CHAPTER XXV

THE FRENCH PRESS

In the visit of Nicholas II. to Paris the press played a considerable part. Indeed in no country of the world do newspapers wield such an influence as they do in France, where the bourgeois, the workman, and the peasant believe implicitly in what the papers say, especially if his particular news-sheet has the chauvinistic opinions which he himself espouses. It would hardly have been possible to organise the magnificent reception which was awarded to the Emperor of Russia, if newspapers of all shades had not contributed to it their long articles written in praise of the future visitor and in general of the Russian nation and the Russian army. These were material factors in securing the popular demonstration that took place. Thanks to them the Russian loans were covered several times over, and Russian policy, be it in the East or elsewhere, was warmly supported by the powers that ruled at the Quai d’Orsay.

The Minister for Foreign Affairs at that time was M. Gabriel Hanotaux, himself a writer of no mean talent, and a journalist in his spare moments. A few years later he was to be elected to the Academy for his fine work on the life of Cardinal Richelieu. M. Hanotaux was an excessively shrewd man, and moreover one who had a vast knowledge of the world; he understood better than anyone else the use to which the press, and especially the daily press, can be put. He organised a special service which kept the whole of France informed as to the doings and sayings of the Russian Sovereigns, and was clever enough to give a spontaneous character to the vast manifestation of sympathy which threw France into the arms of Russia.

I don’t remember now who said, very wittily one must admit, that “each country and each epoch has the press which it deserves.” That phrase is far from being the paradox it seems, because it is an undeniable fact, and particularly so in France, that though the press leads public opinion, yet it is public opinion which leads the press into the road where its instincts--political or financial--tell it to go. And in the last twenty-five years the French, and especially the Parisian, press has undergone a total transformation. It is no longer what it was in the time of the Second Empire, when the restraining hand of the government was always more or less over its head. At present independence reigns among the papers that rule the boulevards, though this does not prevent the principal among them from accepting the inspirations which come either from the Quai d’Orsay or from the Place Beauveau. In the latter place, journalists had a good time of it during the few months when M. Clemenceau, the most brilliant among them, reigned as its master, and did not disdain to communicate to the press his views and his opinions on one or other of the questions of the day. The _Matin_, the _Journal_, the _Débats_, and especially the _Temps_, like to entertain their readers in an atmosphere favourable to the ministry which happens to be in power. The last-named paper has upon its staff men of the rarest literary merit, among others M. Tardieu, who writes the leaders on foreign affairs and of whom Prince von Bülow once said jokingly that there “existed in Europe three great Powers and--M. Tardieu.”

That opinion had been endorsed long before it was uttered by M. Adrien Hébrard, the greatest journalist that France can boast, and of whom she can justly be proud. M. Hébrard, if he had only wished it, might have become an important political personage, a minister, a member of the French Academy, but to all these glories he preferred the editorship of the _Temps_.

The paper is Republican in its opinions, with sometimes a leaning towards Radicalism, and stronger leanings still towards anti-Clericalism. At the same time, it has constantly displayed coolness in its judgments, and has always abstained from exaggerations either in one sense or the other. It has never failed in courtesy towards its antagonists, and has made itself respected, even when it has caused itself to be disliked. Everyone in political or social circles reads it with interest, and very often the news which it gives _en dernière heure_, as it is called, has a European importance, and is cabled all over the world. Its chronicles also are something more than those of other papers, and its dramatic weekly letter decides the success or failure of every new theatrical piece which sees the footlights of the principal Paris theatres.

Another serious paper, whose importance is almost as great as that of the _Temps_, is the old _Journal des Débats_, which is considered the organ of the Academy, and which certainly has always the last word to say concerning its elections.

In the _Débats_ correct polished French is always to be found. It is grave, pompous, essentially bourgeois in its opinions, and is not read by the multitude.

The three great organs that have acquired front-rank importance are certainly the _Matin_, the _Journal_, its rival in everything, even in impudence, and the _Petit Parisien_. You will find many people in Paris who do not know the _Temps_, except that they have seen it in the newspaper kiosks, you will find a great many more who do not know even that much about the _Débats_, but you will never come across any man or woman, to begin with your concierge, and to end with the foremost politician in the Chamber, who does not know the _Matin_ and its chief editor and proprietor, M. Alfred Edwards, of Lanthelme fame. In the opinion of many the _Matin_ is not a credit to French journalism.

More popular even than the _Matin_ are the _Journal_ and the _Petit Parisien_, whose proprietor, M. Jean Dupuy, has already been several times entrusted with a ministerial portfolio, and is a member of the Senate, where his opinion is always listened to with attention. The _Petit Parisien_ has many editions, and is extensively read in the provinces. It instils into millions of people the Radical opinions which it professes.

One of the reasons why everybody who can wield a pen in France turns to journalism nowadays lies in this knowledge that it leads to anything one likes--and principally to politics, after which every Frenchman craves. In olden times every young man wanted to become a member of the Bar, persuaded that the Bar alone could lead him to the Chamber and thence to become a member of the government. At present journalists have it all their own way. I won’t pretend to say that the change is by any means to advantage.

The general tone of the press lacks sadly of sympathy. Journalists like M. Hébrard become rarer and rarer every day. The press is no longer a tribune, it is something like the servants’ hall of political life, and though its successes are greater than they have ever been they are not lasting, and they are forgotten the very next hour after they have reached their culminating height.

Politics, thanks to this degeneration, have become a hurried, feverish occupation, are more talked about than discussed, more felt than acted upon. Ministries, too, change far too often for France to work out her regeneration with anything like stability, and at present she is obliged to lean upon Russia, because only in so doing can she have any hope of remaining a Great Power.

There are, however, a few great journalists left on the banks of the Seine, and I am sure that no one will contradict me when I say that one of the first places among the few is occupied by that remarkable man, Arthur Meyer, the son of a Jewish tailor and the grandson of a rabbi, who by a strange freak of destiny has become the most fervent supporter of both Monarchy and Catholicism. He was associated with Boulanger and also with that most ardent of anti-Semites, Edouard Drumont, and, after having become the friend, adviser, and counsellor of the Comte de Paris, who had replaced Napoleon III. in his affections, succeeded in being admitted into the intimacy of the Duchesse d’Uzès and the noblest great ladies of the noble Faubourg, where at last he found himself a wife in the person of the charming but dowerless daughter of the Comte and Comtesse de Turenne.

Such a career is one of the most curious products of our times, and stranger still than its success is the fact that no one, save a few bad tempered people whose opinions do not count and to whom no one listens, has ever expressed the least astonishment at its development. Paris has accepted M. Arthur Meyer just as it accepted the Republic and the institution of the Concours Hippique; and Parisian society has acquired the habit of turning to him not only for news but also for the manner in which it ought to be received. He has become an oracle among certain circles, and his whiskers, his ties, and the shape and cut of his clothes are copied not only by fashionable men but also by fashionable tailors. The morning coat of M. Meyer has replaced the frock coat of the Prince de Sagan, and the dinner-jacket of King Edward VII.

I quoted at the beginning the remark that every country has the press which it deserves. I can complete it by saying that every society has the leader that it merits. And Parisian fashionable circles can boast of having kept M. Arthur Meyer, though circumstances compelled it to lose Count Boni de Castellane.

I have mentioned the marriage of this favourite of the gods. People wondered at it excessively, but it would be extremely unfair to M. Meyer not to maintain that he decided to ask for the hand of Mademoiselle de Turenne under circumstances that were entirely to his honour. The young girl belonged to a family just as illustrious as it was poor, and though she had very rich relations, none of them attempted to do anything in her favour nor even to try to marry her in her own sphere. Arthur Meyer was a frequent visitor at the house of her parents, and had many opportunities of watching the revolts of a youthful mind disgusted at what it perceived of the injustices of the world. One day she told him that she did not know what she could do to escape the misery of her existence, adding that she knew that only two roads were open to her, either a convent or the free life of a woman who had put aside all prejudices and the principles in which she had been reared. “And,” she added, “I don’t want to become a nun, I have not got the courage to leave the society to which I belong, and I would never commit suicide. I have often wondered what I could do.”

Meyer was above all chivalrous, and the despair of that young and lovely woman touched him deeply. He did not love her, and he knew very well that she could feel no love for him, but he asked her to become his wife, and, after some hesitation, she accepted his offer. Of course society rose up in arms when it heard about it, but nevertheless neither her uncle, Count Louis de Turenne, nor her aunt, the Marquise de Nicolai, whose wealth could be counted by millions, ever tried by making her a small dowry to give her the chance of marrying within her own sphere.

And so, one fine autumn day, the son of a little Jewish tailor became the husband of a girl whose ancestry had helped in the making of some of the most glorious pages in the history of France. Verily, life holds strange surprises in reserve for those who care to watch it.

Arthur Meyer is altogether a curious type both as a man and as a journalist. One cannot help liking him even when one does not sympathise with his opinions, or with his person. He is an anomaly in everything, and no one would ever feel surprised at anything he might do or say. He has certainly forsaken his race and his creed, yet so thoroughly has he succeeded in impressing those who know him with his good qualities that he has never been repulsed for the light-heartedness with which he has burned the boats of his faith.

M. Arthur Meyer is the proprietor of the _Gaulois_, the fashionable organ of fashionable Paris, of the upper ten thousand who constitute Parisian society, that motley crowd in which unfortunately money is the only passport needed to ensure an entrance. It has one rival, the _Figaro_. The _Figaro_ is extremely well informed, has contributors of great talent, and is as eminently respectable as that kind of paper can be which devotes a large part to gossip more or less good-natured. But it is no longer what that king among journalists, Villemessant, had made it.

Of papers in which popular passions are constantly appealed to, and in which one only seeks the criticism of the existing government, only one, the _Presse_, deserves more than a passing mention, and that only because its editor was M. Henri Rochefort, who up to his death in 1913 always wrote the leading article which figures at the head of the paper. M. Rochefort was one of the most extraordinary productions of modern journalism, to which he gave a direction that had been unknown until he initiated it. His talent, which was essentially critical, bordering on satire when it did not frankly take that tinge, procured for him a celebrity which spread far and wide beyond the frontiers of France.

No one ever succeeded as he did in finding words that appealed to the mob, and which in a few words expressed so much. His _Lanterne_ contributed more than anything else to the fall of the Empire, and Napoleon III., who knew humanity perhaps better than anyone else, did not despise him as an adversary, although his importance was denied by Napoleon’s ministers and entourage, who advised him to pay no notice to the weekly attacks of the _Lanterne_ against his person and his government. One day M. Rouher tried to minimise the influence of that sheet, saying that though people read it, its attacks were despised. The Emperor replied that he knew it, but, he added, “I am also aware that there exist women whom we despise but to whom, nevertheless, we pay attention.”

There was a deep meaning in this simple phrase. Certain it was that all reasonable and well-thinking people despised the attacks against everything that others held sacred in which the Marquis de Rochefort Luçay continually indulged, but nevertheless the seeds blossomed in time; indeed, no one more than himself contributed to discredit authority. By this Rochefort became the idol of the Parisian masses, and remained its favourite until his death.

I was very fond of M. Rochefort, and used to find great pleasure in spending a few hours in his company whenever I found an opportunity. Nothing could be more amusing than his conversation; the mixture of cynicism and irony that now and then came out in brilliant paradoxes full of wit if devoid of common sense, constituted something quite unique, which was bound to appeal to the imagination of his listeners, and make them smile even when they felt a sense of distaste.

He believed in nothing, not even in himself; respected nothing, loved nothing, but liked many things--his collections, his pictures, his work, the influence which he imagined that he wielded around him, and which in reality was not so considerable as he thought. And he never hesitated before uttering one of his bon mots, or writing one of his bitter scathing articles, even when he was perfectly aware that by doing so he was hurting innocent people--people who had done no wrong, and who had only incurred his displeasure by being either related or connected with those who had become the subject of his criticism.

The best description that one can make of M. Rochefort would be that he was “perfectly unscrupulous,” and if he were still living I do not think he would deny that this was so. Rather, he would glory in it, because, as he once told me, “Dans ce monde il faut toujours mordre, ne fut ce que pour ôter aux autres la possibilité d’en faire autant avec vous” (“In this world one must always bite, if only to prevent others doing the same to you”). One could have replied to this remark that there are some mortal and some insignificant bites, and that it was not always the latter that he indulged in.

A curious peculiarity of M. Rochefort was that, fierce Republican though he pretended to be, yet he was inordinately fond of his name and of his title, and a servant who would forget to call him Monsieur le Marquis would be dismissed instantly. Bereft of his parents, and so without experience of the affection of home life, his earliest days were most difficult.

Until he attempted journalism he had been a subordinate clerk at the Hotel de Ville, earning barely enough to keep body and soul together. He never forgot this period of his existence, and, whenever he allowed himself to speak about it, a bitterness showed itself which he could not keep within bounds.

One day, alluding to those dark and hopeless times, when he had spent many hours scribbling at some wearisome task, he said to me: “It is impossible for anyone who has not undergone it to imagine what it feels like to see the spring and not be able to get out of doors.” The remark appeared to me almost too poetic to be the expression of a real feeling, but when I told him so, he replied quite earnestly: “Evidently you have never experienced what it is to know that you are a drudge, although possessing the inner feeling that you are born to better things.” I could not help then inquiring what his feelings had been when he was in prison, to which he exclaimed: “Oh, that was very different, one always comes out of prison, but sometimes one never escapes from the necessity of earning one’s bread and butter by copying the stupidities which other people have written.”

Before he died in July, 1913, the Marquis de Rochefort Luçay was a quasi-millionaire, the owner of one of the handsomest houses in all Paris, received everywhere that he cared to go, a desired guest, and an envied journalist. Even in his later days his pen was as sharp as ever, though perhaps it was no longer appreciated as was the case in the later days of the Empire.

He was often to be seen at the Hotel Drouot, attending the principal art sales of the year, where his knowledge of pictures and bibelots was highly appreciated. His life was like a fairy tale in many things, and in others like a dark nightmare. He made many foes, and kept few friends. Appearing to be everlastingly dissatisfied, he was yet one of the happiest men in the world--perhaps because he was one of the most selfish.