CHAPTER XVII

MADAME JULIETTE ADAM

It will be hardly possible ever to write a history of the Third Republic without mentioning Madame Juliette Adam, the beautiful, clever and attractive woman whose influence at the end of the nineteenth century, not only on some of the most important personalities in France but also on many foreign notabilities, was so considerable. Her efforts and influence had much to do with the development of the events which ultimately led to the consolidation of the French Republic, and which, after having been the object of her most ardent worship, ended by finding her one of its enemies. Some people are born under a lucky star; upon them everything smiles, and they can do nothing that fails to turn out well. Such a being was the lovely Juliette la Messine, who, timid and still unaware of her own personal attractions, appeared on the horizon of Paris society at one of the parties given by the Comtesse d’Agoult. The Countess was “Daniel Stern” in the world of letters, the mother of Cosima Wagner and Madame Emile Ollivier, and the heroine of the most lasting romance in the life of the composer Liszt. Madame d’Agoult, about whom I cannot say much because I have never met her, was in the late ’fifties a very important personage in Parisian society, though her own circle had repudiated her since the scandal of her adventure with Liszt. But though very few women cared to be seen at her house, most men of note, whether in politics or in the world of letters, considered it an honour to be asked to her house. She presided over a salon that dictated the tone in many things, and where she succeeded in grouping together many celebrities who, perhaps, but for her would never have had an opportunity of becoming acquainted with each other.

Juliette la Messine, then in the full bloom of her fair beauty, had just written a book of philosophy and criticism called “Les Idées anti-Proudhoniennes,” which was a reply to an attack made by Proudhon on Georges Sand and on Madame d’Agoult herself. She sent a copy of her book to Daniel Stern, who was very much struck by its virile, lucid composition, and thinking it was the work of a man who, in order to disguise his identity, had assumed a woman’s name, wrote in reply to the author, that she felt surprised at his having taken a feminine pseudonym, while women generally tried to pass off as men in their writings. When she saw Mlle. la Messine she was at once attracted by her peculiar and wonderful charm; a friendship that was only to come to an end with the life of the Comtesse d’Agoult was at once formed between the two women, who had a great deal in common, and who were both enthusiastic, eager to perform noble deeds and to work for the welfare of humanity. It was also at one of the receptions of Daniel Stern that Juliette la Messine met for the first time Edmond Adam, whom she was to marry later on and under whose name she was to reach celebrity.

One of the results of their marriage was the creation of a new salon in Paris, which very soon became a centre of political activity. It was at the time when the Republican party, vanquished by the _coup d’état_ of Napoleon III., by which he had definitely imposed himself and his dynasty upon a more surprised than terrified France, was beginning to raise its head again. Thiers, who at that particular moment thought fit to join the ranks of the enemies of the Empire, was continually reproaching Edmond Adam for his hesitation to throw himself into the battle, and was inviting him to work with all his strength for the overthrow of the Bonapartes, adding, what in fact he did not believe but he thought it to his advantage to seem to profess, that no government was possible in France except a Republic. Adam then said to his wife the following memorable words which she repeats in her memoirs: “I am quite ready to work for the Republic, more and better than I have done hitherto, but what can abstentionists like ourselves do for her?” Husband and wife organised their salon as a meeting place where adherents of Republican ideas could gather together and exchange their ideas and opinions. The parties given by Thiers in his hotel in the Rue St. Georges were generally frequented by the older members of the party, whilst the younger ones assembled with Laurent Pichat; both young and old could be met in the house of Madame Adam, who, with all the charm of her lovely face and the elegance of her graceful manners, made a most delightful hostess. The first people who assembled around her were for the most part literary men like Henri Martin, Legouvé, Hetzel the editor, Gaston Paris, Bixio, Garnier-Pagès, Toussenel, Nefftzer, Texier, Challemel-Lacour, Jules Ferry, Pelletan--all men well worthy to be appreciated by her. Some are already forgotten, whilst others will never be consigned to oblivion by those who follow them on the road of life. But very soon she tried to draw towards her all the younger forces of the Republican party, concentrating her attention specially upon Gambetta. She did not, in the early days, know him, but Adam, who had met him at a dinner with Laurent Pichat, had spoken to her of him with an enthusiasm that surprised her the more because he was not generally addicted to such expansive feelings. In this connection she relates with humour that she spoke to Hetzel, and asked him to bring to one of her dinners the young advocate, who had made for himself such a name already and whose reputation at the Bar was fast becoming considerable, especially since he had defended Delescluze against the government. Hetzel screamed with surprise when she proposed it, declaring that she did not know the man whom she proposed to admit at her hospitable table. Gambetta, he told her, was a vulgar, common sort of individual, blind of one eye, dirty and unkempt, with black nails, and walking about in disreputable clothes which, to add to his uncouth appearance, were never properly put on or properly fastened. Madame Adam insisted nevertheless. Her womanly instinct had guessed that if the man in question was really in possession of the genius attributed to him, it would be easy for him when once admitted in the houses of civilised people to adopt their manners and to polish his own. On the other hand, if he failed to notice the inadequacies of his first education, he would not be the man of value she had been led to think he could become, and in that case it would be easy to drop him after this first attempt at drawing him from the society with which he had hitherto associated. But she wanted to judge for herself, she persisted with Hetzel, and at last persuaded him to take her invitation to Gambetta.

The young advocate was at first very much surprised. He knew Edmond Adam, had vaguely heard he had a wife, but had never troubled to think about her much, therefore he was rather astonished to find himself the object of her attention; still he decided to go, saying at the same time to one of his friends of the Café Procope, where he generally used to spend his afternoons: “I shall accept; it will be curious to see what kind of woman Adam’s bourgeoise may be.”

A large and distinguished company had been asked to meet the Republican orator. Laurent Pichat, Eugène Pelletan, Challemel-Lacour, Jules Ferry, Hetzel, of course, and, lastly, the Marquis Jules de Lasteyrie, an intimate friend of Thiers and an ardent Orleanist, who, moreover, was one of the most elegant men in Paris. The latter had begged hard to be included in that dinner, as he was excessively interested in Gambetta, and having arrived a little in advance of the other guests, he said to Madame Adam that he would repeat all the incidents of the dinner to Thiers, whom he knew to be very anxious to hear his opinion about “the young monster,” as he called him.

Gambetta had imagined that he was going to one of those houses where an utter absence of the conventionalities of life is the order of the day, and that consequently he would not be required, as it were, even to wash his hands before making his appearance at the hospitable board to which he had been bidden. He arrived in one of those indescribable costumes which are neither evening nor morning dress, with a waistcoat buttoned high up to the throat and a flannel shirt. He found the whole company in orthodox evening dress, and his hostess in a lovely velvet costume, out of which the most beautiful pair of shoulders were looming in their snowy whiteness. He tried to excuse himself, saying vaguely: “If I had only guessed.” “You probably would have refused my invitation,” replied his hostess. “It is not nice of you to say so.”

Everybody felt more or less embarrassed. Lasteyrie, who was always indulgent with the extravagances of mankind, could not help whispering into Adam’s ear: “If at least he had donned the blouse of the common workman, I could have forgiven him, but this kind of get up!” And he made a gesture of despair.

No woman alive had greater tact than Madame Adam. Seeing the embarrassment of Gambetta, as well as the look of disgust with which her other guests observed him, she went up to the Marquis de Lasteyrie, and in a low voice told him that in order to try and mend matters she was going to dispossess him from the seat of honour which belonged to him by right, and to give her arm to Gambetta. “You are quite right,” replied the Marquis. “If you did anything else, the servants might be tempted to forget to offer him some soup. And besides, this will allow us to see whether he understands great things and their meaning.”

Juliette Lambert, to give her her pseudonym in literature, to her husband’s amazement, walked up to Gambetta, and took his arm to go down to the dining-room. When they were seated, the Radical leader bent down towards her ear, and in very humble tones told her that he would never forget the lesson she had given to him in such a delicate manner. He understood the meaning of great things, and had emerged to his honour from a very trying experience.

It was, however, much later that Gambetta became a regular visitor at the house of Madame Adam. Years had passed since his first introduction to her, and poor Juliette Lambert had gone through bitter trials that had left their everlasting impress on her ardent and enthusiastic nature. The war with all its horrors, the Commune with all its terrors, had shaken her bright equanimity, and in that generous soul one feeling had taken the place of almost every other--a deep love for her poor humiliated country; a passionate desire to see her once more occupying the proud position from which fate and the mistakes of men had despoiled her. Later on, when the husband she loved so fondly was snatched away from her, and when, beside her daughter and the children of the latter, she found herself with no one to love in the whole wide world, she attached herself to that one idea and ambition--to revenge the humiliations of 1870, to get back for that France, to whom all her energies were devoted, those provinces which she had lost, and to revenge herself on the conqueror to whom she had owed the shattering of so many of her brightest dreams.

She had always been the enemy of the Bonaparte dynasty; she could not, though she was on very good terms with several members of the Orleans family, reconcile herself to their stepping upon the throne left vacant by Napoleon III. She had always adored liberty, that of nations as well as that of individuals, and she imagined that that ideal Republic she had dreamt of could be brought into existence and would be able to give back to France her glory and prestige.

This one idea dominated all her actions and inspired all her writings. She used all the resources of her wonderful intelligence, all the activity of her remarkable mind, and all her knowledge and her experience of the world to realise it. She opened once more the doors of her salon, which had remained closed after the death of Edmond Adam, and though at the bottom of her heart an inconsolable widow, she forced herself to present to the glances of others the appearance of a woman without heartache. Everybody who approached her, even those who did not share her opinions either in politics or in intellectual and moral matters, fell under the influence of her charm, and were subjugated by her enthusiasm and her earnest, ardent words. One could see at a glance that she was sincere, true--a friend on whom one could always rely, and an enemy who would always fight loyally. Moreover, her clear mind had the faculty of looking into the future with an extraordinary perspicacity, and she seldom was mistaken in her judgments of men or facts. She it was who for the first time suggested to her friends the possibility of an alliance with Russia, by which French prestige might be strengthened. She it was who began working for it at a time when even wise political men in both countries only smiled when such a thing was mentioned in their presence.

It has been said that she was an irreconcilable enemy of Germany. In a certain sense this was true, but there was no preconceived hatred in her feelings. She detested Germans because she had seen them trampling her unfortunate country under their feet, because she had owed to them some of the bitterest hours she had had to go through in her life. Yet she had no aversion to German culture, and could recognise the great qualities of the German race, qualities which, perhaps, gave her even more reasons to detest it. She was above everything else just. Her character had too much real greatness about it ever to give way to any mean or petty feeling, even where an enemy was concerned.

When I lived in Paris I used to see her daily. She was then at the height of her beauty and fame, and political men of all shades used to crowd to her receptions, and to bow down before her splendid grace and proud demeanour. She was considered as the real Queen of the Third Republic, and no important political measure was undertaken by any member of the government of that day without her having been consulted about its opportuneness. No one ever regretted having asked her advice or trusted to the clearness of her judgments; nor could any say that she had revealed the slightest fraction of all the secrets of state which had been confided to her.

I do not believe a more discreet person ever lived, and it is a great deal to that immense and so rare quality that she owed the influence she managed to acquire with all, without exception, who came into contact with her. I can talk about it the more easily because on several different occasions I had the opportunity to convince myself personally of her discretion. Most certainly among her many qualities I believe it was the latter that her friends, and among them Gambetta, appreciated the most in her. The great orator had never forgotten that first dinner to which she had asked him, and later on, when the fall of the Empire had drawn them more together, he began, with discretion at first and with impetuosity at last, to consult her and to confide in her all his dreams of glory. She grew not only to like him, but to feel for him a great, deep, true affection, one of those that a woman can only experience when she has reached middle life, known what the storms of the heart mean, and, greatest joy of all, felt what it is to be everything and yet nothing in another man’s life. One can boldly affirm that it was she who made Gambetta what he became in the later years of his life, that it was to her he owed the great development of his fighting qualities, as well as the great dignity of which he gave proofs in so many important questions, a dignity that in those long bygone days, when he had appeared with a flannel shirt at the first dinner given in his honour by Juliette Lambert, no one supposed he could ever attain. Gambetta, who also could very quickly discover the good and the bad sides of the people with whom he was thrown into contact, experienced in time for her a reverence such as he had never imagined he could feel for any woman in the wide world. He not only admired her mind, but he also recognised the great superiority which her culture, apart from everything else, gave her over him, and he soon turned to her to solve all his doubts, and to be advised as to all that he was to do to successfully reach the eminence to which he had aspired from the first day he arrived in Paris, a poor student, with hardly enough money in his pocket to be able to dine every day.

But, strange to say, when one thinks of the exceptional physical advantages and charm of Madame Adam, he never for one single moment allowed himself to pay any banal attentions to her; she perhaps was not quite so devoid of a nearer feeling of attraction towards him.

In truth, Gambetta placed her so high in his thoughts that it had never occurred to him to discover that underneath the adviser and counsellor, to whom he turned for comfort and encouragement at almost every instant of his life, there could exist a fair, beautiful woman with a womanly heart and womanly feelings. He did not realise that, in associating herself with his dreams and his ambitions, she also associated with them, perhaps even unknown to herself, her own future and her own existence. Perhaps this misunderstanding, which circumstances and not their own will had created between them, influenced their relations towards the end of the life of Gambetta, but, let it be said to the honour of Madame Adam, she never allowed the ignorance of her charms in which her friend indulged to influence her friendship for him, and, with a strength of character such as very few women would have been capable of, she sacrificed herself to his future and only thought of his successes. She tried to persuade herself of the fact she had contrived long ago to impress upon others, i.e. that she was living only for her child and for her country, and that she was above everything a great patriot, “une grande française,” and nothing else.

She still believed in the Republic at that period of life when I first met her. She still hoped that it would bring to her beloved France the peace and the prosperity she so passionately desired for it. Later on, however, she was destined to experience in that hope, too, some of the greatest disappointments of her whole life. For a woman with high ideals and a great moral aim, as was the case with her, nothing could be harder to bear than the slow realisation that she had nursed a false ideal, the conviction that she had worshipped at a wrong altar. And yet this great trial was not spared to her who had already suffered so much. Little by little the scales had fallen from her eyes, and she discovered that personal ambitions, personal greed, and personal intrigues flourish just as much and just as well, and perhaps even more, under a republic than under a monarchy. She saw that humanity remains unchangeable, whilst things undergo many transformations, that bad passions never die, and that good and virtuous people are always the victims of those who are their inferiors in moral worth.

I remember one evening that I happened to be alone with Gambetta, at about the time that he became Prime Minister, we discussed together Madame Adam. He spoke of her with feelings not only of reverence, but also with an admiration the more remarkably expressed in that it was done without the usual enthusiasm which he generally displayed when talking about things or people who were near to his heart. He told me that but for her he would certainly never have reached to the political eminence on which he found himself. We were old friends, and I could allow myself to touch upon delicate subjects with him; so I ventured to ask him whether the beauty of Juliette Lambert had ever made an impression on him. He replied without the slightest hesitation that he had never thought about it, so perfectly superior she had appeared to him, intellectually, and so entirely he had put her upon a pedestal whence he had never once thought that she could come down. I asked him then brutally why the thought of the great things he could have achieved together with her, had he made of her the companion of his life, had never struck him. Gambetta looked at me very closely, then after a few moments of silence softly said: “I would never have dared to allow my thoughts to rest upon that idea, I know myself but too well, and I would not have had the courage to make her unhappy. Believe me, that woman would never suffer more from anything than from the loss of her illusions, and she sees in me the man she has created, not the man that in reality I am.”

I have often thought of these words, of the great Republican leader, especially when in later years, long after he had entered into eternal rest, I saw Madame Adam once again on my return to Paris after a long absence. A great transformation had taken place in her. She had witnessed that loss of her illusions to which her friend had referred, and suffered from it just as he had foreshadowed. She had seen her beloved France not able to come out of the mesh of intrigues and miseries into which the man who by the force of events had become ruler had entangled France, and she had realised that her conception of a Republic, such as she had dreamt of, was an impossibility; that it is not by changing its form of government a nation rises to greatness and glory. She had been obliged to assist, powerless to avert it, the destruction of all the plans which she had made together with those men who had been her friends, and among whom so many had become her adversaries, according as the gulf of the opinions that had come to divide them had grown broader and broader. She had experienced that grief which is so very acute to a warm, womanly heart such as hers, of finding that she had no longer the power to influence those who formerly had cherished the same high ideals that in that beautiful world her imagination had conjured she had placed before everything else.

Death, too, had robbed her of much that she had leaned upon, both in France and abroad; she had undergone those fiery trials out of which noble souls emerge greater, nobler, more valiant and splendid than before, but under the weight of which vulgar natures are destroyed. After all these moral struggles and inward battles she had acquired even more courage, more indulgence, more charity, and more faith in the Infinite, and in an Eternity to which perhaps she had not given much attention in the days of her youth, when the world was at her feet and sovereigns bowed before her inimitable grace. To these consolations her tired, weary soul turned when everything else had failed her. The transformation that has taken place in the personality of Juliette Lambert is one of those phenomena that, when met with, remains always the subject of the deepest admiration on the part of those who have watched the change come about, and have followed its various phases.

Politics, that used to be the all-engrossing subject in the life of Madame Adam, have now dropped to the second plane, and purely intellectual subjects engross her more. Her affection for her beloved France, though it remains still the one absorbing passion of her life, is no longer expressed by the old wild desire to see France revenged upon her enemies. Her patriotism has assumed proportions that give it more earnestness, more steadfastness, and thus it makes the greater impression on others, and carries an authority that passion, when expressed violently, can never attain. She has obliged strangers to respect her patriotism, and to see her in that graver, sober light which alone is worthy of the great patriot that she has always been, of the woman who in success as well as in disaster has never despaired of the resources of her country, nor of its power to arise, stronger and more powerful than it was before, out of disaster and ruin, and, worse evil than any other, out of the intrigues of unscrupulous men who want to use her, in order to further their own greed or their own gain.

With that difference Juliette Lambert in her old age has remained what she was in her youth, a noble, charming woman, kind and affectionate, with the warmest of hearts and the most generous character. She lives mostly in the country, in a dear old house, formerly a cloister in those olden times when a king reigned over France. L’Abbaye du Val de Gyf, as it is called, is one of those lovely dwellings where everything speaks of peace and rest, and of the high soul and earnest mind of its owner. There, among her books and her roses, and her dogs and her birds, she lives in quietness, and spends her days thinking of the past, and writing her wonderful reminiscences. There her friends come and see her, as often as she allows them to do so, there one of her best loved friends, the unfortunate Queen Amélie of Portugal, has often fled for consolation, because the closest intimacy unites the fiery Republican and the daughter of the Bourbons. There Madame Adam forgets her disillusions, and thinks only of the good things which life has left her.

The last time I saw her in her beautiful home at Gyf we talked about old times, and all those hopes of the great things which we both had expected out of the Franco-Russian alliance. She frankly owned to me that it had not realised the great hopes that she had trusted it would, and rather bitterly remarked that “things we yearn after very much never turn out quite like we have expected they will when they come to be realised. But then,” she added with a shade of malice, “how very seldom do we see what we wish for realised in general?”

And thus I take leave of her, after an acquaintance that stretches over more than a quarter of a century, the same loving, delightful, clever and kind woman that she has always been, with her serene smile, and grave, serious eyes that have always looked upon humanity through the windows of her soul, and never through the spectacles of envy, hatred, or any of those bad feelings that most human beings indulge in. An exception she has always stood amongst women, and an exception she will remain for all those who later on, even when she too has disappeared from this mortal scene, will read about her, and think what a noble, beautiful creature she has always proved herself to be.