Chapter M: Waddington as Prime Minister (2)

With the contrariety of human nature, some people would say of feminine nature, now that I felt I was not going to live much longer on the rive gauche I was getting quite fond of it. Life was so quiet and restful in those long, narrow streets, some even with grass growing on the pavement--no trams, no omnibuses, very little passing, glimpses occasionally of big houses standing well back from the street, a good-sized courtyard in front and garden at the back--the classic Faubourg St. Germain hotel entre cour et jardin. I went to tea sometimes with a friend who lived in a big, old-fashioned house in the rue de Varenne. She lived on the fourth floor--one went up a broad, bare, cold stone staircase (which always reminded me of some of the staircases in the Roman palaces). Her rooms were large, very high ceilings, very little furniture in them, very little fire in winter, fine old family portraits on the walls, but from the windows one looked down on a lovely garden where the sun shone and the birds sang all day. It was just like being in the country, so extraordinarily quiet. A very respectable man servant in an old-fashioned brown livery, with a great many brass buttons, who looked as old as the house itself and as if he were part of it, always opened the door. Her husband was a literary man who made conférences at the Sorbonne and the Collège de France, and they lived entirely in that quarter--came very rarely to our part of Paris. He was an old friend of W.'s, and they came sometimes to dine with us. He deplored W.'s having gone to the Foreign Office--thought the Public Instruction was so much more to his tastes and habits. She had an English grandmother, knew English quite well, and read English reviews and papers. She had once seen Queen Victoria and was very interested in all that concerned her. Queen Victoria had a great prestige in France. People admired not only the wise sovereign who had weathered successfully so many changes, but the beautiful woman's life as wife and mother. She was always spoken of with the greatest respect, even by people who were not sympathetic to England as a nation.

Another of my haunts was the Convent and Maison de Santé of the Soeurs Augustines du Saint Coeur de Marie in the rue de la Santé. It was curious to turn out of the broad, busy, populous avenue, crowded with trams, omnibuses, and camions, into the narrow, quiet street, which seemed all stone walls and big doors. There was another hospital and a prison in the street, which naturally gave it rather a gloomy aspect, but once inside the courtyard of the Convent there was a complete transformation. One found one's self in a large, square, open court with arcades and buildings all around--the chapel just opposite the entrance. On one side of the court were the rooms for the patients, on the other nice rooms and small apartments which were let to invalids or old ladies, and which opened on a garden, really a park of thirteen or fourteen acres. The doors were always open, and one had a lovely view of green fields and trees. The moment you put your foot inside the court, you felt the atmosphere of peace and cheerfulness, though it was a hospital. The nuns all looked happy and smiling--they always do, and I always wonder why. Life in a cloister seems to me so narrow and monotonous and unsatisfying unless one has been bred in a convent and knows nothing of life but what the teachers tell.

I have a friend who always fills me with astonishment--a very clever, cultivated woman, no longer very young, married to a charming man, accustomed to life in its largest sense. She was utterly wretched when her husband died, but after a time she took up her life again and seemed to find interest and pleasure in the things they had done together. Suddenly she announced her intention of becoming a nun--sold her house and lovely garden, where she had spent so many happy hours with her flowers and her birds, distributed her pretty things among her friends, and accepted all the small trials of strict convent life--no bath, nor mirror, coarse underlinen and sheets--no fire, no lights, no privacy, the regular irksome routine of a nun's life, and is perfectly happy--never misses the intellectual companionship and the refinement and daintiness of her former life,--likes the commonplace routine of the convent--the books they read to each other in "recreation," simple stories one would hardly give to a child of twelve or fourteen,--the fêtes on the "mother's" birthday, when the nuns make a cake and put a wreath of roses on the mother's head.

The Soeurs Augustines are very happy in their lives, but they see a great deal more of the outside world. They always have patients in the hospital, and people in the apartments, which are much in demand. The care and attendance is very good. The ladies are very comfortable and have as many visitors as they like in the afternoon at stated hours, and the rooms are very tempting with white walls and furniture, and scrupulously clean. The cuisine is very good, everything very daintily served. All day one saw black-robed figures moving quietly across the court, carrying all kinds of invalid paraphernalia--cushions, rugs, cups of bouillon--but there was never any noise--no sound of talking or laughing. When they spoke, the voices were low, like people accustomed to a sick-room. No men were allowed in the Convent, except the doctors of course, and visitors at stated hours.

I spent many days there one spring, as C. was there for some weeks for a slight operation. She had a charming room and dressing-room, with windows giving on a garden or rather farmyard, for the soeurs had their cows and chickens. Sometimes in the evening we would see one of the sisters, her black skirt tucked up and a blue apron over it, bringing the cows back to their stables. No man could have a room in the house. F. wanted very much to be with his wife at night, as he was a busy man and away all day, and I tried to get a room for him, but the mother superior, a delightful old lady, wouldn't hear of it. However, the night before-and the night after the operation, he was allowed to remain with her,--no extra bed was put in the room--he slept on the sofa.

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.

W. and I went two or three times to the Cercle des Patineurs at the Bois de Boulogne, and had a good skate. The women didn't skate as well then as they do now, but they looked very pretty in their costumes of velvet and sables. It was funny to see them stumbling over the ice with a man supporting them on each side. However, they enjoyed it very much. It was beautiful winter weather, very cold but no wind, and it was very good exercise. All the world was there, and the afternoons passed quickly enough. I had not skated for years, having spent all my winters in Italy, but on the principle that you never forget anything that you know well, I thought I would try, and will say that the first half-hour was absolute suffering. It was in the old days when one still wore a strap over the instep, which naturally was drawn very tight. My feet were like lumps of ice, as heavy as lead, and I didn't seem able to lift them from the ground. I went back to the dressing-room to take my skates off for a few minutes, and when the blood began to circulate again, I could have cried with the pain. A friend of mine, a beginner, who was sitting near waiting to have her skates put on, was rather discouraged, and said to me: "You don't look as if you were enjoying yourself. I don't think I will try." "Oh yes you must,--'les commencements sont toujours difficiles,' and you will learn. I shall be all right as soon as I start again." She looked rather doubtful, but I saw her again later in the day, when I had forgotten all about my sufferings, and she was skating as easily as I did when I was a girl. I think one must learn young. After all, it is more or less a question of balance. When one is young one doesn't mind a fall.

W., who had retired to a corner to practise a little by himself, told me that one of his friends, Comte de Pourtalès, not at all of his way of thinking in politics, an Imperialist, was much pleased with a little jeu d'esprit he had made at his expense. W. caught the top of his skate in a crevice in the ice, and came down rather heavily in a sitting posture. Comte de Pourtalès, who was standing near on the bank, saw the fall and called out instantly, "Est-ce possible que je voie le Président du Conseil par terre?" (Is it possible that the President du Conseil has fallen?) The little joke was quite de bonne guerre and quite appropriate, as the cabinet was tottering and very near its fall. It amused W. quite as much as it did the bystanders.

The cold was increasing every day, the ground was frozen hard, the streets very slippery, and going very difficult. All our horses were rough shod, but even with that we made very slow progress. Some of the omnibuses were on runners, and one or two of the young men of the ministry had taken off the wheels of their light carriages and put them on runners, but one didn't see many real sleighs or sledges, as they call them here. I fancy "sleigh" is entirely an American expression. The Seine was at last completely taken, and the public was allowed on the ice, which was very thick. It was a very pretty, animated sight, many booths like those one sees on the Boulevard during the Christmas holidays were installed on the ice close to the banks, and the river was black with people. They couldn't skate much, as the ice was rough and there were too many people, but they ran and slid and shouted and enjoyed themselves immensely. I wanted to cross one day with my boy, that he might say he had crossed the Seine on foot, but W. was rather unwilling. However, the préfet de la Seine, whom he consulted, told him there was absolutely no danger--the ice was several inches thick, so I started off one afternoon, one of the secretaries going with me. He was much astonished and rather nervous at seeing me in my ordinary boots. He had nails in his, and one of our friends whom we met on the ice had woollen socks over his boots. They were sure I would slip and perhaps get a bad fall. "But no one could slip on that ice; it is quite rough, might almost be a ploughed field,"--but they were uncomfortable, and were very pleased when I landed safely on the other side and got into the carriage. Just in the middle the boys had swept a path on the ice to make a glissade. They were racing up and down in bands, and the constant passing had made it quite level and very slippery. We saw three or four unwary pedestrians get a fall, but if one kept on the outside near the bank there was no danger of slipping.

The extreme cold lasting so long brought many discomforts. Many trains with wood and provisions couldn't get to Paris. The railroads were all blocked and the Parisians were getting uneasy, fearing they might run short of food and fuel. We were very comfortable in the big rooms of the ministry. There were roaring fires everywhere, and two or three calorifères. The view from the windows on the Quai was charming as long as the great cold lasted, particularly at night, when the river was alive with people, lights and coloured lanterns, and music. Every now and then there would be a ronde or a farandole,--the farandole forcing its way through the crowd, every one carrying a lantern and looking like a brilliant snake winding in and out.

We had some people dining one night, and they couldn't keep away from the windows. Some of the young ones (English) wanted to go down and have a lark on the ice, but it wasn't possible. The crowd, though thoroughly good-humoured, merely bent on enjoying themselves, had degenerated into a rabble. One would have been obliged to have a strong escort of police, and besides in evening dress, even with fur cloaks and the fur and woollen boots every one wore over their thin shoes, one would certainly have risked getting a bad attack of pneumonia. One of our great friends, Sir Henry Hoare, was dining that night, but he didn't want to go down, preferred smoking his cigar in a warm room and talking politics to W. He had been a great deal in Paris, knew everybody, and was a member of the Jockey Club. He was much interested in French politics and au fond was very liberal, quite sympathised with W. and his friends and shared their opinions on most subjects, though as he said, "I don't air those opinions at the Jockey Club." He came often to our big receptions, liked to see all the people. He too used to tell me all that was said in his club about the Republic and the Government, but he was a shrewd observer, had been a long time an M.P. in England, and had come to the conclusion that the talk at the clubs was chiefly a "pose,"--they didn't really have many illusions about the restoration of the monarchy, couldn't have, when even the Duc de Broglie with his intelligence and following (the Faubourg St. Germain followed him blindly) could do nothing but make a constitutional Republic with Marshal MacMahon at its head.

It was always said too that the women were more uncompromising than the men. I went one afternoon to a concert at the Austrian Embassy, given in aid of some inundations, which had been a catastrophe for that country, hundreds of houses, and people and cattle swept away! The French public had responded most generously, as they always do, to the urgent appeal made by the ambassador in the name of the Emperor, and the Government had contributed largely to the fund. Count Beust the Austrian ambassador was obliged of course to invite the Government and Madame Grévy to the entertainment, as well as his friends of the Faubourg St. Germain. Neither Madame nor Mademoiselle Grévy came, but some of the ministers' wives did, and it was funny to see the ladies of society looking at the Republican ladies, as if they were denizens of a different planet, strange figures they were not accustomed to see. It is curious to think of all that now, when relations are much less strained. I remember not very long ago at a party at one of the embassies, seeing many of the society women having themselves presented to the wife of the then Minister of Foreign Affairs, with whom they certainly had nothing in common, neither birth, breeding, nor mode of life. I was talking to Casimir Périer (late President of the Republic) and it amused us very much to see the various introductions and the great empressement of the ladies, all of whom were asking to be presented to Madame R. "What can all those women want?" I asked him. He replied promptly, "Embassies for their husbands." It would have been better, I think, in a worldly point of view, if more embassies had been given to the bearers of some of the great names of France--but there were so many candidates for every description of function in France just then, from an ambassador to a gendarme, that anybody who had anything to give found himself in a difficult position.

XI

LAST DAYS AT THE FOREIGN OFFICE

The end of December was detestable. We were en pleine crise for ten days. Every day W. went to the Chamber of Deputies expecting to be beaten, and every evening came home discouraged and disgusted. The Chamber was making the position of the ministers perfectly untenable--all sorts of violent and useless propositions were discussed, and there was an undercurrent of jealousy and intrigue everywhere. One day, just before Christmas, about the 20th, W. and his chef de cabinet, Comte de P., started for the house, after breakfast--W. expecting to be beaten by a coalition vote of the extreme Left, Bonapartists and Legitimists. It was an insane policy on the part of the two last, as they knew perfectly well they wouldn't gain anything by upsetting the actual cabinet. They would only get another one much more advanced and more masterful. I suppose their idea was to have a succession of radical inefficient ministers, which in the end would disgust the country and make a "saviour," a prince (which one?) or general, possible. How wise their reasoning was time has shown! I wanted to go to the Chamber to hear the debate, but W. didn't want me. He would be obliged to speak, and said it would worry him if I were in the gallery listening to all the attacks made upon him. (It is rather curious that I never heard him speak in public, either in the house or in the country, where he often made political speeches, in election times.) He was so sure that the ministry would fall that we had already begun cleaning and making fires in our own house, so on that afternoon, as I didn't want to sit at home waiting for telegrams, I went up to the house with Henrietta. The caretaker had already told us that the stock of wood and coal was giving out, and she couldn't get any more in the quarter, and if she couldn't make fires the pipes would burst, which was a pleasant prospect with the thermometer at I don't remember how many degrees below zero. We found a fine cleaning going on--doors and windows open all over the house--and women scrubbing stairs, floors, and windows, rather under difficulties, with little fire and little water. It looked perfectly dreary and comfortless--not at all tempting. All the furniture was piled up in the middle of the rooms, and W.'s library was a curiosity. Books and pamphlets accumulated rapidly with us, W. was a member of many literary societies of all kinds all over the world, and packages and boxes of unopened books quite choked up the room. H. and I tried to arrange things a little, but it was hopeless that day, and, besides, the house was bitterly cold. It didn't feel as if a fire could make any impression.

As we could do nothing there, we went back to the ministry. No telegrams had come, but Kruft, our faithful and efficient chef du matériel, was waiting for me for last instructions about a Christmas tree. Some days before I had decided to have a Christmas tree, about the end of the month. W. then thought the ministry would last over the holidays, the trêve des confiseurs, and was quite willing I should have a Christmas party as a last entertainment. He had been too occupied the last days to think about any such trifles, and Kruft, not having had any contrary instructions, had ordered the presents and decorations. He was rather depressed, because W. had told him that morning that we surely would not be at the Quai d'Orsay on the 29th, the day we had chosen for our party. However, I reassured him, and told him we would have the Christmas tree all the same, only at my house instead of at the ministry. We went to look at his presents, which were all spread out on a big table in one of the drawing-rooms. He really was a wonderful man, never forgot anything, and had remembered that at the last tree, the year before, one or two nurses had had no presents, and several who had were not pleased with what was given to them. He had made a very good selection for those ladies,--lace scarfs and rabats and little tours de cou of fur,--really very pretty. I believe they were satisfied this time. The young men of the Chancery sent me up two telegrams: "rien de nouveau,"--"ministère debout."

W. came home late, very tired and much disgusted with politics in general and his party in particular. The cabinet still lived, but merely to give Grévy time to make another. W. had been to the Elysée and had a long conversation with Grévy. He found him very preoccupied, very unwilling to make a change, and he again urged W. very much to keep the Foreign Office, if Freycinet should succeed in making a ministry. That W. would not agree to--he was sick of the whole thing. He told Grévy he was quite right to send for Freycinet--if any man could save the situation he could. We had one or two friends, political men, to dinner, and they discussed the situation from every point of view, always ending with the same conclusion, that W. was right to go. His policy wasn't the policy of the Chamber (I don't say of the country, for I think the country knew little and cared less about what was going on in Parliament), hardly the policy of all his own colleagues. There was really no use to continue worrying himself to death and doing no good. W. said his conversation with Grévy was interesting, but he was much more concerned with home politics and the sweeping changes the Republicans wanted to make in all the administrations than with foreign policy. He said Europe was quiet and France's first duty was to establish herself firmly, which would only be done by peace and prosperity at home. I told W. I had spent a very cold and uncomfortable hour at the house, and I was worried about the cold, thought I might, perhaps, send the boy to mother, but he had taken his precautions and arranged with the Minister of War to have a certain amount of wood delivered at the house. They always had reserves of wood at the various ministries. We had ours directly from our own woods in the country, and it was en route, but a flotilla of boats was frozen up in the Canal de l'Ourcq, and it might be weeks before the wood could be delivered.

We dined one night at the British Embassy, while all these pourparlers were going on, en petit comité, all English, Lord and Lady Reay, Lord Edmond Fitz-Maurice, and one or two members of Parliament whose names I have forgotten. Both Lord and Lady Reay were very keen about politics, knew France well, and were much interested in the phase she was passing through. Lord Lyons was charming, so friendly and sensible, said he wasn't surprised at W.'s wanting to go--still hoped this crisis would pass like so many others he had seen in France; that certainly W.'s presence at the Foreign Office during the last year had been a help to the Republic--said also he didn't believe his retirement would last very long. It was frightfully cold when we came out of the embassy--very few carriages out, all the coachmen wrapped up in mufflers and fur caps, and the Place de la Concorde a sea of ice so slippery I thought we should never get across and over the bridge. I went to the opera one night that week, got there in an entr'acte, when people were walking about and reading the papers. As I passed several groups of men, I heard W.'s name mentioned, also that of Léon Say and Freycinet, but just in passing by quickly I could not hear any comments. I fancy they were not favourable in that milieu. It was very cold in the house--almost all the women had their cloaks on--and the coming out was something awful, crossing that broad perron in the face of a biting wind.

I began my packing seriously this time, as W.'s mind was quite made up. He had thought the matter well over, and had a final talk with Freycinet, who would have liked to keep both W. and Léon Say, but it wasn't easy to manage the new element that Freycinet brought with him. The new members were much more advanced in their opinions. W. couldn't have worked with them, and they certainly didn't want to work with him. The autumn session came to a turbulent end on the 26th of December, and the next day the papers announced that the ministers had given their resignations to the President, who had accepted them and had charged M. de Freycinet to form a cabinet. We dined with mother on Christmas day, a family party, with the addition of Comte de P. and one or two stray Americans who were at hotels and were of course delighted not to dine on Christmas day at a table d'hôte or café. W. was rather tired; the constant talking and seeing so many people of all kinds was very fatiguing, for, as long as his resignation was not official, announced in the _Journal Officiel_, he was still Minister of Foreign Affairs. One of the last days, when they were hoping to come to an agreement, he was obliged to come home early to receive the mission from Morocco. I saw them arrive; they were a fine set of men, tall, powerfully built, their skin a red-brown, not black, entirely dressed in white from turbans to sandals. None of them spoke any French--all the conversation took place through an interpreter. Notwithstanding our worries, we had a very pleasant evening and W. was very cheerful--looking forward to our Italian trip with quite as much pleasure as I did.