Chapter 13

Often when C. was sleeping or tired, I would take my book and establish myself in the garden. Paris might have been miles away, though only a few yards off there was a busy, crowded boulevard, but no noise seemed to penetrate the thick walls. Occasionally at the end of a quiet path I would see a black figure pacing backward and forward, with eyes fixed on a breviary. Once or twice a soeur jardinière with a big, flat straw hat over her coiffe and veil tending the flowers (there were not many) or weeding the lawn, sometimes convalescents or old ladies seated in armchairs under the trees, but there was never any sound of voices or of life. It was very reposeful (when one felt one could get away for a little while), but I think the absolute calm and monotony would pall upon one, and the "Call of the World"--the struggling, living, joyous world outside the walls--would be an irresistible temptation.

I walked about a good deal in my quarter in the morning, and made acquaintance with many funny little old squares and shops, merceries, flower and toy shops which had not yet been swallowed up by the enormous establishments like the Louvre, the Bon Marché, and the big bazaars. I don't know how they existed; there was never any one in the shops, and of course their choice was limited, but they were so grateful, their things were so much cheaper, and they were so anxious to get anything one wanted, that it was a pleasure to deal with them. Everything was much cheaper on that side--flowers, cakes, writing-paper, rents, servants' wages, stable equipment, horses' food. We bought some toys one year for one of our Christmas trees in the country from a poor old lame woman who had a tiny shop in one of the small streets running out of the rue du Bac. Her grandson, a boy of about twelve or fourteen, helped her in the shop, and they were so pleased and excited at having such a large order that they were quite bewildered. We did get what we wanted, but it took time and patience,--their stock was small and not varied. We had to choose piece by piece--horses, dolls, drums, etc.--and the writing down of the items and making up the additions was long and trying. I meant to go back after we left the Quai d'Orsay, but I never did, and I am afraid the poor old woman with her petit commerce shared the fate of all the others and could not hold out against the big shops.

One gets lazy about shopping. The first years we lived in the country we used to go ourselves to the big shops and bazaars in Paris for our Christmas shopping, but the heat and the crowd and the waiting were so tiring that we finally made arrangements with the woman who sold toys in the little town, La Ferté-Milon. She went to Paris and brought back specimens of all the new toys. We went into town one afternoon--all the toys were spread out on tables in her little parlour at the back of the shop (her little girl attending to the customers, who were consumed with curiosity as to why our carriage was waiting so long at the door) and we made our selection. She was a great help to us, as she knew all the children, their ages, and what they would like. She was very pleased to execute the commission--it made her of importance in the town, having the big boxes come down from Paris addressed to her, and she paid her journey and made a very good profit by charging two or three sous more on each article. We were quite willing to pay the few extra francs to be saved the fatigue of the long day's shopping in Paris. It also settled another difficult question--what to buy in a small country town. Once we had exhausted the butcher and the baker and the small groceries, there was not much to buy.

From the beginning of my life in the country, W. always wanted me to buy as much as possible in the town, and I was often puzzled. Now the shops in all the small country towns have improved. They have their things straight from Paris, with very good catalogues, so that one can order fairly well. The things are more expensive of course, but I think it is right to give what help one can to the people of the country. One cold winter at Bourneville, when we had our house full of people, there was a sudden call for blankets. I thought my "lingerie" was pretty well stocked, but one gentleman wanted four blankets on his bed, three over him and one under the sheet. A couple wanted the same, only one more, a blanket for a big armchair near the fire. I went in to La Ferté to see what I could find--no white blankets anywhere--some rather nice red ones--and plenty of the stiff (not at all warm) grey blankets they give to the soldiers. Those naturally were out of the question, but I took three or four red ones, which of course could not go in the guests' rooms, but were distributed on the beds of the family, their white ones going to the friends. After that experience I always had a reserve of blankets, but I was never asked for so many again. Living in the country, with people constantly staying in the house, gives one much insight into other people's way of living and what are the necessities of life for them. I thought our house was pretty well provided for. We were a large family party, and had all we wanted, but some of the demands were curious, varying of course with the nationalities.

The Chambers met in Paris at the end of November and took possession of their respective houses without the slightest disturbance of any kind. Up to the last moment some people were nervous and predicting all sorts of trouble and complications. We spent the Toussaint in the country with some friends, and their views of the future were so gloomy that it was almost contagious. One afternoon when we were all assembled in the drawing-room for tea, after a beautiful day's shooting, the conversation (generally retrospective) was so melancholy that I was rather impressed by it,--"The beginning of the end,--the culpable weakness of the Government and Moderate men, giving way entirely to the Radicals, an invitation to the Paris rabble to interfere with the sittings of the Chambers," and a variety of similar remarks.

It would have been funny if one hadn't felt that the speakers were really in earnest and anxious. However, nothing happened. The first few days there was a small, perfectly quiet, well-behaved crowd, also a very strong police force, at the Palais Bourbon, but I think more from curiosity and the novelty of seeing deputies again at the Palais Bourbon than from any other reason. If it were quiet outside, one couldn't say the same of the inside of the Chamber. The fight began hotly at once. Speeches and interpellations and attacks on the Government were the order of the day. The different members of the cabinet made statements explaining their policy, but apparently they had satisfied nobody on either side, and it was evident that the Chamber was not only dissatisfied but actively hostile.

W. and his friends were very discouraged and disgusted. They had gone as far as they could in the way of concessions. W., at any rate, would do no more, and it was evident that the Chamber would seize the first pretext to overthrow the ministry. W. saw Grévy very often. He was opposed to any change, didn't want W. to go, said his presence at the Foreign Office gave confidence to Europe,--he might perhaps remain at the Foreign Office and resign as Premier, but that, naturally, he wouldn't do. He was really sick of the whole thing.

Grévy was a thorough Republican but an old-fashioned Republican,--not in the least enthusiastic, rather sceptical--didn't at all see the ideal Republic dreamed of by the younger men--where all men were alike--and nothing but honesty and true patriotism were the ruling motives. I don't know if he went as far as a well-known diplomatist, Prince Metternich, I think, who said he was so tired of the word fraternité that if he had a brother he would call him "cousin." Grévy was certainly very unwilling to see things pass into the hands of the more advanced Left. I don't think he could have done anything--they say no constitutional President (or King either) can.

There was a great rivalry between him and Gambetta. Both men had such a strong position in the Republican party that it was a pity they couldn't understand each other. I suppose they were too unlike--Gambetta lived in an atmosphere of flattery and adulation. His head might well have been turned--all his familiars were at his feet, hanging upon his words, putting him on a pinnacle as a splendid patriot. Grévy's entourage was much calmer, recognising his great ability and his keen legal mind, not so enthusiastic but always wanting to have his opinion, and relying a good deal upon his judgment. There were of course all sorts of meetings and conversations at our house, with Léon Say, Jules Ferry, Casimir Périer, and others. St. Vallier came on from Berlin, where he was still ambassador. He was very anxious about the state of affairs in France--said Bismarck was very worried at the great step the Radicals had made in the new Parliament--was afraid the Moderate men would have no show. _I_ believe he was pleased and hoped that a succession of incapable ministries and internal quarrels would weaken France still more--and prevent her from taking her place again as a great power. He wasn't a generous victor.

As long as W. was at the Foreign Office things went very smoothly. He and St. Vallier thought alike on most subjects, home politics and foreign--and since the Berlin Congress, where W. had come in touch with all the principal men in Germany, it was of course much easier for them to work together. We dined generally with my mother on Sunday night--particularly at this time of the year, when the official banquets had not begun and our Sundays were free. The evenings were always interesting, as we saw so many people, English and Americans always, and in fact all nationalities. We had lived abroad so much that we knew people all over the world,--it was a change from the eternal politics and "shop" talk we heard everywhere else. Some of them, English particularly (I don't think the Americans cared much about foreign politics), were most interested and curious over what was going on, and the probable fall of the cabinet. An English lady said to me: "How dreadful it will be for you when your husband is no longer minister; your life will be so dull and you will be of so much less importance." The last part of the sentence was undoubtedly true--any functionary's wife has a certain importance in France, and when your husband has been Foreign Minister and Premier, you fall from a certain height, but I couldn't accept the first part, that my life would be necessarily dull because I was no longer what one of my friends said in Italy, speaking of a minister's wife, a donna publica. I began to explain that I really had some interest in life outside of politics, but she was so convinced of the truth of her observation that it was quite useless to pursue the conversation, and I naturally didn't care. Another one, an American this time, said to me: "I hope you don't mind my never having been to see you since you were married, but I never could remember your name; I only knew it began with W. and one sees it very often in the papers."

Arthur Sullivan, the English composer, was there one night. He had come over to Paris to hear one of his symphonies played at the Conservatoire, and was very much pleased with the way it had been received by that very critical audience. He was quite surprised to find the Parisians so enthusiastic--had always heard the Paris Salle was so cold.

Miss Kellogg, the American prima donna, was there too that evening, and we made a great deal of music, she singing and Sullivan accompanying by heart. Mrs. Freeman, wife of one of the English secretaries, told W. that Queen Victoria had so enjoyed her talk with him--"quite as if I were talking with one of my own ministers." She had found Grévy rather stiff and reserved--said their conversation was absolutely banal. They spoke in French, and as Grévy knew nothing of England or the English, the interview couldn't have been interesting.

We saw a great many people that last month, dined with all our colleagues of the diplomatic corps. They were already dîners d'adieux, as every day in the papers the fall of the ministry was announced, and the names of the new ministers published. I think the diplomatists were sorry to see W. go, but of course they couldn't feel very strongly on the subject. Their business is to be on good terms with all the foreign ministers, and to get as much as they can out of them. They are, with rare exceptions, birds of passage, and don't trouble themselves much about changing cabinets. However, they were all very civil, not too diffuse, and one had the impression that they would be just as civil to our successor and to his successor. It must be so; there is no profession so absolutely banal as diplomacy. All diplomatists, from the ambassador to the youngest secretary, must follow their instructions, and if by any chance an ambassador does take any initiative, profiting by being on the spot, and knowing the character of the people, he is promptly disowned by his chief.

I had grown very philosophical, was quite ready to go or to stay, didn't mind the fight any more nor the attacks on W., which were not very vicious, but so absurd that no one who knew him could attach the least importance to them. He didn't care a pin. He had always been a Protestant, with an English name, educated in England, so the reiteration of these facts, very much exaggerated and leading up to the conclusion that on account of his birth and education he couldn't be a convinced French Republican, didn't affect him very much. He had always promised me a winter in Italy when he left office. He had never been in Rome, and I was delighted at the prospect of seeing that lovely land again, all blue sky and bright sun and smiling faces.

We dined often with M.L., W.'s uncle, who kept us au courant of all (and it was little) that was going on in the Royalist camp, but that was not of importance. The advanced Republicans were having it all their own way, and it was evident that the days of conciliatory measures and moderate men were over. W. was not a club man, went very rarely to his club, but his uncle went every afternoon before dinner, and gave us all the potins (gossip) of that world, very hostile to the Republic, and still quite believing that their turn would come. His uncle was not of that opinion. He was a very clever man, a diplomatist who had lived in a great many places and known a great many people, and was entirely on the Royalist side, but he thought their cause was a lost one, at least for a time. He often asked some of his friends to meet us at dinner, said it was a good thing for W. to hear what men on the other side thought, and W. was quite pleased to meet them. They were all absolutely opposed to him in politics, and discussion sometimes ran high, but there was never anything personal--all were men of the world, had seen many changes in France in their lives; many had played a part in politics under the former régimes. It seemed to me that they underrated the intelligence and the strength of the Republican party.

One of the regular habitués was the Marquis de N., a charming man, fairly broad-minded (given the atmosphere he lived in) and sceptical to the highest degree. He was a great friend of Marshal MacMahon, and had been préfet at Pau, where he had a great position. He was very dictatorial, very outspoken, but was a great favourite, particularly with the English colony, which is large there in the hunting-season. He had accepted to dine one night with an English family, who lived in a villa a little out of town. They had an accident en route, which delayed them very much, and when he and the marquise arrived the party was at table. He instantly had his carriage called back and left the house in spite of all the explanations and apologies of his host, saying that when "one had the honour of receiving the Marquis de N. one waited dinner for him."

We saw always a great deal of him, as his daughter married the Comte de F., who was for some time in W.'s cabinet at the Quai d'Orsay, and afterward with us the ten years we were at the London Embassy, where they were quite part of the family. They were both perfectly fitted for diplomatic life, particularly in England. Both spoke English well, knew everybody, and remembered all the faces and all the names, no easy thing in England, where the names and titles change so often. I know several Englishwomen who have had four different names. Lady Holland was also a friend of "Oncle Alphonse" and dined there often. She was delicate-looking, rather quiet in general conversation, though she spoke French easily, but was interesting when she was talking to one or two people. We went often to her beautiful house in London, the first years we were at the embassy, and always met interesting people. Her salon was very cosmopolitan--every one who came to London wanted to go to Holland House, which was a museum filled with beautiful things.

Another lady who was often at my uncle's was quite a different type, Mademoiselle A., an old pupil of the Conservatoire, who had made a short career at the Comédie Française many years before. She was really charming, and her stories of the coulisses and the jalousies between the authors and the actors, particularly the stars (who hardly accepted the slightest observation from the writer of the play), were most amusing. Once the piece was accepted it passed into the domain of the theatre, and the actors felt at liberty to interpret the rôles according to their ideas and traditions. She had a perfect diction; it was a delight to hear her. She recited one night one of Alphonse Daudet's little contes, "Lettres de Mon Moulin," I think, beginning--"Qui n'a pas vu Avignon du temps des Papes n'a rien vu." One couldn't hear anything more charming, in a perfectly trained voice, and so easily and naturally said.

I suppose no one would listen to it in these days. Bridge has suppressed all conversation or music or artistic enjoyment of any kind. It must come to an end some day like all crazes, but at the present moment it has destroyed society. It has been a godsend to many people of no particular importance or position who have used it as a stepping-stone to get into society. If people play a good game of bridge, they are welcome guests in a great many houses which formerly would have been closed to them, and it is a great resource to ladies no longer very young, widows and spinsters, who find their days long and don't know what to do with their lives.

Notwithstanding his preoccupations, W. managed to get a few days' shooting in November. He shot several times at Rambouillet with Grévy, who was an excellent shot, and his shooting breakfasts were very pleasant. There was plenty of game, everything very well organised, and the company agreeable. He always asked the ministers, ambassadors, and many of the leading political men and very often some of his old friends, lawyers and men of various professions whom W. was delighted to meet. Their ideas didn't run in grooves like most of the men he lived with, and it was a pleasure to hear talk that wasn't political nor personal. The vicious attacks upon persons were so trying those first days of the Republic. Every man who was a little more prominent than his neighbour seemed a target for every kind of insinuation and criticism.

We went for two days to "Pout," Casimir Périer's fine place in the département de l'Aube, where we had capital shooting. It was already extremely cold for the season--the big pond in the court was frozen hard, and the wind whistled about our ears when we drove in an open carriage to join the shooters at breakfast. Even I, who don't usually feel the cold, was thankful to be well wrapped up in furs. The Pavillon d'Hiver looked very inviting as we drove up--an immense fire was blazing in the chimney, another just outside, where the soup and ragout for the army of beaters were being prepared. We all had nice little foot-warmers under our chairs, and were as comfortable as possible. It was too warm in fact when the shooters came in and we sat down to breakfast. We were obliged to open the door. The talk was entirely "shop" at breakfast, every man telling what he had killed, or missed, and the minute they had finished breakfast, they started off again. We followed one or two battues (pheasants), but it was really too cold, and we were glad to walk home to get warm.

The dinner and evening were pleasant--everybody talking--most of them criticising the Government freely. W. didn't mind, they were all friends. He defended himself sometimes, merely asking what they would have done in his place--he was quite ready to receive any suggestions--but nothing practical ever came out of the discussions. I think the most delightful political position in the world must be "leader of the opposition"--you have no responsibilities, can concentrate all your energies in pointing out the weak spots in your adversary's armour, and have always your work cut out for you, for as soon as one ministry falls, you can set to work to demolish its successor, which seems the most interesting occupation possible.

The great question which was disturbing the Chambers and the country was the general amnesty. That, of course, W. would never agree to. There might be exceptions. Some of the men who took part in the Commune were so young, little more than lads, carried away by the example of their elders and the excitement of the moment, and there were fiery patriotic articles in almost all the Republican papers inviting France to make the beau geste of la mère patrie and open her arms to her misguided children, and various sensible experienced men really thought it would be better to wipe out everything and start again with no dark memories to cast a shadow on the beginnings of the young Republic. How many brilliant, sanguine, impossible theories I heard advanced all those days, and how the few remaining members of the Centre Gauche tried to reason with the most liberal men of the Centre Droit and to persuade them frankly to face the fact that the country had sent a strong Republican majority to Parliament and to make the best of the fait accompli. I suppose it was asking too much of them to go back on the traditions of their lives, but after all they were Frenchmen, their country was just recovering from a terrible disaster, and had need of all her children. During the Franco-Prussian War all party feeling was forgotten. Every man was first a Frenchman in the face of a foreign foe, and if they could have stood firmly together in those first days after the war the strength of the country would have been wonderful. All Europe was astounded at the way in which France paid her milliards,--no one more so than Bismarck, who is supposed to have said that, if he could have dreamed that France could pay that enormous sum so quickly, he would have asked much more.

December was very cold, snow and ice everywhere, and very hard frosts, which didn't give way at all when the sun came out occasionally in the middle of the day. Everybody was skating, not only at the clubs of the Bois de Boulogne, but on the lakes, which happens very rarely, as the water is fairly deep. The Seine was full of large blocks of ice, which got jammed up against the bridges and made a jarring ugly sound as they knocked against each other. The river steamers had stopped running, and there were crowds of flaneurs loitering on the quais and bridges wondering if the cold would last long enough for the river to be quite frozen over.