Part 12

Many old school and college experiences were evoked that year by the various English who passed through Paris. One night at a big dinner at the British Embassy I was sitting next to the Prince of Wales (late King Edward). He said to me: "There is an old friend of your husband's here to-night, who will be so glad to see him again. They haven't met since he was his fag at Rugby." After dinner he was introduced to me--Admiral Glynn--a charming man, said his last recollection of W. was making his toast for him and getting a good cuff when the toast fell into the fire and got burnt. The two men talked together for some time in the smoking-room, recalling all sorts of schoolboy exploits. Another school friend was Sir Francis Adams, first secretary and "counsellor" at the British Embassy. When the ambassador took his holiday, Adams replaced him, and had the rank and title of minister plenipotentiary. He came every Wednesday, the diplomatic reception day, to the Quai d'Orsay to talk business. As long as a secretary or a huissier was in the room, they spoke to each other most correctly in French; as soon as they were alone, relapsed into easy and colloquial English. We were very fond of Adams--saw a great deal of him not only in Paris, but when we first lived in London at the embassy. He died suddenly in Switzerland, and W. missed him very much. He was very intelligent, a keen observer, had been all over the world, and his knowledge and appreciation of foreign countries and ways was often very useful to W.

We continued our dinners and receptions, which always interested me, we saw so many people of all kinds. One dinner was for Prince Alexander of Battenberg, just as he was starting to take possession of the new principality of Bulgaria. He was one of the handsomest men I have ever seen,--tall, young, strong. He seemed the type of the dashing young chief who would inspire confidence in a new independent state. He didn't speak of his future with much enthusiasm. I wonder if a presentiment was even then overclouding what seemed a brilliant beginning! He talked a great deal at dinner. He was just back from Rome, and full of its charm, which at once made a bond of sympathy between us. Report said he had left his heart there with a young Roman. He certainly spoke of the happy days with a shade of melancholy. I suggested that he ought to marry, that would make his "exile," as he called it, easier to bear. "Ah, yes, if one could choose." Then after a pause, with an almost boyish petulance: "They want me to marry Princess X., but I don't want to." "Is she pretty, will she help you in your new country?" "I don't know; I don't care; I have never seen her."

Poor fellow, he had a wretched experience. Some of the "exiles" were less interesting. A lady asked to see me one day, to enlist my sympathies for her brother and plead his cause with the minister. He had been named to a post which he couldn't really accept. I rather demurred, telling her messenger, one of the secretaries of the Foreign Office, that it was quite useless, her asking me to interfere. W. was not very likely to consult me in his choice of nominations--and in fact the small appointments, secretaries, were generally prepared in the Chancellerie and followed the usual routine of regular promotion. An ambassador, of course, was different, and was sometimes taken quite outside the carrière. The lady persisted and appeared one morning--a pretty, well-dressed femme du monde whom I had often met without making her acquaintance. She plunged at once into her subject--her brother's delicate health, accustomed to all the comforts and what the books call "higher civilisation" of Europe, able to do good service in courts and society, as he knew everybody. It was a pity to send him to such an out-of-the-way place, with an awful climate,--any consul's clerk would do as well. I supposed he had been named to Caracas, South America, or some other remote and unhealthy part of the globe, but when she stopped for a moment, I discovered that the young man was named to Washington. I was really surprised, didn't know what to say at once, when the absurdity of the thing struck me and I answered that Washington was far, perhaps across the ocean, but there were compensations--but she took up her argument again, such an impossible place, everything so primitive, I really think she thought the youth was going to an Indian settlement, all squaws and wigwams and tomahawks. I declined any interference with the minister's appointments, assuring her I had no influence whatever, and she took leave of me very icily. I heard the sequel afterward--the young man refused the post as quite unworthy of him. There were several others ready and pleased to take it, and M. de X. was put en disponibilité.

We saw too that year for the first time the Grand Duke Alexander of Russia (later Emperor Alexander III, whose coronation we went to at Moscow) and the Grande Duchesse Marie. Prince Orloff arranged the interview, as he was very anxious that the Grand Duke should have some talk with W. They were in Paris for three or four days, staying at the Hotel Bristol, where they received us. He was a tall, handsome man, with a blond beard and blue eyes, quite the Northern type. She recalled her sister (Queen Alexandra), not quite so tall, but with the same gracious manner and beautiful eyes. The Grand Duke talked a great deal, principally politics, to W. He expressed himself very doubtfully about the stability of the Republic, and was evidently worried over the possibility of a general amnesty, "a very dangerous measure which no government should sanction." W. assured him there would be no general amnesty, but he seemed sceptical, repeated several times: "Soyez stable, soyez ferme." The Grande Duchesse talked to me about Paris, the streets were so gay, the shops so tempting, and all the people so smiling and happy. I suppose the contrast struck her, coming from Russia where the people look sad and listless. I was much impressed with their sad, repressed look when we were in Russia for the coronation--one never heard people laugh or sing in the streets--and yet we were there at a time of great national rejoicings, amusements of all kinds provided for the people. Their national melodies, volklieder (songs of the people), have always a strain of sadness running through them. Our conversation was in French, which both spoke very well.

The winter months went by quickly enough with periodical alarms in the political world when some new measure was discussed which aroused everybody's passions and satisfied neither side. I made weekly visits to my own house, which was never dismantled, as I always felt our stay at the Quai d'Orsay would not last much longer. One of our colleagues, Madame Léon Say, an intelligent, charming woman, took matters more philosophically than I did. Her husband had been in and out of office so often that she was quite indifferent to sudden changes of residence. They too kept their house open and she said she had always a terrine de crise ready in her larders.

The diplomatic appointments, the embassies particularly, were a difficulty. Admiral Pothnau went to London. He was a very gallant officer and had served with the English in the Crimea--had the order of the Bath, and exactly that stand-off, pompous manner which suits English people. General Chanzy went to St. Petersburg. It has been the tradition almost always to send a soldier to Russia. There is so little intercourse between the Russian Emperor and any foreigner, even an ambassador, that an ordinary diplomatist, no matter how intelligent or experienced he might be, would have very few opportunities to talk to the Emperor; whereas an officer, with the various reviews and manoeuvres that are always going on in Russia, would surely approach him more easily. I was so struck when we were in Russia with the immense distance that separated the princes from the ordinary mortals. They seem like demigods on a different plane (in Russia I mean; of course when they come to Paris their godlike attributes disappear, unfortunately for themselves).

Chanzy was very happy in Russia, where he was extremely well received. He dined with us one night, when he was at home on leave, and was most enthusiastic about everything in Russia--their finances, their army--the women of all classes so intelligent, so patriotic. He was evidently quite sous le charme. When he had gone, M. Desprey, then Directeur de la Politique, a very clever man, who had seen many ambassadors come and go from all the capitals of Europe, said:

"It is curious how all the ambassadors who go to Russia have that same impression. I have never known it to fail. It is the Russian policy to be delightful to the ambassadors--make life very easy for them--show them all that is brilliant and interesting--open all doors (society, etc.) and keep all sordid and ugly questions in the background."

St. Vallier remained at Berlin. His name had been mentioned for Foreign Minister when Dufaure was making his cabinet, but he hadn't the health for it--and I think preferred being in Berlin. He knew Germany well and had a good many friends in Berlin.

W. of course had a great many men's dinners, from which I was excluded. I dined often with some of my friends, not of the official world, and I used to ask myself sometimes if the Quai d'Orsay and these houses could be in the same country. It was an entirely different world, every point of view different, not only politics--that one would expect, as the whole of society was anti-Republican, Royalist, or Bonapartist--but every question discussed wore a different aspect. Once or twice there was a question of Louis XIV and what he would have done in certain cases,--the religious question always a passionate one. That of course I never discussed, being a Protestant, and knowing quite well that the real fervent Catholics think Protestants have no religion.

I was out driving with a friend one morning in Lent (Holy Week), Thursday I think--and said I could not be out late, as I must go to church--perhaps she would drop me at the Protestant Chapel in the Avenue de la Grand Armée. She was so absolutely astonished that it was almost funny, though I was half angry too. "You are going to church on Holy Thursday. I didn't know Protestants ever kept Lent, or Holy Week or any saint's day." "Don't you think we ever go to church?" "Oh, yes, to a conference or sermon on Sundays, but you are not pratiquant like us." I was really put out, and tried another day, when she was sitting with me, to show her our prayerbook, and explained that the Creed and the Lord's Prayer, to say nothing of various other prayers, were just the same as in her livre de Messe, but I didn't make any impression upon her--her only remark being, "I suppose you do believe in God,"--yet she was a clever, well-educated woman--knew her French history well, and must have known what a part the French Protestants played at one time in France, when many of the great nobles were Protestants.

Years afterward, with the same friend, we were discussing the proposed marriage of the Duke of Clarence, eldest son of the late King Edward VII of England, who wanted very much to marry Princess Hélène d'Orléans, daughter of the Comte de Paris, now Duchesse d'Aosta. It was impossible for the English prince, heir to the throne, to marry a Catholic princess--it seemed equally impossible for the French princess to become a Protestant. The Pope was consulted and very strong influence brought to bear on the question, but the Catholic Church was firm. We were in London at the time, and of course heard the question much discussed. It was an interesting case, as the two young people were much in love with each other. I said to my friend:

"If I were in the place of the Princess Hélène I should make myself a Protestant. It is a big bait for the daughter of an exiled prince to be Queen of England."

"But it couldn't be; no Catholic could change her religion or make herself Protestant."

"Yet there is a precedent in your history. Your King Henri IV of beloved memory, a Protestant, didn't hesitate to make himself a Catholic to be King of France."

"Ah, but that is quite different."

"For you perhaps, chère amie, but not for us."

However, the poor young prince died suddenly of pneumonia, so the sacrifice would have been in vain.

All the autumn of '79 was very agitated. We were obliged to curtail our stay at Bourneville, our country home. Even though the Chambers were not sitting, every description of political intrigue was going on. Every day W. had an immense courrier and every second day a secretary came down from the Quai d'Orsay with despatches and papers to sign. Telegrams came all day long. W. had one or two shooting breakfasts and the long tramps in the woods rested him. The guests were generally the notabilities of the small towns and villages of his circumscription,--mayors, farmers, and small landowners. They all talked politics and W. was surprised to see how in this quiet agricultural district the fever of democracy had mounted. Usually the well-to-do farmer is very conservative, looks askance at the very advanced opinions of the young radicals, but a complete change had come over them. They seemed to think the Republic, founded at last upon a solid basis, supported by honest Republicans, would bring untold prosperity not only to the country, but to each individual, and many very modest, unpretending citizens of the small towns saw themselves conseilleurs généraux, deputies, perhaps even ministers. It was a curious change. However, on the whole, the people in our part of the world were reasonable. I was sorry to go back to town. I liked the last beautiful days of September in the country. The trees were just beginning to turn, and the rides in the woods were delightful, the roads so soft and springy. The horses seemed to like the brisk canter as much as we did. We disturbed all the forest life as we galloped along--hares and rabbits scuttled away--we saw their white tails disappearing into holes, and when we crossed a bit of plain, partridges a long distance off would rise and take their crooked flight across the fields. It was so still, always is in the woods, that the horses' feet could be heard a long way off. It was getting colder (all the country folk predicted a very cold winter) and the wood-fire looked very cheerful and comfortable in my little salon when we came in.

However, everything must end, and W. had to go back to the fight, which promised to be lively. In Paris we found people wearing furs and preparing for a cold winter. The house of the Quai d'Orsay was comfortable, well warmed, calorifères and big fires in all the rooms, and whenever there was any sun it poured into the rooms from the garden. I didn't take up my official afternoon receptions. The session had not begun, and, as it seemed extremely unlikely that the coming year would see us still at the Quai d'Orsay, it was not worth while to embark upon that dreary function. I was at home every afternoon after five--had tea in my little blue salon, and always had two or three people to keep me company. Prince Hohenlohe came often, settled himself in an armchair with his cup of tea, and talked easily and charmingly about everything. He was just back from Germany and reported Bismarck and the Emperor (I should have said, perhaps, the Emperor and Bismarck) as rather worried over the rapid strides France was making in radicalism. He reassured them, told them Grévy was essentially a man of peace, and, as long as moderate men like W., Léon Say, and their friends remained in office, things would go quietly. "Yes, if they remain. I have an idea we shan't stay much longer, and report says Freycinet will be the next premier." He evidently had heard the same report, and spoke warmly of Freycinet,--intelligent, energetic, and such a precise mind. If W. were obliged to resign, which he personally would regret, he thought Freycinet was the coming man--unless Gambetta wanted to be premier. He didn't think he did, was not quite ready yet, but his hand might be forced by his friends, and of course if he wanted it, he would be the next Président du Conseil. He also told me a great many things that Blowitz had said to him--he had a great opinion of him--said he was so marvellously well-informed of all that was going on. It was curious to see how a keen, clever man like Prince Hohenlohe attached so much importance to anything that Blowitz said. The nuncio, Monseigneur Czaski, came too sometimes at tea-time. He was a charming talker, but I always felt as if he were saying exactly what he meant to and what he wanted me to repeat to W. I am never quite sure with Italians. There is always a certain reticence under their extremely natural, rather exuberant manner. Monseigneur Czaski was not an Italian by birth--a Pole, but I don't know that they inspire much more confidence.

X

PARLIAMENT BACK IN PARIS

The question of the return of the Parliament to Paris had at last been solved after endless discussions. All the Republicans were in favour of it, and they were masters of the situation. The President, Grévy, too wanted it very much. If the Chambers continued to sit at Versailles, he would be obliged to establish himself there, which he didn't want to do. Many people were very unwilling to make the change, were honestly nervous about possible disturbances in the streets, and, though they grumbled too at the loss of time, the draughty carriages of the parliamentary train, etc., they still preferred those discomforts to any possibility of rioting and street fights, and the invasion of the Chamber of Deputies by a Paris mob. W. was very anxious for the change.

He didn't in the least anticipate any trouble--his principal reason for wanting the Parliament back was the loss of time, and also to get rid of the conversations in the train, which tired him very much. He never could make himself heard without an effort, as his voice was low, had no "timbre," and he didn't hear his neighbours very well in the noise of the train. He always arrived at the station at the last minute, and got into the last carriage, hoping to be undisturbed, and have a quiet half-hour with his papers, but he was rarely left alone. If any deputy who wanted anything recognised him, he of course got in the same carriage, because he knew he was sure of a half-hour to state his case, as the minister couldn't get away from him. The Chambers met, after a short vacation in November, at last in Paris, and already there were so many interpellations announced on every possible subject, so many criticisms on the policy of the cabinet, and so many people wanting other people's places, that the session promised to be very lively--the Senate at the Palais du Luxembourg, the Deputies at the Palais Bourbon.

W. and I went over to the Luxembourg one morning early in October, to see the arrangements that had been made for the Senate. He wanted too to choose his seat. I hadn't been there in the daytime for years--I had dined once or twice at the Petit Palais with various presidents of the Senate, but my only impression was a very long drive (from the Barrière de l'Etoile where we lived) and fine high rooms with heavy gilt furniture and tapestries. The palace was built by Maria de' Medici, wife of Henri IV. After the death of that very chivalrous but very undomestic monarch, she retired to the Luxembourg, and from there as regent (her son Louis XIII was only ten years old when his father died) for some years directed the policy of France under the guidance of her favourite, the Italian Concini, and his wife.

The palace recalls very much the Palazzo Pitti in Florence, with its solid masonry and rather severe heavy architecture. It must have been a gloomy residence, notwithstanding the beautiful gardens with their broad alleys and great open spaces. The gardens are stiff, very Italian, with statues, fountains, and marble balustrades--not many flowers, except immediately around the palace, but they were flooded with sunshine that day, and the old grey pile seemed to rise out of a parterre of bright flowers. The palace has been slightly modernised, but the general architecture remains the same. Many people of all kinds have lived there since it was built--several royal princes, and the Emperor Napoleon when he was First Consul. He went from there to the Tuileries. The Luxembourg Palace has always been associated with the history of France. During the Revolution it was a prison, and many of the curious scenes one reads of at that period took place in those old walls--the grandes dames so careful of their dress and their manners, the grands seigneurs so brave and gallant, striving in every way by their witty conversation and their music (for they sang and played in the prisons all through that awful time) to distract the women and make them forget the terrible doom that was hanging over them. Many well-known people went straight from the palace to the scaffold. It seemed a fitting place for the sittings of the Senate and the deliberations of a chosen body of men, who were supposed to bring a maturer judgment and a wider experience in the discussion of all the burning questions of the day than the ardent young deputies so eager to have done with everything connected with the old régime and start fresh.