NAPOLEON I CROWNED ~ December 2, 1804

The coronation of Napoleon I as Emperor of the French, which took place on Sunday December 2, 1804 (11 Frimaire XIII according to French Republican Calendar), has been said to mark "the instantiation of modern empire", representing "both an appeal to ostensibly timeless tradition and a transparently masterminded piece of modern propaganda" On May 18, 1804, the French Senate vested the Republican government in an Emperor, and preparations for a coronation followed. Among Napoleon's reasons for coronation were the prestige in international royalist and Catholic milieux and the foundation for future dynasty.

In the classical French tradition kings underwent consecration (sacre) rather than a coronation because of anointment, conferred by the archbishop of Reims. Napoleon blended Roman imperial pageantry with the purported memory of Charlemagne and the coronation was held in Paris in the presence of Pope Pius VII. According to government tallies, the entire cost was over 8,5 million francs.

Image & text:wikipedia.com

Whenever I go to Paris, I make a point of going to the Louvre. And whenever I go to the Louvre, I make a point of viewing Jacques-Louis David's monumental painting of Napoleon's coronation. There are other works of art I seek out as well, but I do enjoy seeing the David, and am always amazed at its scale.

One negative reaction to the coronation was Beethoven's scratching out the dedication of his third symphony to Napoleon. Beethoven angrily concluded that Napoleon had forsaken the ideals of the French Revolution. A good case could be made that he had.

50th Anniversary PARIS Liberated! August 25, 1944

The Liberation of Paris (also known as Battle for Paris) took place during World War II from 19 August 1944 until the surrender of the occupying German garrison on 25 August 1944, and is accounted as the last battle in the Campaign for Normandy and the transitional conclusion of the Allied invasion breakout in Operation Overlord into a broad-fronted general offensive. The capital region of France had been administered by Nazi Germany since the Second Compiègne armistice in June 1940 when Germany occupied the north and west of France and when the Vichy regime was created in city of Vichy in central France.

The liberation started with an uprising by the French Resistance against the German Paris garrison. On 24 August, the French Forces of the Interior (Forces françaises de l'intérieur, FFI) received backup from the Free French Army of Liberation and from the United States' 4th Infantry Division.

This battle marked the end of Operation Overlord, the liberation of France by the Allies, the restoration of the French Republic and the exile of the Vichy government to Sigmaringen in Germany.

Despite repeated orders from Adolf Hitler that the French capital "must not fall into the enemy's hand except lying in complete debris" to be accomplished by bombing it and blowing up its bridges, German General Dietrich von Choltitz, the commander of the Paris garrison and military governor of Paris, surrendered on 25 August at the Hôtel Meurice, the newly established headquarters of General Leclerc. Von Choltitz was kept prisoner until April 1947. In his memoir ... Brennt Paris? ("Is Paris Burning?"), first published in 1950, von Choltitz describes himself as the saviour of Paris.

There is a controversy about von Choltitz's actual role during the battle, since he is regarded in very different ways in France and Germany. In Germany, he is regarded as a humanist and a hero who saved Paris from urban warfare and destruction. In 1964, Dietrich von Choltitz explained in an interview taped from his Baden Baden home, why he had refused to obey Hitler: "If for the first time I had disobeyed, it was because I knew that Hitler was insane" ("Si pour la première fois j'ai désobéi, c'est parce que je savais qu'Hitler était fou")".

According to a 2004 interview his son Timo gave to the French public channel France 2, von Choltitz disobeyed Hitler and personally allowed the Allies to take the city back safely and rapidly, preventing the French Resistance from engaging in urban warfare that would have destroyed parts of Paris. He knew the war was lost and decided alone to save the capital.

The liberation of Paris was one of the few miracles of World War II. It is startling to think how close Paris was to total destruction!

Image & text:wikipedia.com

Jacques Soufflot ~ July 22, 1713 ~ August 29, 1780

Jacques Germain Soufflot (July 22, 1713 – August 29, 1780) was a French architect in the international circle that introduced Neoclassicism. His most famous work is the Panthéon, Paris, built from 1755 onwards, originally as a church dedicated to Sainte Genevieve.

Image & Text:wikipedia.com

My brother Sherry and his family lived right across from the Pantheon at #1 Place du Pantheon, when he was stationed at the U.S. Embassy in Paris in the early '80's. I visited them for my 31st birthday. Below is a re-posting from October 3, 2008:

For my 31st birthday, Mother and Dad gave me a week in gay Paris Ah, April in Paris…..but ………….with Dad and Mother! We stayed with Sherry and Sallie at their wonderful apartment (rented from Georges Clemenceau’s granddaughter) at Nombre 1, Place du Pantheon. My birthday dinner was at café Le Procope, the oldest coffeehouse in Paris (possibly in Europe) and a favorite hangout of Jefferson and Franklin’s.

Sherry drove me to Fontainebleau so I could see the famous horseshoe staircase, from which Napoleon delivered his farewell to the troops at the time of his first abdication. I took the metro and walked to La Malmaison— an extraordinary house and furniture collection. Unfortunately the rose gardens have not been maintained.

[Did you know that Josephine's given name was Rose? And that her first cousin, Aimee du Buc de Rivery, was captured by Barbary pirates, sent to Constantinople, put in the harem, and was either the actual mother, or guardian of Mahmud II, Turkish Sultan at the time of Napoleon's invasion of Russia? There's a recent novel, "Seraglio," by Janet Wallach, who doesn't explore the possibility— but I've read an earlier book "The Veiled Empress" by Morton, who suggests that Mahmud II secretly broke his treaty with Napoleon soon after the Josephine divorce – the old blood is thicker routine – and that this may have been the critical difference in Napoleon's defeat in 1812. Counterfactual history is fascinating speculation, but, of course, guarantees absolutely nothing. I wrote a separate post on Aimee on May 28, 2009.]

I had spent my first day in Paris, as part of a fortnight holiday in Britain, a year and a half before. So I figured I could do the reverse, and spend a weekend in London to see my friend Jeffrey, as part of my week in Paris. Remember that this was a gift from Mother and Dad – and it came with strings. Mother had wanted me to go along with them to Mont-Saint-Michel that weekend. So I telephoned Jeffrey to say that I wouldn’t be able to make it.

As a result, I was available to have dinner with an ex-girl friend of Boyd Jarrell’s, then baritone soloist and cantor at Grace Cathedral. He had given me Lynn Davis’ phone number. When I called to take her to lunch, she invited me to dinner instead.

Sallie said it was a very good address, and recommended I take a potted plant, rather than cut flowers, since a hostess preparing dinner wouldn’t want to have to deal with them. The florist shop insisted otherwise. And when I got to the door, and was met by a liveried servant, I realized that it was not an issue.

Lynne had invited me to dinner at the home of her friend—whom I later learned was her fiance— Pierre Firmin-Didot, a publisher, and chairman of the Chartres Cathedral Organ Competition. Lynn was a church and concert organist, originally from Michigan, and had met Pierre the year she won the organ competition.

At dinner were several other guests, including an Australian photographer. That turned out to be a very fortunate coincidence. As I related to Dennis many times, this dinner was one of the few occasions in my life that my table manners matched my surroundings. I must have thought of Mother. I think I was actually the last one done. But partly that was due to conversation.

Learning that M. Firmin-Didot was chairman of the Chartres organ competition, I talked about my first day in the Cathedral the previous year. As a preface, I related a story I had read about the Persian Room nightclub at the Plaza Hotel in New York. Evidently the policy had been to overheat the room, and then suddenly drop the temperature several degrees immediately before a performance. That had a tendency to wake up the audience. And the chill down one's spine wasn't entirely a result of the music.

At this point, the conversation came to an abrupt halt. What was this foolish young American talking about? But I managed to pull it out of the fire. I said that when I entered the front door of Chartres Cathedral on a glorious, warm May afternoon, the temperature inside was immediately cooler; but the chill down my spine was due entirely…to the splendor of the stained glass and the magnificence of the architecture within. There was an audible sigh……. then conversation resumed.

M. Firmin-Didot had a wing in the Hotel (townhouse with a courtyard in front) originally built for Louis XV's finance minister. His family owned the building, and he shared it with several relatives. Hearing that a professional photographer was among his guests— and had his camera in the car— M. Firmin-Didot offered to show us his entire section of the house. He had needed to have some photographs taken for insurance purposes.

So I saw Voltaire’s death mask in the library, and an extraordinary marquetry commode given to Madame de Pompadour by Louis XV. I counted at least twenty bergeres and fauteuils in the main salon—with its beautiful boiserie. And with the groupings, the room didn’t look crowded. I think I also recognized several paintings…..which did not appear to be copies.

All in all, it was an extraordinary evening – thanks to Mother’s insistence that I go to Mont-Saint-Michel with them, instead of London to visit Jeffrey.

I regret I thought I couldn’t afford the airfare a few years later, when I was invited to Lynn and Pierre’s wedding in Michigan. I’ve seen her only a few times since.

The weekend in Normandy at Mont-Saint-Michel was indeed glorious. It wasn’t that I hadn’t wanted to go. I had just wanted to wait to go with Gary someday. But it’s a good thing I did then, because I have not yet returned.

I remember Sallie’s eating mussels at every possible occasion at Mont-Saint-Michel. Sheridan says she still has a passion for them. I also have fond memories of playing with Sheridan and Morgan around the cloister, in the turrets, and on the walls.

Lynn and Pierre were married for nearly a quarter century. I understand that Lynn is now a widow. But Pierre was considerably older.

SZILARD's Birthday

DINNER IN PARIS at LA BASTIDE ODEON

This is where Debbie and I had a marvelous dinner in Paris a year ago. The food and presentation were absolutely first rate.

I was so tired though, that I didn't take sufficient advantage of being in Paris. Then after finding an internet cafe following dinner, I forgot that the Left Bank is not on any grid, and instead of showing Deb the Pantheon on the way back to our small hotel, went many blocks out of our way behind the Pantheon -- and not the prettiest part of Paris. I hadn't realized that Deb had spent only a single day in Paris many years ago. We could have at least walked around Notre Dame and Isle de la Cite for the detour we took.

Since then Debbie's been back and spent a week with her niece, who is living there this year.

JACQUES BREL ~ April 8, 1929 ~ October 9, 1978

Photo:ikp.unibe.ch/lab2/brel.html

(Please see "A First Day in Paris" my post on September 20, 2008.)

PLEASANT MEMORIES of FRANCE in 1980

For my 31st birthday, Mother and Dad gave me a week in gay Paris Ah, April in Paris…..but ………….with Dad and Mother! We stayed with Sherry and Sallie at their wonderful apartment (rented from Georges Clemenceau’s grand-daughter) at Nombre 1, Place du Pantheon. My birthday dinner was at café Le Procope, the oldest coffeehouse in Paris (possibly in Europe) and a favorite hangout of Jefferson and Franklin’s.

Sherry drove me to Fontainebleau so I could see the famous horseshoe staircase, from which Napoleon delivered his farewell to the troops at the time of his first abdication. I took the metro and walked to La Malmaison— an extraordinary house and furniture collection. Unfortunately the rose gardens have not been maintained. [Did you know that Josephine's given name was Rose? And that her first cousin, Aimee du Buc de Rivery, was captured by Barbary pirates, sent to Constantinople, put in the harem, and was either the actual mother, or guardian of Mahmud II, Turkish Sultan at the time of Napoleon's invasion of Russia? There's a recent novel, "Seraglio," by Janet Wallach, who doesn't explore the possibility— but I've read an earlier book "The Veiled Empress" by Morton, who suggests that Mahmud II secretly broke his treaty with Napoleon soon after the Josephine divorce – the old blood is thicker routine – and that this may have been the critical difference in Napoleon's defeat in 1812. Counterfactual history is fascinating speculation, but, of course, guarantees absolutely nothing. I may write a separate posting on Aimee later.]

Recall that I had spent my first day in Paris, as part of a fortnight holiday in Britain, a year and a half before. So I figured I could do the reverse, and spend a weekend in London to see my friend Jeffrey, as part of my week in Paris. Remember that this was a gift from Mother and Dad – and it came with strings. Mother had wanted me to go along with them to Mont-Saint-Michel that weekend. So I telephoned Jeffrey to say that I wouldn’t be able to make it.

As a result, I was available to have dinner with an ex-girl friend of Boyd Jarrell’s, then baritone soloist and cantor at Grace Cathedral. He had given me Lynn Davis’ phone number. When I called to take her to lunch, she invited me to dinner instead.

Sallie said it was a very good address, and recommended I take a potted plant, rather than cut flowers, since a hostess preparing dinner wouldn’t want to have to deal with them. The florist shop insisted otherwise. And when I got to the door, and was met by a liveried servant, I realized that it was not an issue.

Lynne had invited me to dinner at the home of her friend—whom I later learned was her fiance— Pierre Firmin-Didot, a publisher, and chairman of the Chartres Cathedral Organ Competition. Lynn was a church and concert organist, originally from Michigan, and had met Pierre the year she won the organ competition.

At dinner were several other guests, including an Australian photographer. That turned out to be a very fortunate coincidence. As I related to Dennis many times, this dinner was one of the few occasions in my life that my table manners matched my surroundings. I must have thought of Mother. I think I was actually the last one done. But partly that was due to conversation.

Learning that M. Firmin-Didot was chairman of the Chartres organ competition, I talked about my first day in the Cathedral the previous year. As a preface, I related a story I had read about the Persian Room nightclub at the Plaza Hotel in New York. Evidently the policy had been to overheat the room, and then suddenly drop the temperature several degrees immediately before a performance. That had a tendency to wake up the audience. And the chill down one's spine wasn't entirely a result of the music.

At this point, the conversation came to an abrupt halt. What was this foolish young American talking about? But I managed to pull it out of the fire. I said that when I entered the front door of Chartres Cathedral on a glorious, warm May afternoon, the temperature inside was immediately cooler; but the chill down my spine was due entirely…to the splendor of the stained glass and the magnificence of the architecture within. There was an audible sigh……. then conversation resumed.

M. Firmin-Didot had a wing in the Hotel (townhouse with a courtyard in front) originally built for Louis XV's finance minister. His family owned the building, and he shared it with several relatives. Hearing that a professional photographer was among his guests— and had his camera in the car— M. Firmin-Didot offered to show us his entire section of the house. He had needed to have some photographs taken for insurance purposes.

So I saw Voltaire’s death mask in the library, and an extraordinary marquetry commode given to Madame de Pompadour by Louis XV. I counted at least twenty bergeres and fauteuils in the main salon—with its beautiful boiserie. And with the groupings, the room didn’t look crowded. I think I also recognized several paintings…..which did not appear to be copies.

All in all, it was an extraordinary evening – thanks to Mother’s insistence that I go to Mont-Saint-Michel with them, instead of London to visit Jeffrey.

I regret I thought I couldn’t afford the airfare a few years later, when I was invited to Lynn and Pierre’s wedding in Michigan. I’ve seen her only a few times since.

The weekend in Normandy at Mont-Saint-Michel was indeed glorious. It wasn’t that I hadn’t wanted to go. I had just wanted to wait to go with Gary someday. But it’s a good thing I did then, because I have not yet returned.

I remember Sallie’s eating mussels at every possible occasion at Mont-Saint-Michel. Sheridan says she still has a passion for them. I also have fond memories of playing with Sheridan and Morgan around the cloister, in the turrets, and on the walls.

Lynn and Pierre were married for nearly a quarter century. I understand that Lynn is now a widow. But Pierre was considerably older.

A First Day in PARIS

I was a weird little kid. I was somewhat knowledgeable and would have been absolutely thrilled to wander through the Louvre as an eleven-year-old. * But I didn’t visit until I was thirty. I did go to Paris for a single day when I was twenty-nine. It was the Monday after the middle weekend of my first fortnight in Britain – thirty years ago next month.

My Australian friend, Jeffrey Hardy, was living in Farnham, Surrey, and was an actor in the Michael Redgrave Repertory Theatre there. He invited me to visit. I saw him in a performance of Tom Stoppard’s play Jumpers. I recall that I stayed with him at the home of a Miss Titmarsh, and used Farnham as my base for going around England. I went as far north as Edinburgh, and had lovely days in York, Cambridge (to hear the choirs at Kings College and St. Johns), Oxford, and London, of course, for St. Paul’s, Temple Church, Westminster Abbey, and the Queen’s Chapel at St. James Palace— the National Gallery, Tate, British Museum and the V & A. I took a boat trip to Greenwich, and enjoyed a beautiful Sunday at Canterbury Cathedral.

My brother Sherry and his wife Sallie had recommended I go to Paris, if only for a day. So from Canterbury, I took the train to Dover and had a night crossing to Dunkirk and arrived in Paris early Monday morning. I didn’t take any public transportation, but walked all over the city. I had planned to do only three things for sure: visit Sainte-Chapelle, Notre Dame, and Les Invalides (Napoleon’s tomb). Of course, I did more. It was a perfect autumn day. I particularly enjoyed strolling through the Jardin Luxembourg, and climbing the Eiffel Tower as high as you were then allowed to go.

On my return to Gare du Nord, I noticed the headlines: “Jacques Brel Est Mort!” So my first day in Paris, was the first day that Jacques Brel was not alive and well and living in Paris.

A year ago July, I was in France for my nephew Sheridan’s wedding in Nantes. I spent July 4^th in Paris and most of that in the Louvre. My Polish friend, Adam, texted me, and I replied: “Here I sit in the loo in the Louvre.” Quipped AK: “So that’s how you celebrate your national holiday!”

* As an eleven-year old, I stunned our dentist neighbor from Baltimore, whose cottage adjoined ours on Pine Island on Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire. The Cooke family had just returned from a vacation in Europe and put on a slide show for us. Dr. Cooke proudly showed us slides of his favorite places in Italy. When he put up one particular slide from Venice, I said: “It looks like a Titian.” I don’t think I had ever seen it before. It just looked like a Titian to me. In fact it was: the Assunta (Assumption of the Virgin) in Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari, Venice’s enormous Franciscan church, where my partner Dennis currently resides in an inlaid Moroccan box underneath an enormous chest within sight of that wondrous altar piece.

ORIGIN of the CROISSANT

Years ago, back in the 1960’s and ’70’s, there was an SF Chronicle columnist named Charles McCabe. I remember a particular column of his that must have been from the late ’70’s. I can’t locate it now, but think I still recall much of it.

McCabe was staying at the Peninsula Hotel in Hong Kong on the Kowloon side. (I had had tea there in October, 1977; so I think the column was written sometime after that.) Anyway, McCabe had breakfast brought up to his room. He remarked that there was a copy of the London Times, a single red rose in a bud vase, a pot of strong French roast coffee, and.... a perfect croissant. The column went on to discuss the glories and origin of that marvelous breakfast pastry.

It goes back to the second Turkish invasion of Vienna in 1683. (The first invasion in 1529 was conducted personally by Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent. But after a siege of several weeks, he retreated without capturing the city because of illness and approaching winter. Legend is that coffee was introduced to Europe when the Turkish forces— in their rushed retreat— left whole and ground coffee beans behind with their provisions.)

Anyway, our tale deals with the second Turkish invasion in 1683 (when Charles II was King of England, and Louis XIV, master of Europe).

According to Wikipedia: The large-scale battle was won by Polish-Austrian-German forces led by King of Poland Jan III Sobieski against the Ottoman Empire army commanded by Grand Vizier Merzifonlu Kara Mustafa Pasha.

The siege itself began on 14 July 1683, by the Ottoman Empire army of approximately 90,000 men^. The besieging force was composed of 60 ortas of Jannisaries (12,000 men paper strength) with an observation army of c.70,000 men watching the countryside. The decisive battle took place on 12 September, after the united relief army of 84,450 men had arrived.

McCabe related that the Turks attempted to undermine the walls around Vienna by digging a tunnel and planting explosives before the arrival of the relief army commanded by Polish King Jan Sobieski. (The wall was where the Ringstrasse is today in modern Vienna.)

According to McCabe, some Viennese bakers had their ovens inside the walls, and heard the Turks’ tunneling. After the bakers warned the military authorities, the Viennese dug a counter tunnel and confronted the Turks and bought time for Sobieski’s arrival to save the day.

In commemoration of the event, the bakers created a new pastry in the shape of a Turkish crescent. So why is a Viennese pastry considered quintesessentially French today? Well, when Marie Antoinette became Dauphine of France, she brought along her favorite Viennese pastry chef, who introduced the croissant to France and from there to the world.

According to another legend, even the origin of the bagel can be traced to the same battle. Supposedly the shape of the bagel commemorates the styrrups of King Jan Sobieski’s cavalry. Imagine that: two staples of modern breakfast originating from the same event!

The Austrians, Germans and Russians should have remembered and have been very grateful to Jan Sobieski. Perhaps they were— even as they partitioned Poland the following century.

When my brother Sherry (Sheridan) worked at the embassy in Paris in the early 1980’s, I visited him over my birthday. Just before returning to San Francisco, my sister-in-law Sallie helped me buy ten fresh, out-of-the-oven, croissants from a bakery near their apartment in the Place du Pantheon. We carefully wrapped them in slightly damp paper towels and plastic wrap, and I delivered them to my flat-mates and co-workers the next morning. Fresh croissants from Paris! But not quite – you really must eat croissants within a few hours – and to my thinking, there is no finer morning pastry.