The Fields of Glory

Degas in New Orleans

That dreadful war! Degas, a patriot, aged thirty-six, enlisted in the Guards— a gesture only (Paris would not be at risk, they knew; the Prussians would retreat, the French pursuing them across the Rhine), sincere, however. Then Sedan, the fall of emperor and empire, German gains, Paris blockaded and besieged, the Loire

campaign, and Paris fallen; winter then, starvation (rats for sale in sacks, like fish), disorder, the Commune. Who would not wish to leave? His mother’s family, Creoles, lived on Esplanade, between the Marigny and Vieux Carré. They all spoke French; the dress, the mores pleased him; the great river ran nearby, a liquid cord to home. He knew,

however, that he had defective sight— that rifle training in the Guards revealed his disability, a painter’s curse. Louisiana light, subtropical, was dangerous, he thought. He stayed indoors, did portraits and domestic scenes; he liked dim corridors and doors in enfilade successively receding in the dusk,

or courtyards shaded by profuse displays of greenery, both sensuous and cool. His uncle worked in Faubourg Sainte-Marie in “Factors’ Row”; Degas resolved to paint his offices—the desks and chairs, the clerks, the cotton brokers in top hats—a scene of modern life a bit off-center, caught as by a glance. His brother, at the left,

inclines beside a window; one man reads a paper; foregrounded, his uncle cleans his glasses; cotton samples point to wealth, the soft exotic coin of the New World for European furniture, gems, gowns. Degas made sketches, studied colors, lines, and paid his homage to New Orleans. Still he feared the southern sun, and finally

returned to France for thirty years of work, perfecting beauty. “Drawing is one way of thinking, modelling another.” Aged, he walked the streets of Paris, nearly blind, alone, remembering banana leaves in steamy rain, dark doorways, Creole skin, the casual framing of a moment caught by eyes become opaque and brilliant thought.

The Empress Eugénie Leaves Paris, 1870

A crowd had gathered at the Tuileries, unruly, in a nasty mood. “Long live the Third Republic! Down with Eugénie, the Spanish whore! Spit on the emperor, the traitress! To the guillotine!” Sedan had fallen to the Prussians and their prince two days before; the empire was in shreds, Louis-Napoleon a prisoner.

She feared for honor only. When she heard the shouting, saw the gates besieged, she knew she must depart—though for the servants’ sake. The palace joined the Louvre, but a door was locked. An old valet appeared and used his key. No baggage; just but a veil. With friends she crossed the silent galleries—Greek art, Egyptian treasure, looted, useless now.

They slipped out to the street unnoticed, found a cab for her and her attendant, bade farewell. Hide first, then reach the Channel. Help was crucial. Trusted houses—two—were dark. Her money gone, she sent away the cab; they walked, exhausted, to her dentist’s home, a Dr. Evans. She had saved his life in Turkey once; he was American.

A fellow doctor volunteered his aid. She had a British passport, genuine, designed as a precaution by a friend, for “Mrs. B” and “Doctor C.” The trains were dangerous—they would be watched. By coach the four drove down the Seine, changed horses, stayed at miserable inns. A sighting once, another close escape, the tricoteuses

of ’93 a spectral thought. They reached Deauville and a hotel; by Providence, the dentist’s wife was there on holiday. She helped conceal the empress and her maid until a vessel could be found. Not French, of course. An English yachtsman first declined to aid them, but his wife, spontaneous, less scrupulous, soon interceded. Late

that night, the empress would embark, along with Dr. Evans and her maid, and gifts from Mrs. Evans. Two policemen searched the yacht; by chance, the party had not yet arrived. They walked through rain and puddles, soaked. On board, they found dry clothes, a bowl of punch. They sailed at seven. The seas were rough; a squall blew up...