Читать книгу My First Years as a Frenchwoman, 1876-1879 - Mary King Waddington - Страница 8

The sittings of the assembly were very interesting in that wonderful year when everything was being discussed. All public interest of course was centred in Versailles, where the National Assembly was trying to establish some sort of stable government. There were endless discussions and speeches and very violent language in the Chambers. Gambetta made some bitter attacks on the Royalists, accusing them of mauvaise foi and want of patriotism. The Bonapartist leaders tried to persuade themselves and their friends that they still had a hold on the country and that a plébiscite would bring back in triumph their prince. The Legitimists, hoping against hope that the Comte de Chambord would still be the saviour of the country, made passionate appeals to the old feeling of loyalty in the nation, and the centre droit, representing the Orleanists, nervous, hesitating, knowing the position perfectly, ardently desiring a constitutional monarchy, but feeling that it was not possible at that moment, yet unwilling to commit themselves to a final declaration of the Republic, which would make a Royalist restoration impossible. All the Left confident, determined.

The Republic was voted on the 30th of January, 1875, by a majority of one vote, if majority it could be called, but the great step had been taken, and the struggle began instantly between the moderate conservative Republicans and the more advanced Left. W. came home late that day. Some of his friends came in after dinner and the talk was most interesting. I was so new to it all that most of the names of the rank and file were unknown to me, and the appreciations of the votes and the anecdotes and side-lights on the voters said nothing to me. Looking back after all these years, it seems to me that the moderate Royalists (centre droit) threw away a splendid chance. They could not stop the Republican wave (nothing could) but they might have controlled it and directed it instead of standing aloof and throwing the power into the hands of the Left. We heard the well-known sayings very often those days: "La République sera conservatrice ou elle ne sera pas" and "La République sans Républicains," attributed to M. Thiers and Marshal MacMahon. The National Assembly struggled on to the end of the year, making a constitution, a parliament with two houses, senate and chamber of deputies, with many discussions and contradictions, and hopes and illusions.

[Illustration: Sitting of the National Assembly at the palace of

Versailles. From l'Illustration, March 11, 1876]

I went often to Versailles, driving out when the weather was fine. I liked the stormy sittings best. Some orator would say something that displeased the public, and in a moment there would be the greatest uproar, protestations and accusations from all sides, some of the extreme Left getting up, gesticulating wildly, and shaking their fists at the speaker—the Right, generally calm and sarcastic, requesting the speaker to repeat his monstrous statements—the huissiers dressed in black with silver chains, walking up and down in front of the tribune, calling out at intervals: "Silence, messieurs, s'il vous plaît,"—the President ringing his bell violently to call the house to order, and nobody paying the slightest attention—the orator sometimes standing quite still with folded arms waiting until the storm should abate, sometimes dominating the hall and hurling abuse at his adversaries. W. was always perfectly quiet; his voice was low, not very strong, and he could not speak if there were an uproar. When he was interrupted in a speech he used to stand perfectly still with folded arms, waiting for a few minutes' silence. The deputies would call out: "Allez! allez!" interspersed with a few lively criticisms on what he was saying to them; he was perfectly unmoved, merely replied: "I will go on with pleasure as soon as you will be quiet enough for me to be heard." Frenchmen generally have such a wonderful facility of speech, and such a pitiless logic in discussing a question, that the debates were often very interesting. The public was interesting too. A great many women of all classes followed the sittings—several Egerias (not generally in their first youth) of well-known political men sitting prominently in the President's box, or in the front row of the journalists' box, following the discussions with great interest and sending down little slips of paper to their friends below—members' wives and friends who enjoyed spending an hour or two listening to the speeches—newspaper correspondents, literary ladies, diplomatists. It was very difficult to get places, particularly when some well-known orators were announced to speak upon an important question. We didn't always know beforehand, and I remember some dull afternoons with one or two members making long speeches about purely local matters, which didn't interest any one. We looked down upon an almost empty hall on those occasions. A great many of the members had gone out and were talking in the lobbies; those who remained were talking in groups, writing letters, walking about the hall, quite unconscious apparently of the speaker at the tribune. I couldn't understand how the man could go on talking to empty benches, but W. told me he was quite indifferent to the attention of his colleagues—his speech was for his electors and would appear the next day in the Journal Officiel. I remember one man talked for hours about "allumettes chimiques."

Léon Say was a delightful speaker, so easy, always finding exactly the word he wanted. It hardly seemed a speech when he was at the tribune, more like a causerie, though he told very plain truths sometimes to the peuple souverain. He was essentially French, or rather Parisian, knew everybody, and was au courant of all that went on politically and socially, and had a certain blague, that eminently French quality which is very difficult to explain. He was a hard worker, and told me once that what rested him most after a long day was to go to a small boulevard theatre or to read a rather lively yellowbacked novel.

I never heard Gambetta speak, which I always regretted—in fact knew very little of him. He was not a ladies' man, though he had some devoted women friends, and was always surrounded by a circle of political men whenever he appeared in public. (In all French parties, immediately after dinner, the men all congregate together to talk to each other—never to the women—so unless you happen to find yourself seated next to some well-known man, you never really have a chance of talking to him.) Gambetta didn't go out much, and as by some curious chance he was never next to me at dinner, I never had any opportunity of talking to him. He was not one of W.'s friends, nor an habitué of the house. His appearance was against him—dark, heavy-looking, with an enormous head.

When I had had enough of the speeches and the bad atmosphere, I used to wander about the terraces and gardens. How many beautiful sunsets I have seen from the top of the terrace or else standing on the three famous pink marble steps (so well known to all lovers of poetry through Alfred de Musset's beautiful verses, "Trois Marches Roses"), seeing in imagination all the brilliant crowd of courtiers and fair women that used to people those wonderful gardens in the old days of Versailles! I went sometimes to the "Reservoirs" for a cup of tea, and very often found other women who had also driven out to get their husbands. We occasionally brought back friends who preferred the quiet cool drive through the Park of St. Cloud to the crowd and dust of the railway. The Count de St. Vallier (who was not yet senator, but deeply interested in politics) was frequently at Versailles and came back with us often. He was a charming, easy talker. I never tired of hearing about the brilliant days of the last Empire, and the fêtes at the Tuileries, Compiègne, and St. Cloud. He had been a great deal at the court of Napoleon III, had seen many interesting people of all kinds, and had a wonderful memory. He must have had an inner sense or presentiment of some kind about the future, for I have heard him say often in speaking of the old days and the glories of the Empire, when everything seemed so prosperous and brilliant, that he used often to ask himself if it could be real—Were the foundations as solid as they seemed! He had been a diplomatist, was in Germany at the time of the Franco-German War, and like so many of his colleagues scattered over Germany, was quite aware of the growing hostile feeling in Germany to France and also of Bismarck's aims and ambitions. He (like so many others) wrote repeated letters and warnings to the French Foreign Office, which apparently had no effect. One heard afterward that several letters of that description from French diplomatists in Germany were found unopened in a drawer at the ministry.

It was rather sad, as we drove through the stately alleys of the Park of St. Cloud, with the setting sun shining through the fine old trees, to hear of all the fêtes that used to take place there—and one could quite well fancy the beautiful Empress appearing at the end of one of the long avenues, followed by a brilliant suite of ladies and écuyers—and the echoes of the cor de chasse in the distance. The alleys are always there, and fairly well kept, but very few people or carriages pass. The park is deserted. I don't think the cor de chasse would awaken an echo or a regret even, so entirely has the Empire and its glories become a thing of the past. A rendezvous de chasse was a very pretty sight.

We went once to Compiègne before I was married, about three years before the war. We went out and breakfasted at Compiègne with a great friend of ours, M. de St. M., a chamberlain or equerry of the Emperor. We breakfasted in a funny old-fashioned little hotel (with a very good cuisine) and drove in a big open break to the forest. There were a great many people riding, driving, and walking, officers of the garrison in uniform, members of the hunt in green and gold, and a fair sprinkling of red coats. The Empress looked charming, dressed always in the uniform of the hunt, green with gold braid, and a tricorne on her head—all her ladies with the same dress, which was very becoming. One of the most striking-looking of her ladies was the Princess Anna Murat, the present Duchesse de Mouchy, who looked very handsome in the tricorne and beautifully fitting habit. I didn't see the Empress on her horse, as we lost sight of them very soon. She and her ladies arrived on the field in an open break. I saw the Emperor quite distinctly as he rode up and gave some orders. He was very well mounted (there were some beautiful horses) but stooped slightly, and had rather a sad face. I never saw him again, and the Empress only long years after at Cowes, when everything had gone out of her life.

The President, Marshal MacMahon, was living at the Préfecture at Versailles and received every Thursday evening. We went there several times—it was my first introduction to the official world. The first two or three times we drove out, but it was long (quite an hour and a quarter) over bad roads—a good deal of pavement. One didn't care to drive through the Park of St. Cloud at night—it was very lonely and dark. We should have been quite helpless if we had fallen upon any enterprising tramps, who could easily have stopped the carriage and helped themselves to any money or jewels they could lay their hands on. One evening the Seine had overflowed and we were obliged to walk a long distance—all around Sèvres—and got to Versailles very late and quite exhausted with the jolting and general discomfort. After that we went out by train—which put us at the Préfecture at ten o'clock. It wasn't very convenient as there was a great rush for carriages when we arrived at Versailles, still everybody did it. We generally wore black or dark dresses with a lace veil tied over our heads, and of course only went when it was fine. The evening was pleasant enough—one saw all the political men, the marshal's personal friends of the droite went to him in the first days of his presidency—(they rather fell off later)—the Government and Republicans naturally and all the diplomatic corps. There were not many women, as it really was rather an effort to put one's self into a low-necked dress and start off directly after dinner to the Gare St. Lazare, and have rather a rush for places. We were always late, and just had time to scramble into the last carriage.

I felt very strange—an outsider—all the first months, but my husband's friends were very nice to me and after a certain time I was astonished to find how much politics interested me. I learned a great deal from merely listening while the men talked at dinner. I suppose I should have understood much more if I had read the papers regularly, but I didn't begin to do that until W. had been minister for some time, and then worked myself into a nervous fever at all the opposition papers said about him. However, all told, the attacks were never very vicious. He had never been in public life until after the war when he was named deputy and joined the Assemblée Nationale at Bordeaux—which was an immense advantage to him. He had never served any other government, and was therefore perfectly independent and was bound by no family traditions or old friendships—didn't mind the opposition papers at all—not even the caricatures. Some of them were very funny. There was one very like him, sitting quite straight and correct on the box of a brougham, "John Cocher Anglais n'a jamais versé, ni accroché" (English coachman who has never upset nor run into anything).

There were a few political salons. The Countess de R. received every evening—but only men—no women were ever asked. The wives rather demurred at first, but the men went all the same—as one saw every one there and heard all the latest political gossip. Another hostess was the Princess Lize Troubetskoi. She was a great friend and admirer of Thiers—was supposed to give him a great deal of information from foreign governments. She was very eclectic in her sympathies, and every one went to her, not only French, but all foreigners of any distinction who passed through Paris. She gave herself a great deal of trouble for her friends, but also used them when she wanted anything. One of the stories which was always told of the Foreign Office was her "petit paquet," which she wanted to send by the valise to Berlin, when the Comte de St. Vallier was French ambassador there. He agreed willingly to receive the package addressed to him, which proved to be a grand piano.

The privilege of sending packages abroad by the valise of the foreign affairs was greatly abused when W. became Minister of Foreign Affairs. He made various changes, one of which was that the valise should be absolutely restricted to official papers and documents, which really was perhaps well observed.

The Countess de Ségur received every Saturday night. It was really an Orleanist salon, as they were devoted friends of the Orléans family, but one saw all the moderate Republicans there and the centre gauche (which struggled so long to keep together and be a moderating influence, but has long been swallowed up in the ever-increasing flood of radicalism) and a great many literary men, members of the Institute, Academicians, etc. They had a fine old house entre cour et jardin, with all sorts of interesting pictures and souvenirs. Countess de S. also received every day before three o'clock. I often went and was delighted when I could find her alone. She was very clever, very original, had known all sorts of people, and it was most interesting to hear her talk about King Louis Philippe's court, the Spanish marriages, the death of the Duc d'Orléans, the Coup d'Etat of Louis Napoléon, etc. When she first began to receive, during the reign of Louis Philippe, the feeling was very bitter between the Legitimists (extreme Royalist party) and the Orleanists. The Duc d'Orléans often came to them on Saturday evenings and always in a good deal of state, with handsome carriage, aides-de-camp, etc. She warned her Legitimist friends when she knew he was coming (but she didn't always know) and said she never had any trouble or disagreeable scenes. Every one was perfectly respectful to the duke, but the extreme Legitimists went away at once.

We went quite often to Monsieur and Madame Thiers, who received every evening in their big gloomy house in the Place St. Georges. It was a political centre—all the Republican party went there, and many of his old friends, Orleanists, who admired his great intelligence, while disapproving his politics—literary men, journalists, all the diplomatists and distinguished strangers. He had people at dinner every night and a small reception afterward—Madame Thiers and her sister, Mademoiselle Dosne, doing the honours for him. I believe both ladies were very intelligent, but I can't truthfully say they had any charm of manner. They never looked pleased to see any one, and each took comfortable little naps in their armchairs after dinner—the first comers had sometimes rather embarrassing entrances—but I am told they held very much to their receptions. Thiers was wonderful; he was a very old man when I knew him, but his eyes were very bright and keen, his voice strong, and he would talk all the evening without any appearance of fatigue. He slept every afternoon for two hours, and was quite rested and alert by dinner time. It was an interesting group of men that stood around the little figure in the drawing-room after dinner. He himself stood almost always leaning against the mantelpiece. Prince Orloff, Russian ambassador, was one of the habitués of the salon, and I was always delighted when he would slip away from the group of men and join the ladies in Madame Thiers's salon, which was less interesting. He knew everybody, French and foreign, and gave me most amusing and useful little sketches of all the celebrities. It was he who told me of old Prince Gortschakoff's famous phrase when he heard of Thiers's death—(he died at St. Germain in 1877)—"Encore une lumière éteinte quand il y en a si peu qui voient clair,"—(still another light extinguished, when there are so few who see clearly). Many have gone of that group—Casimir Périer, Léon Say, Jules Ferry, St. Vallier, Comte Paul de Ségur, Barthélemy St. Hilaire—but others remain, younger men who were then beginning their political careers and were eager to drink in lessons and warnings from the old statesman, who fought gallantly to the last.

I found the first winter in Paris as the wife of a French deputy rather trying, so different from the easy, pleasant life in Rome. That has changed, too, of course, with United Italy and Rome the capital, but it was a small Rome in our days, most informal. I don't ever remember having written an invitation all the years we lived in Rome. Everybody led the same life and we saw each other all day, hunting, riding, driving, in the villas in the afternoon, generally finishing at the Pincio, where there was music. All the carriages drew up and the young men came and talked to the women exactly as if they were at the opera or in a ballroom. When we had music or danced at our house, we used to tell some well-known man to say "on danse chez Madame King ce soir." That was all. Paris society is much stiffer, attaches much more importance to visits and reception days.

There is very little informal receiving, no more evenings with no amusement of any kind provided, and a small table at one end of the room with orangeade and cakes, which I remember when I was first married (and always in Lent the quartet of the Conservatoire playing classical symphonies, which of course put a stop to all conversation, as people listened to the artists of the Conservatoire in a sort of sacred silence). Now one is invited each time, there is always music or a comédie, sometimes a conference in Lent, and a buffet in the dining-room. There is much more luxury, and women wear more jewels. There were not many tiaras when I first knew Paris society; now every young woman has one in her corbeille.

[Illustration: The foyer of the Opéra.]

One of the first big things I saw in Paris was the opening of the Grand Opera. It was a pretty sight, the house crowded with women beautifully dressed and wearing fine jewels which showed very little, the decoration of the house being very elaborate. There was so much light and gilding that the diamonds were quite lost. The two great features of the evening were the young King of Spain (the father of the present King), a slight, dark, youthful figure, and the Lord Mayor of London, who really made much more effect than the King. He was dressed in his official robes, had two sheriffs and a macebearer, and when he stood at the top of the grand staircase he was an imposing figure and the public was delighted with him. He was surrounded by an admiring crowd when he walked in the foyer. Everybody was there and W. pointed out to me the celebrities of all the coteries. We had a box at the opera and went very regularly. The opera was never good, never has been since I have known it, but as it is open all the year round, one cannot expect to have the stars one hears elsewhere. Still it is always a pleasant evening, one sees plenty of people to talk to and the music is a cheerful accompaniment to conversation. It is astounding how they talk in the boxes and how the public submits. The ballet is always good. Halanzier was director of the Grand Opera, and we went sometimes to his box behind the scenes, which was most amusing. He was most dictatorial, occupied himself with every detail—was consequently an excellent director. I remember seeing him inspect the corps de ballet one night, just before the curtain went up. He passed down the line like a general reviewing his troops, tapping lightly with a cane various arms and legs which were not in position. He was perfectly smiling and good-humoured: "Voyons, voyons, mes petites, ce n'est pas cela,"—but saw everything.

What W. liked best was the Théâtre Français. We hadn't a box there, but as so many of our friends had, we went very often. Tuesday was the fashionable night and the Salle was almost as interesting as the stage, particularly if it happened to be a première, and all the critics and journalists were there. Sarah Bernhardt and Croizette were both playing those first years. They were great rivals and it was interesting to see them in the same play, both such fine talents yet so totally different.