My First Years As A Frenchwoman, 1876 to 1879 - Mary King Waddington
The palace recalls very much the Palazzo Pitti in Florence, with its
solid masonry and rather severe heavy architecture. It must have been a
gloomy residence, notwithstanding the beautiful gardens with their broad
alleys and great open spaces. The gardens are stiff, very Italian, with
statues, fountains, and marble balustrades--not many flowers, except
immediately around the palace, but they were flooded with sunshine that
day, and the old grey pile seemed to rise out of a parterre of bright
flowers. The palace has been slightly modernised, but the general
architecture remains the same. Many people of all kinds have lived there
since it was built--several royal princes, and the Emperor Napoleon when
he was First Consul. He went from there to the Tuileries. The Luxembourg
Palace has always been associated with the history of France. During
the Revolution it was a prison, and many of the curious scenes one reads
of at that period took place in those old walls--the grandes dames so
careful of their dress and their manners, the grands seigneurs so brave
and gallant, striving in every way by their witty conversation and their
music (for they sang and played in the prisons all through that awful
time) to distract the women and make them forget the terrible doom that
was hanging over them. Many well-known people went straight from the
palace to the scaffold. It seemed a fitting place for the sittings of
the Senate and the deliberations of a chosen body of men, who were
supposed to bring a maturer judgment and a wider experience in the
discussion of all the burning questions of the day than the ardent young
deputies so eager to have done with everything connected with the old
regime and start fresh.
After we had inspected the palace we walked about the gardens, which
were charming that bright October morning,--the sun really too strong.
We found a bench in the shade, and sat there very happy, W. smoking and
wondering what the next turn of the wheel would bring us. A great many
people were walking about and sitting under the trees. It was quite a
different public from what one saw anywhere else, many students of both
sexes carrying books, small easels, and campstools,--some of the men
such evident Bohemians, with long hair, sweeping moustache, and soft
felt hat,--quite the type one sees in the pictures or plays of "La Vie
de Boheme." Their girl companions looked very trim and neat, dressed
generally in black, their clothes fitting extremely well--most of them
bareheaded, but some had hats of the simplest description--none of the
flaunting feathers and bright flowers one sees on the boulevards. They
are a type apart, the modern grisettes, so quiet and well-behaved as to
be almost respectable. One always hears that the Quartier Latin doesn't
exist any more--the students are more serious, less turbulent, and that
the hardworking little grisette, quite content with her simple life and
pleasure, has degenerated into the danseuse of the music-halls and
barriere theatres. I don't think so. A certain class of young,
impecunious students will always live in that quarter and will always
amuse themselves, and they will also always find girls quite ready and
happy to enjoy life a little while they are young enough to live in the
present, and have no cares for the future. Children were playing about
in the alleys and broad, open spaces, and climbing on the fountains
when the keepers of the garden were not anywhere near--their nurses
sitting in a sunny corner with their work. It was quite another world,
neither the Champs-Elysees nor Montmartre. All looked perfectly
respectable, and the couples sitting on out-of-the-way benches, in most
affectionate attitudes, were too much taken up with each other to heed
the passer-by.
I went back there several times afterward, taking Francis with me, and
it was curious how out of the world one felt. Paris, our Paris, might
have been miles away. I learned to know some of the habitues quite
well--a white-haired old gentleman who always brought bread for the
birds; they knew him perfectly and would flutter down to the Square as
soon as he appeared--a handsome young man with a tragic face, always
alone, walking up and down muttering and talking to himself--he may have
been an aspirant for the Odeon or some of the theatres in the
neighbourhood--a lame man on crutches, a child walking beside him
looking wistfully at the children playing about but not daring to leave
her charge--groups of students hurrying through the gardens on their way
to the Sorbonne, their black leather serviettes under their
arms--couples always everywhere. I don't think there were many
foreigners or tourists,--I never heard anything but French spoken. Even
the most disreputable-looking old beggar at the gate who sold
shoe-laces, learned to know us, and would run to open the door of
the carriage.
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
conferences at the Sorbonne and the College 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 Sante of the Soeurs
Augustines du Saint Coeur de Marie in the rue de la Sante. 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
fetes 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 jardiniere 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 Marche, 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 Ferte-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 Ferte 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 Grevy 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.
Grevy 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 fraternite
that if he had a brother he would call him "cousin." Grevy 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. Grevy'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 Leon Say, Jules Ferry, Casimir
Perier, 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 Grevy rather
stiff and reserved--said their conversation was absolutely banal. They
spoke in French, and as Grevy 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 diners 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.