together into one great the future terrifies him. Despite all this, The total result of these rivalries he marches forward, strives, organizes. is combination; without knowing it or His courage fills me with admiration; his desiring it, these combats end by exercising invincible hope, his living faith, with concentric force. An interest superior to enthusiasm. No! nothing is finer than the individual works itself out through to see a being, weak, laden with burdens, selfish conflicts; and in the creation of weary, surrounded with enemies, but who this independent well-being acquired for never gives up. So I leave it to the stu- the good of humanity all have their dents of petty things to put up their part. That harmony should come even glasses and look with a shocked air at the from combat, and that, while putting into danse du ventre and other follies of this operation that which divides them and great Exposition. For my part I prefer makes them enemies, men should in the to pass, hat in hand, before the works end work for their own higher unitywhere the element of serious purpose this is a good conclusion to be reached manifests itself, and to salute them with by a man of religious spirit, a passionate highest respect in token of filial veneration. believer in fraternity, one who is sadly impressed by all that divides men. There are certain times when our eyes are opened to see other intentions than those directly visible to every ordinary passer-by. Then these enormous assemblages of the products of the earth and of the works of man are no longer to us signs of rival industries and of nations in battle for the markets of the world; rather I see in them an enormous love-feast, to which each has brought the best to make all common property. Then the cost-price, patent rights, desire for monopoly-all the traits of the old savage cupidity which lie dormant in man-become effaced, and I see man's nobler self emerge like a clear and pure diamond from its matrix. And is there not something symbolical in all these marvelous transformations of an industry which draws out from formless and black carbon and the miry water of a stream a brilliant light; which makes beautiful new paper from old rags or from the coarse fiber of trees? Is it not thus that from our quarrels God establishes union, and that from our poor passions, fixed on objects of ephemeral worth, he draws out the elements of the kingdom of justice? Another contrast in the physiognomy of this age brought out by the Exposition is that between competition and collaboration. An exposition is a kind of vast arena where similar industries and products of the same class enter into rivalry one with the other. Side by side in the aisles of the Exposition we see arrayed competing commercial houses which have acquired in their specialties a kind of glory with which they seek to outshine one another and to attract the attention of the public. They challenge one another with their masterpieces, with their ingenious discoveries, while in their shadows struggle competitors of lesser force. The proportions and the ardor of the combat grow, for it is no longer isolated industrial competitors, but nations, who measure their powers. We see them vigorously straining every effort, disputing the ground with one another foot by foot. In the immobility of these machines, in the great masses of tools, and in all these manufactured products, we see disclosed a fever of combat. As two great players lay down in succession cards of more and more importance until one triumphs over his antagonist by the repeated playing of kings and aces, so the peoples of the earth play with one another a close, I come now to a more disagreeable contrast, and one as to which I cannot as yet see progress toward the higher harmony; it impresses all visitors to the colonial side of the Exposition. There we see the colonial products exposed to view. We may ask what they are worth and what they cost, but this kind of calculation does not exhaust the list of questions. There may have been excellent reasons for colonizing a country the products of which do not pay for our trouble. What is called useless labor, after all, is not, perhaps, as unreasonable as we may suppose; but I fear lest the commercial spirit, pushed to its extreme limit, may make us lose our reason, just as exaggerated philosophical speculation and extreme psychological analysis can never supply humanity with a debit and credit account from which it shall see clearly that life is worth the trouble of being lived. One of the noble qualities of man is in letting himself be pushed into enterprises not remunerative; so we should not be deterred from colonizing on account of the objection that the colonies cost more than they bring in. Humanity is something else than a merchant's shop; unfortunate would we be if everything was taken from us which has not an established right in the realm of utility; for the things which save the soul and of which we are most in need cannot be estimated in figures, neither can they be bought or sold. But what troubles me as I pass through the exhibits of the colonies is not to know what they cost and what they bring in; it is the human question. Which is there of all these countries that can congratulate itself on having known us; which is happier and better than before? The harsh, armed contact of civilized nations with one another can be shown in the long run to have been productive; is it the same with the relations between the peoples of the colonies and ourselves? Is it not rather to their physical and moral degradation that they have known us? From that unequal struggle, which must end by their submission, what higher good has resulted to themselves? The way in which all civilized peoples have been induced to treat the inhabitants of their colonies is morally repugnant, and the adoption of our customs kills them more surely even than the balls of our rifles. Here, on the dark background of colonial history, civilization takes on an odious aspect. The true name of civilized man in his relations with primitive peoples is "Cain." As we see here their representatives occupied in their customary toils, their sons with ebony skin and muscles like oak muffled up in our uniforms, I think of all that has passed between them and ourselves, and a voice calls to me," What have you done with your brother ?" The only future that I perceive for most of the colonized countries is the annihilation of the natives-whether they resist us or whether they are fused with us. The religious and brotherly elements within me feel horror at such a view, while my social being understands very well that our relations with the colonies are too often the negation of our social faith. Here, in civilized countries, despite the ardent competition of classes, despite international conflicts, justice in the end gains a hearing; a little true humanity throws its light upon that brutal conflict. But there, far away in the colonies, in our relations with the inhabitants, a fatality seems to drive us into tyranny, into contemptuous treatment of women and children, into the oppression of the feeble, and into destruction which would be regarded among civilized people as contrary to the law of nations, and would bring upon its authors universal execration. I should be very glad to perceive a glimmer of light in this darkness; but so far I cannot perceive, as the poet says, "the side of night which seems transparent." This is why one of the contrasts which trouble me here in the midst of this fête of civilization is the dark figures of conquered peoples, wandering in the evening in the midst of the dazzling light of the fountains and the splendors of these transparent palaces. In section number 112 are brought together those things which relate to public assistance, and in general to all the organization of aid. Here is where we see multitudes of plans of hospitals, homes for old people, refuges for the night, day nurseries, and orphan asylums. Here intelligent sympathy shows itself in its works. Everywhere are found only attempts to repair evil, to heal wounds, supply wants, to solace the wretched, to render life possible for the feeble. Here the blind work and sell the product of their labor. There is shown the method employed to teach the deaf-mutes to speak. This part of the Exposition occupies an immense balcony on the first floor near the department of machines. Now, in certain places, when one approaches the front of the balcony, he has beneath his eyes a portion of the ground floor, the vast dimensions of which give it the aspect of a plain. In this plain rise spires, towers, castle-like buildings with battlements, pyramids, columns, a whole legion of constructions built up out of one kind of material, "The Bottle," that Pandora's box of the new age. These are the temples of alcohol: absinthes, apéritifs, brandies, whiskies, bitters, liquors of every kind, in flasks of every shape, plump, thin, twisted-such are the divinities these temples shelter. And among these divinities some of those best lodged claim an origin which makes one think: Chartreuse, Trappistine, Bénédictine, Eau des Carmes, Elixir des R. R. P. P.—are not these monastic names which remind one of the convent, its chapels, and its prayers? There are, then, monks who are distillers; and on their flasks, artistically presented, what is the trade-mark? It is the Cross of Calvary! Who would have thought the emblem of salvation would be destined one day to serve as a trade-mark to recommend alcohol? From the gallery where I stand, surrounded by suffering and charity, between the statues of Valentin Haüy and Abbé de l'Épée, I look over that alcohol-plain where clerical and lay distillers enter into rivalry, and a heartbreaking contrast takes possession of me. The same epoch that displays such care in solacing that which is wretched in life has exercised its ingenuity in distilling all these poisons, in opening the worst fountains of evil; and, through some curious unpremeditated coincidence, the two elements are brought close together, and the devil's stills are placed side by side with the laboratories where steep and simmer the salutary drugs which destroy microbes and restore strength. It would be impossible in this age to declare in a more tragic manner that there are two men, two natures, in each of us. These two men may be found everywhere-in the mad competition existing at the same time, and despite itself, with combination; in the conjunction of the serious and the frivolous, of liberty and oppression, of antiseptics and intoxicants. If the reader permits, I will show him these two men in still other forms. Here, at the head of the bridge of the Trocadéro, there is a heavy red, cupola-like structure, in shape a gigantic soup-tureen cover. From holes pierced in the side come out long stems, but not of spoons; these are cannon of all calibers. The firm of Schneider, of Creusot, among others, exhibits these enormous guns. A little further on are found the land and sea artillery of all nations-a collection of engines of destruction such as the world has never before seen. As we leave the place, our imaginations picture scenes of naval battles, bombardments, villages on fire, fleets thundering and wrapped in smoke. Mankind seems to us mere food for cannon. Age of iron and of fire, of violence and blood! But while you are thus reflecting, there emerges to view from the pleasant shade close by a pretty little house in Louis XVI. style, as attractive and pleasing as the Schneider tower is threatening and repellent. On the entrance you read, Nursery for Infants. You enter: here are white cradles, nurses busy in tending the babies, glass boxes built with extreme care to shelter in cotton the delicate bodies of those born too soon; the heat and amount of air are measured; in watching an almost fearful tenderness is used, as with precious treasures with which no risks must be taken. A moment ago we saw how to destroy at a blow hundreds of lives of strong men in the flower of their age; now we are invited to see what may be done to cherish the least hope of life, the least germ of human existence. What does this mean? What a mad contradiction! And how well might this age, if it understood itself, sum up all the anguish of its divided and tormented self in that sad cry of St. Paul, "O wretched man that I am, who will deliver me?" As we pass through the section where are assembled the means of transportation, and posts, telegraphs, and telephones, a new occasion presents itself to observe this eternal antagonism in a high degree. For here is the whole collection of means of locomotion on land and by sea. Each one of these engines is meant to abolish distance; even more than the express trains and the steamships which plow the immensity of the deep, the cables and the marvelous apparatus of wireless telegraphy tell us that between the most distant nations of the globe there is now a practical bond, and that the cohesion and unity of the human family has found organs whereby it may assert itself. Before the constantly increasing intimacy which such means of correspondence make possible, a vast horizon opens before the gaze, quite different from that which Louis XIV. greeted when he said, "There are no longer any Pyrenees." Now, recollect that the epoch in which these marvels spring forth is the same which is everywhere strengthening frontiers, multiplying armies, exciting nationalism, and which may in the end again give its old barbaric sense to the word foreigner (étranger). To speak by telephone from one end of the world to the other, and to become finally "nationalist" in the narrow and painful sense of the word, this is certainly a combination of directly opposed tendencies. This is not all. The same men who keep up constant commercial relations with those at a distance are not acquainted with their own fellowcountrymen; their districts, their streets, their very houses, contain regions unexplored by them. They live and die within a few steps of one another, contemporaries, children of the same age, exposed to the same sufferings, companions in hope, moreover, and they do not even speak one to the other. The cities show us this spectacle of men who elbow one another without speaking to one another, of existences more isolated in overpopulated places than they are in the midst of virgin forests. We obtain a mingled impression of this age as we regard its vast and very laborious manifestation in this Exposition, the last great work in which it depicts itself; but this must not be disappointing. In the final estimate, here is seen thrown out into strong relief and in gigantic proportions the old contest between the inferior and superior sides of our being. Here is seen the key of the mystery of this age, at once frivolous and serious, devoted to rivalry and co-operation, of this age which builds and destroys, which wounds and cures, which is at the same time tender and brutal, peaceful and combative. There is a singular grandeur in this passionate struggle between the worst and the best elements of our nature. The man of religious tendency finds here ample material for reflection. If he is a sectarian and a formalist, he may regret the absence of religious manifestations, properly so called. There was no solemn function of inauguration, there was no official benediction. It might have been believed that God was absent, that Christ took no part in this festival; but such a judgment would be hasty, superficial, and unjust. I hold that the trace of the Son of man is profoundly visible through this toilsome undertaking; I would even say that he is evident in many places. All that is seen here that is good, humane, and brotherly has its direct root in the Gospel. Moreover, I believe we may see in spirit Christ stop here, glance about, and say, "What instruments for justice are here; what an open way for good will; what recruits for the kingdom of heaven!" Innumerable are the institutions and enterprises in which far-seeing good will, eagerness in loving, desire to aid and to save, have found admirable expression. All these things are stepping-stones toward the Temple of the Future. "If ye believe in God, believe also in me," said Jesus-that is to say, believe in man, in holy humanity, in the certain victory of good over evil. There are two men in us; if you trust in God, you must do him the honor of believing that the better will conquer. For my part, I recollect with joy the words of peace, of cordial welcome, and of of sincere and brotherly hospitality pronounced by the President of the Republic and the Ministers on the day of the opening of the Exposition of 1900. In the social and international realms they tried to emphasize that which unites mankind; and, with spirit full of echoes from the old prophets and the Sermon on the Mount, I listened to these things, good to hear at all times, but particularly important when they are contrasted with the clash of arms now sounding almost everywhere over the globe. The old man still forges arms of destruction, but let us trust in God and in higher humanity; a day will come, despite us, when the more swords there shall be, the more pruning-hooks shall be forged. |