My First Years As A Frenchwoman, 1876 to 1879 - Mary King Waddington
One of my great trials was a reception day. W. thought I ought to have
one, so every Friday I was at home from three until six, and very long
afternoons they were. I insisted upon having a tea-table, which was a
novelty in those days, but it broke the stiff semicircle of red and gold
armchairs carefully arranged at one end of the room. Very few men took
tea. It was rather amusing to see some of the deputies who didn't
exactly like to refuse a cup of tea offered to them by the minister's
wife, holding the cup and saucer most carefully in their hands, making a
pretence of sipping the tea and replacing it hastily on the table as
soon as it was possible. I had of course a great many people of
different nationalities, who generally didn't know each other. The
ambassadresses and ministers' wives sat on each side of my sofa--the
smaller people lower down. They were all announced, my huissier, Gerard,
doing it very well, opening the big doors and roaring out the names.
Sometimes, at the end of the day, some of my own friends or some of the
young men from the chancery would come in, and that would cheer me up a
little. There was no conversation, merely an exchange of formal phrases,
but I had some funny experiences.
One day I had several ladies whom I didn't know at all, wives of
deputies, or small functionaries at some of the ministries. One of my
friends, Comtesse de B., was starting for Italy and Rome for the first
time. She had come to ask me all sorts of questions about clothes,
hotels, people to see, etc. When she went away in a whirl of
preparations and addresses, I turned to one of my neighbours, saying:
"Je crois qu'on est tres bien a l'Hotel de Londres a Rome," quite an
insignificant and inoffensive remark--merely to say something. She
replied haughtily: "Je n'en sais rien, Madame; je n'ai jamais quitte
Paris et je m'en vante." I was so astonished that I had nothing to say,
but was afterward sorry that I had not continued the conversation and
asked her why she was so especially proud of never having left Paris.
Travelling is usually supposed to enlarge one's ideas. Her answer might
have been interesting. W. wouldn't believe it when I told him, but I
said I couldn't really have invented it. I used to go into his cabinet
at the end of the day always, when he was alone with Pontecoulant, and
tell them all my experiences which W. forbid me to mention anywhere
else. I had a good many surprises, but soon learned never to be
astonished and to take everything as a matter of course.
The great interest of the summer was the Exposition Universelle which
was to take place at the Trocadero, the new building which had been
built on the Champ de Mars. The opening was announced for the 1st of May
and was to be performed with great pomp by the marshal. All Europe was
represented except Germany, and almost all the great powers were sending
princes to represent their country. We went often to see how the works
were getting on, and I must say it didn't look as if it could possibly
be ready for the 1st of May. There were armies of workmen in every
direction and carts and camions loaded with cases making their way with
difficulty through the mud. Occasionally a light case or bale would fall
off, and quantities of small boys who seemed always on the spot would
precipitate themselves, tumbling over each other to pick up what fell,
and there would be protestations and explanations in every language
under the sun. It was a motley, picturesque crowd--the costumes and
uniforms making so much colour in the midst of the very ordinary dark
clothes the civilised Western world affects. I felt sorry for the
Orientals and people from milder climes--they looked so miserably cold
and wretched shivering under the very fresh April breezes that swept
over the great plain of the Champ de Mars. The machines, particularly
the American ones, attracted great attention. There was always a crowd
waiting when some of the large pieces were swung down into their places
by enormous pulleys.
The opening ceremony was very brilliant. Happily it was a beautiful warm
day, as all the guests invited by the marshal and the Government were
seated on a platform outside the Trocadero building. All the diplomatic
corps, foreign royalties, and commissioners of the different nations who
were taking part in the exposition were invited. The view was lovely as
we looked down from our seats. The great enclosure was packed with
people. All the pavilions looked very gay with bright-coloured walls and
turrets, and there were flags, palms, flowers, and fountains
everywhere--the Seine running through the middle with fanciful bridges
and boats. There was a curious collection of people in the tribunes. The
invitations had not been very easy to make. There were three Spanish
sovereigns, Queen Isabella, her husband, Don Francois d'Assizes, and the
Duc d'Aosta (King Amadee), who had reigned a few stormy months in Spain.
He had come to represent Italy at the exposition. The marshal was rather
preoccupied with his Spanish royalties. He had a reception in the
evening, to which all were invited, and thought it would be wise to take
certain precautions, so he sent one of his aides-de-camp to Queen
Isabella to say that he hoped to have the honour of seeing her in the
evening at the Elysee, but he thought it right to tell her that she
might perhaps have some disagreeable meetings. She replied: "Si c'est
mon mari de qui vous parlez, cela m'est tout a fait egal; si c'est le
Duc d'Aosta, je serai ravie de le voir."
She came to the reception, but her husband was already gone. The Due
d'Aosta was still there, and she walked straight up to him and kissed
him on both cheeks, not an easy thing to do, for the duke was not at all
the type of the gay lady's man--very much the reverse. He looked a
soldier (like all the princes of the house of Savoy) and at the same
time a monk. One could easily imagine him a crusader in plumed helmet
and breastplate, supporting any privation or fatigue without a murmur.
He was very shy (one saw it was an effort for him every time that any
one was brought up to him and he had to make polite phrases), not in the
least mondain, but simple, charming when one talked to him.
I saw him often afterward, as he represented his brother, King Humbert,
on various official occasions when I too was present--the coronation of
the Emperor Alexander of Russia, the Jubilee of Queen Victoria. He was
always a striking figure, didn't look as if he belonged to our modern
world at all. The marshal had a series of dinners and receptions which
were most brilliant. There was almost always music or theatricals, with
the best artists in Paris. The Comedie Francaise was much appreciated.
Their style is so finished and sure. They played just as well at one end
of a drawing-room, with a rampe of flowers only separating them from the
public, as in their own theatre with all the help of scenery, acoustics,
and distance. In a drawing-room naturally the audience is much nearer.
I remember one charming party at the Elysee for the Austrian crown
prince, the unfortunate Archduke Rudolph. All the stars of the Theatre
Francais were playing--Croizette, Reichemberg, Delaunay, Coquelin. The
prince seemed to enjoy himself. He was very good-looking, with a slight,
elegant figure and charming smile--didn't look like a man whose life
would end so tragically. When I saw him some years later in London, he
was changed, looked older, had lost his gaiety, was evidently bored with
the official entertaining, and used to escape from all the dinners and
receptions as soon as he could.
The late King Edward (then Prince of Wales) won golden opinions always.
There was certainly something in his personality which had an enormous
attraction for Parisians. He always seemed to enjoy life, never looked
bored, was unfailingly courteous and interested in the people he was
talking to. It was a joy to the French people to see him at some of the
small theatres, amusing himself and understanding all the sous-entendus
and argot quite as well as they did. It would almost seem as if what
some one said were true, that he reminded them of their beloved Henri
IV, who still lives in the heart of the nation.
His brother-in-law, the Prince of Denmark, was also most amiable. We met
him often walking about the streets with one or two of his gentlemen,
and looking in at the windows like an ordinary provincial. He was tall,
with a slight, youthful figure, and was always recognised. It was a
great satisfaction and pride to Parisians to have so many royalties and
distinguished people among them again.
Those two months of May and June gave back to Paris the animation and
gaiety of the last days of the Empire. There were many handsome
carriages on the Champs-Elysees, filled with pretty, well-dressed women,
and the opera and all the theatres were packed. Paris was illuminated
the night of the opening of the exposition, the whole city, not merely
the Champs-Elysees and boulevards. As we drove across the bridge on our
way home from the reception at the Elysee, it was a beautiful sight--the
streets full of people waiting to see the foreign royalties pass, and
the view up and down the Seine, with the lights from the high buildings
reflected in the water--like fairy-land.
[Illustration: His Royal Highness, Edward, Prince of Wales, in 1876.
From a photograph by Lock & Whitfield, London.]
The dinners and receptions at the Elysee and at all the ministries those
first weeks of the exposition were interesting but so fatiguing. Happily
there were not many lunches nor day entertainments. I used to get a good
drive every afternoon in the open carriage with mother and baby, and
that kept me alive. Occasionally (not often) W. had a man's dinner, and
then I could go with some of my friends and dine at the exposition,
which was very amusing--such a curious collection of people. The rue des
Nations was like a gigantic fair. We met all our friends, and heard
every language under the sun. Among other distinguished foreign guests
that year we had President and Mrs. Grant, who were received everywhere
in Europe (England giving the example) like royalties. When they dined
with us at the Quai d'Orsay W. and I went to the top of the great
staircase to meet them, exactly as we did for the Prince and Princess
of Wales.
It seems funny to me when I think of the very unceremonious manner in
which not only ex-presidents but actual presidents were treated in
America when I was a child. I remember quite well seeing a president (I
have forgotten which one now) come into the big drawing-room at the old
Cozzen's Hotel at West Point, with two or three gentlemen with him.
There was a certain number of people in the room and nobody moved, or
dreamt of getting up. However, the Grants were very simple--accepted all
the honours shown to them without a pose of any kind. The marshal gave
them a big dinner at the Elysee. We arrived a little late (we always
did) and found a large party assembled. The Grants came in just
after us.
The Marechale said to me: "The Chinese ambassador will take you to
dinner, Madame Waddington. He is an interesting, clever man, knows
England and the English well--speaks English remarkably well." Just
before dinner was announced the ambassador was brought up to me. He was
a striking-looking man, tall, broad-shouldered, dignified, very
gorgeously attired in light-blue satin, embroidered in bright-coloured
flowers and gold and silver designs, and a splendid yellow bird of
paradise in his cap. He didn't come quite up to me, made me a low bow
from a certain distance, and then fell back into a group of smaller
satellites, all very splendidly dressed. When dinner was announced the
first couples filed off--the marshal with Mrs. Grant and the Marechale
with President Grant and W. with his lady. There was a pause; I should
have gone next, but my ambassador wasn't forthcoming. I looked and
wondered. All the aides-de-camp were making frantic signals to me to go
on, and the whole cortege was stopped. I really didn't know what to
do--I felt rather foolish. Presently the ambassador appeared--didn't
offer me his arm, but again made me a low bow, which I returned and
moved a few steps forward. He advanced too and we made a stately
progress to the dining-room side by side. I heard afterward the
explanation. It seemed that in those days (things have changed _now_ I
fancy) no Chinese of rank would touch any woman who didn't belong to
him, and the ambassador would have thought himself dishonoured (as well
as me) if he had offered me his arm. The dinner was anything but banal.
When we finally got to the table I found myself on the marshal's
left--Mrs. Grant was on his right. The marshal neither spoke nor
understood English. Mrs. Grant spoke no French, so the conversation
didn't seem likely to be very animated. After a few moments Mrs. Grant
naturally wished to say something to her host and she addressed him in
English. "Mr. President, I am so happy to be in your beautiful country,"
then the marshal to me: "Madame Waddington je vous en prie, dites a
Madame Grant que je ne puis pas repondre; je ne comprends pas l'anglais;
je ne puis pas parler avec elle." "Mrs. Grant, the marshal begs me to
say to you that he regrets not being able to talk with you, but
unfortunately he does not understand English." Then there was a pause
and Mrs. Grant began again: "What a beautiful palace, Mr. President. It
must be delightful with that charming garden." Again the marshal to me:
"Mais je vous en prie Madame, dites a Madame Grant que je ne puis pas
causer avec elle. Il ne faut pas qu'elle me parle, je ne comprends pas."
"Mrs. Grant, the marshal is distressed that he cannot talk to you, but
he _really_ does not understand any English." It was very trying for
Mrs. Grant. Happily her other neighbour knew a little English and she
could talk to him, but all through dinner, at intervals, she began again
at the marshal.
After a few moments I turned my attention to my ambassador. I had been
looking at him furtively while I was interpreting for the marshal and
Mrs. Grant. I saw that he _took_ everything that was offered to
him--dishes, wines, sauces--but he never attacked anything without
waiting to see what his neighbours did, when and how they used their
knives and forks,--then did exactly as they did,--never made a mistake.
I saw he was looking at the flowers on the table, which were very well
arranged, so I said to him, speaking very slowly and distinctly, as one
does to a child or a deaf person: "Have you pretty flowers in your
country?" He replied promptly: "Yes, yes, very hot, very cold, very hot,
very cold." I was a little disconcerted, but thought I had perhaps
spoken indistinctly, and after a little while I made another attempt:
"How much the uniforms add to the brilliancy of the fete, and the
Chinese dress is particularly striking and handsome," but to that he
made such a perfectly unintelligible answer that I refrained from any
further conversation and merely smiled at him from time to time, which
he always acknowledged with a little bow.
We went back to the salons in the same way, side by side, and when the
men had gone into one of the other rooms to talk and smoke, I went to
speak to the Marechale, who said to me: "I am sure you had a delightful
dinner, Madame Waddington. The Chinese ambassador is such a clever man,
has travelled a great deal, and speaks such wonderful English."
"Wonderful indeed, Madame la Marechale," and then I repeated our
conversation, which she could hardly believe, and which amused her very
much. She spoke English as well as I did.
The Grants were very much entertained during their stay in Paris, and we
met them nearly every night. W. liked the general very much and found
him quite talkative when he was alone with him. At the big dinners he
was of course at a disadvantage, neither speaking nor understanding a
word of French. W. acted as interpreter and found that very fatiguing.
There is so much repartee and sous-entendu in all French conversation
that even foreigners who know the language well find it sometimes
difficult to follow everything, and to translate quickly enough to keep
one au courant is almost impossible. When they could they drifted into
English, and W. said he was most interesting--speaking of the war and
all the North had done, without ever putting himself forward.
We had both of us often to act as interpreters with French and
Anglo-Saxons, neither understanding the other's language, and always
found it difficult. I remember a dinner at Sandringham some years ago
when W. was at the embassy. The Prince of Wales (late King Edward) asked
me to sit next to a foreign ambassador who understood not one word of
English. The dinner was exclusively English--a great many clever
men--the master of Trinity College, Cambridge (asked especially to meet
my husband, who graduated from Trinity College), Lord Goschen, James
Knowles of the _Nineteenth Century_, Froude, the historian, Sir Henry
James, Lord Wolseley, etc. The talk was very animated, very witty. There
were peals of laughter all around the table. My ambassador was very
fidgety and nervous, appealing to me all the time, but by the time I had
laboriously condensed and translated some of the remarks, they were
talking of something quite different, and I am afraid he had very hazy
ideas as to what they were all saying.
We saw, naturally, all the distinguished strangers who passed through
Paris that year of 1878. Many of our colleagues in the diplomatic corps
had played a great role in their own country. Prince Orloff, the Russian
ambassador, was one of our great friends. He gave us very good advice on
one or two occasions. He was a distinguished-looking man--always wore a
black patch over one eye--he had been wounded in the Crimea. He spoke
English as well as I did and was a charming talker. General Cialdini was
at the Italian embassy. He was more of a soldier than a statesman--had
contributed very successfully to the formation of "United Italy" and the
suppression of the Pope's temporal power, and was naturally not exactly
persona grata to the Catholics in France. Prince and Princess Hohenlohe
had succeeded Arnim at the German embassy. Their beginnings were
difficult, as their predecessor had done nothing to make the Germans
popular in France, but their strong personality, tact, and understanding
of the very delicate position helped them enormously. They were
Catholics (the Princess born a Russian--her brother, Prince
Wittgenstein, military attache at the Russian embassy) and very big
people in their own country, so absolutely sure of themselves and their
position that it was very difficult to slight them in any way. They
would never have perceived it unless some extraordinary rudeness were
shown. The Princess was very striking-looking, tall, with a good figure,
and splendid jewels. When she was in full dress for a ball, or official
reception, she wore three necklaces, one on top of the other, and a big
handsome, high tiara, which added to her height. She was the only lady
of the diplomatic corps whom Madame Grevy ever recognised in the first
weeks of her husband's presidency. Madame Grevy was thrown suddenly not
very young into such an absolutely new milieu, that she was quite
bewildered and couldn't be expected to recognise half the women of the
diplomatic corps, but the German ambassadress impressed her and she knew
her always. The princess was not very mondaine, didn't care about
society and life in a city--preferred the country, with riding and
shooting and any sort of sport.
We had a very handsome dinner at the German embassy the winter of
1878--given to the Marshal and Madame de MacMahon. After dinner, with
coffee, a bear made its appearance in the drawing-room, a "baby bear"
they said, but I didn't think it looked very small. The princess patted
it, and talked to it just as if it were a dog, and I must say the little
animal was perfectly quiet, and kept close to her. I think the lights
and the quantity of people frightened it. It growled once or twice, and
we all had a feeling of relief when it was taken away. I asked the
Marechale afterward if she were afraid. "Oui, j'avais tres peur, mais je
ne voulais pas le montrer devant ces allemands." (Yes, I was very
frightened, but I would not show it before those Germans.) They had
eventually to send the bear away, back to Germany. It grew wilder as it
grew older, and became quite unmanageable--they couldn't keep it in
the embassy.
Hohenlohe was always pleasant and easy. I think he had a real sympathy
for France and did his best on various delicate occasions. The year of
the exposition (1878) we dined out every night and almost always with
the same people. Hohenlohe often fell to me. He took me in to dinner ten
times in succession. The eleventh time we were each of us in despair as
we filed out together, so I said to him: "Don't let us even pretend to
talk; you can talk to your other neighbour and I will to mine." However,
we _did_ talk chiffons, curiously enough. I had waited for a dress,
which only came home at the last moment, and when I put it on the
corsage was so tight I could hardly bear it. It was too late to change,
and I had nothing else ready, so most uncomfortable I started for my
dinner. I didn't dare to eat anything, hardly dared move, which
Hohenlohe remarked, after seeing three or four dishes pass me untouched,
and said to me: "I am afraid you are ill; you are eating nothing." "No,
not at all, only very uncomfortable"--and then I explained the situation
to him--that my dress was so tight I could neither move nor eat. He was
most indignant--"How could women be so foolish--why did we want to
have abnormally small waists and be slaves to our dressmakers?--men
didn't like made-up figures." "Oh, yes, they do; all men admire a
slight, graceful figure." "Yes, when it is natural, but no man
understands nor cares about a fashionably dressed woman--women dress for
each other" (which is perfectly true).
[Illustration: Prince Hohenlohe. After the painting by F.E. Laszlo.]
However, he was destined to see other ladies very careful about their
figures. The late Empress of Austria, who was a fine rider, spent some
time one spring in Paris, and rode every morning in the Bois. She was
very handsome, with a beautiful figure, had handsome horses and
attracted great attention. Prince Hohenlohe often rode with her. I was
riding with a friend one morning when we saw handsome horses waiting at
the mounting-block, just inside the gates. We divined they were the
Empress's horses and waited to see her mount. She arrived in a coupe,
her maid with her, and mounted her horse from the block. The body of her
habit was open. When she was settled in her saddle, the maid stepped up
on the block and buttoned her habit, which I must say fitted
beautifully--as if she were melted into it.
The official receptions were interesting that year, as one still saw a
few costumes. The Chinese, Japanese, Persians, Greeks, and Roumanians
wore their national dress--and much better they look in them than in
the ordinary dress coat and white tie of our men. The Greek dress was
very striking, a full white skirt with high embroidered belt, but it was
only becoming when the wearer was young, with a good figure. I remember
a pretty Roumanian woman with a white veil spangled with gold, most
effective. Now every one wears the ordinary European dress except the
Chinese, who still keep their costume. One could hardly imagine a
Chinese in a frock coat and tall hat. What would he do with his pigtail?
The entertainments went on pretty well that year until August, almost
all the embassies and ministries receiving. Queen Isabella of Spain was
then living in the big house in the Avenue Kleber, called the "Palais
d'Espagne" (now the Hotel Majestic). We used to meet her often driving
in the Bois. She was a big, stout, rather red-faced woman, didn't make
much effect in a carriage in ordinary street dress, but in her palace,
when she received or gave an audience, she was a very royal lady. I
asked for an audience soon after W. was named to the Foreign Office. We
knew one of her chamberlains very well, Duc de M., and he arranged it
for me. I arrived at the palace on the appointed day a little before
four (the audience was for four). The big gates were open, a tall porter
dressed in red and gold lace and buttons, and a staff in his hand, was
waiting--two or three men in black, and four or five footmen in red
liveries and powder, at the door and in the hall. I was shown at once to
a small room on the ground floor, where four or five ladies, all Spanish
and all fat, were waiting. In a few minutes the duke appeared. We talked
a little (he looking at me to see if I had taken off my veil and my
right-hand glove) and then a man in black appeared at the door, making a
low bow and saying something in Spanish. The duke said would I come, Her
Majesty was ready to receive me. We passed through several salons where
there were footmen and pages (no ladies) until we came to a very large
one quite at the other end of the palace. The big doors were open, and
at the far end I saw the Queen standing, a stately figure (enormous),
dressed in a long black velvet dress, a high diamond tiara on her head,
from which hung a black lace veil, a fan in her hand (I suppose no
Spanish woman of any station ever parts with her fan) and a splendid
string of pearls. I made my curtsey on the threshold, the chamberlain
named me with the usual formula: "I have the honour to present to Your
Majesty, Madame Waddington, the wife of the Minister of Foreign
Affairs," then backed himself out of the room, and I proceeded down the
long room to the Queen. She didn't move, let me make my two curtseys,
one in the middle of the room, one when I came close up to her--and then
shook hands. We remained standing a few minutes and then she sat down on
a sofa (not a very small one) which she quite filled, and motioned me to
take an armchair on one side. She was very amiable, had a charming
smile, spoke French very well but with a strong Spanish accent. She said
she was very glad to see my husband at the Foreign Office, and hoped he
would stay long enough to do some real work--said she was very fond of
France, loved driving in the streets of Paris, there was always so much
to see and the people looked gay. She was very fond of the theatres,
particularly the smaller ones, liked the real Parisian wit and gaiety
better than the measured phrase and trained diction of the Francais and
the Odeon. She spoke most warmly of Marshal MacMahon, hoped that he
would remain President of the Republic as long as the Republicans would
let him, was afraid they would make his position impossible--but that
the younger generation always wanted reforms and changes. I said I
thought that was the way of the world everywhere, in families as well
as nations--children could not be expected to see with the eyes of their
parents. Then we talked about the exposition--she said the Spanish show
was very good--told me to look at the tapestries and embroideries, which
were quite wonderful--gold and silver threads worked in with the
tapestries. The interview was pleasant and easy. When I took leave, she
let me back down the whole length of the room, not half turning away as
so many princesses do after the first few steps, so as to curtail that
very inconvenient exit. However, a day dress is never so long and
cumbersome as an evening dress with a train.