Continental Victory
By G. F. WOODS
pLASTER casts of the statue of Winged Victory in the Louvre are not expensive. The problem is transport. The polite lady at the counter suggested that I might prefer a special model with detachable wings ; it would be easier in trains and on boats. I rejected the proposal. Paris was celebrating the Libera- tion. The Arc de Triomphe was illuminated. It was no time to buy a statue of Winged Victory which could be dismantled in the interests of mere expediency. I would take the figure with the permanently outstretched wings. There was no honourable alternative.
But could it be carefully packed ? Was it possible to have a box ? Unfortunately, no. It could be wrapped ingeniously in a large sheet of shiny brown paper and fastened with adhesive tape and string. I accepted the inevitable. I left the Louvre with the awkward parcel cradled in my inexperienced arms and faced the return journey with resolution, if not entirely without anxiety. No bearer of the classic embodiment of the spirit of victory could begin an enterprise in manifestly defeatist spirit..
The Paris Metro was not, I think, designed for standing passengers carrying plaster casts of statues. The train, however, with some- thing of the respectable gaiety of a Victorian tram-car, clearly wished to show its awareness of the occasion. The doors, in accord- ance with their printed promise, continued to close automatically 'but with quite unusual ferocity. A note of triumph was blended with the salute of muted whistles and sharp hoots which accompany, and possibly effect the initial movement of, the train. I simply clung tenaciously to the vertical white pole in the middle of the compartment. The triangular parcel on my left arm looked not unlike a hooded hawk on the wrist of a mediaeval huntsman proceed- ing to the chase. I glanced for a moment rather longingly at the seats reserved for the lame and the disabled, and wondered whether I or my statue might legitimately be included in either category.
But just then it was necessary to change at Pigalle and begin a somewhat lengthy and hazardous Victory march towards the plat- form in Direction Maine dissy. At the barrier in St. Lazare Station the official was a little uncertain whether I was offering him a suit- case, a statue or my ticket. The boat train represented a somewhat easier phase of the campaign. The statue lost something of its dignity but gained immeasurably in safety while it lay on the rack wrapped in the folds of my mackintosh. At Dieppe my worst fears were not realised. The French Customs allowed the symbol of victory to pass without comment. Crossing the railway lines in the darkness and stepping over unexpected hawsers were delicate but successful operations, and negotiating the gangway something of a naval victory. Finally, I achieved a scat on the upper deck some- where behind a funnel. There was nothing further to do but to hold the parcel firmly and to wish for the day.
. About 2.30 a.m., I felt that the day would come just as quickly if I went below. By this time the mysterious package was begin- ning to arouse public interest. I began to feel slightly self-conscious, like a boy returning home after the school sports carrying the trophy awarded to the Victor Ludorum. Speculation was rife. Some thought it was a stuffed bird. Another asked whether it was
an angel. My spirits began to droop slightly. I remembered the lady behind the counter who had spoken so quietly of the advantages of detachable wings. I felt the momentary dejection of all idealists in the presence of the worldly-wise who favour detachable wings.
The world looked a little brighter when we made a landing at Newhaven without incurring loss or damage. To the English Customs the parcel was an object-of kindly but suspicious interest. The printed list of dutiable articles made no explicit reference to statues of Winged Victory. Was it religious ? I produced the bill from the Louvre. I realised that this was hardly a direct answer to the question, but it seemed to bring the airy spirit to terra firma. It was at least a commodity legitimately acquired. Would I unpack it ? Certainly. Having no penknife and possessing no skill in untying knots, I tore away some of the wrapping. The headless figure looked infinitely pathetic in the dusk of its paper grotto. It was allowed to pass. Seated in the train, I pondered how to repair the parcel for the final campaign through London. Improvisation was the only hope. Digging in my suitcase, I retrieved a roll of pink medical tape, which I had included for comparable emergencies. Carefully locating about the statue what my World War II first- aid lessons used to call "pressure points," I managed to bind up the gaping holes. Victory remained in my grasp, but it had obviously not been won without a struggle. The London Underground seemed to accept the fact of victory more prosaically than the Metro. On the upper deck of a Number ii bus the statue revived in spirit. I should hardly have been surprised if we had become airborne. But the moment of elation soon passed. In Liverpool St. Station the trophy was imprisoned for a short period in the left-luggage office. British Railways accepted the custody but not the risks of victory. Before the train left it spent a few undignified minutes in a dusty telephone kiosk, standing penitently in a corner on the floor. The romance of Victory had departed.
But now it stands in my rooms in untrammelled triumph. If you remain a few feet away you cannot see that one wing is slightly cracked. I drew the attention of my gyp to this minute mishap in order to impress upon him the fragility of my new acquisition. He observed the figure steadily and remarked, "She seems to 'ave lorst 'er 'cad as well." "That," I said a trifle firmly, "was off before I bought it."
Previous page
