We were very particular about attending all important ceremonies at La
Ferté, as we rarely went to church there except on great occasions. We
had our service regularly at the château every Sunday morning. All the
servants, except ours, were Protestants, Swiss generally, and very
respectable they looked--all the women in black dresses and white
caps--when they assembled in M. A.'s library, sitting on cane chairs near
the door.
Some, in fact most, Protestants in France attach enormous importance to
having all their household Protestant. A friend of mine, a Protestant,
having tea with me one day in Paris was rather pleased with the bread or
little "croissants," and asked me where they came from. I said I didn't
know, but would ask the butler. That rather surprised her. Then she
said, "Your baker of course is a Protestant." That I didn't know either,
and, what was much worse in her eyes, I didn't care. She was quite
distressed, gave me the address of an excellent Swiss Protestant baker
and begged me to sever all connection with the Catholic at once. I asked
her if she really thought dangerous papist ideas were kneaded in with
the bread, but she would not listen to my mild "persiflage," and went
away rather anxious about my spiritual welfare.
We went always to the church at La Ferté for the fête of St. Cécile, as
the Fanfare played in the church on that day. The Fanfare was a very
important body. Nearly all the prominent citizens of La Ferté, who had
any idea of music, were members--the butcher, the baker, the coiffeur,
etc. The Mayor was president and walked at the head of the procession
when they filed into the church. I was "Présidente d'Honneur" and always
wore my badge pinned conspicuously on my coat. It was a great day for
the little town. Weeks before the fête we used to hear all about it from
the coiffeur when he came to the château to shave the gentlemen. He
played the big drum and thought the success of the whole thing depended
on his performance. He proposed to bring his instrument one morning and
play his part for us. We were very careful to be well dressed on that
day and discarded the short serge skirts we generally wore. All the La
Ferté ladies, particularly the wives and sisters of the performers, put
on their best clothes, and their feelings would have been hurt if we had
not done the same.
In fact it was a little difficult to dress up to the occasion. The older
women all had jet and lace on their dresses, with long trailing skirts,
and the younger ones, even children, had wonderful hats with
feathers--one or two long white ones.
It was a pretty, animated sight as we arrived. All along the road we had
met bands of people hurrying on to the town--the children with clean
faces and pinafores, the men with white shirts, and even the old
grandmothers--their shawls on their shoulders and their turbans starched
stiff--were hobbling along with their sticks, anxious to arrive. We
heard sounds of music as we got to the church--the procession was
evidently approaching. The big doors were wide open, a great many people
already inside. We looked straight down the nave to the far end where
the high altar, all flowers and candles, made a bright spot of colour.
Red draperies and banners were hanging from the columns--vases and
wreaths of flowers at the foot of the statues of the saints; chairs and
music-stands in the chancel. We went at once to our places. The curé,
with his choir boys in their little short white soutanes, red petticoats
and red shoes, was just coming out of the sacristy and the procession
was appearing at the bottom of the church. First came the Mayor in a
dress coat and white cravat--the "Adjoint" and one of the municipal
council just behind, then the banner--rather a heavy one, four men
carried it. After that the "pompiers," all in uniform, each man carrying
his instrument; they didn't play as they came up the aisle, stopped
their music at the door; but when they did begin--I don't know exactly
at what moment of the mass--it was something appalling. The first piece
was a military march, executed with all the artistic conviction and
patriotic ardour of their young lungs (they were mostly young men). We
were at the top of the church, very near the performers, and the first
bursts of trumpets and bugles made one jump. They played several times.
It didn't sound too badly at the "Elevation" when they had chosen rather
a soft (comparatively) simple melody. The curé preached a very pretty,
short sermon, telling them about Saint Cécile, the delicately nurtured
young Roman who was not afraid to face martyrdom and death for the sake
of her religion. The men listened most attentively and seemed much
interested when he told them how he had seen in Rome the church of St.
Cécile built over the ruin of the saint's house--the sacristy just over
her bath-room. I asked him how he could reconcile it to his conscience
to speak of the melodious sounds that accompanied the prayers of the
faithful, but he said one must look sometimes at the intention more than
at the result.
There was a certain _harmony_ among the men when they were practising
and preparing their music for the church, and as long as they held to
coming and gave up their evenings to practising, instead of spending
them in the wine shops, we must do all we could to encourage them.
The procession went out in the same order--halted at the church door and
then W. made them a nice little speech, saying he was pleased to see how
numerous they were and how much improved--they would certainly take an
honourable place in the concours de fanfares of the department. They
escorted the Mayor back to his house playing their march and wound up
with a copious déjeuner at the "Sauvage." Either the Mayor or the
"Adjoint" always went to the banquet. W. gave the champagne, but
abstained from the feast.
They really did improve as they went on. They were able to get better
instruments and were stimulated by rival fanfares in the neighbourhood.
They were very anxious to come and play at the château, and we promised
they should whenever a fitting occasion should present itself.
We had a visit from the Staals one year. The Baron de Staal was Russian
Ambassador in England, and we had been colleagues there for many years.
We asked the Fanfare to come one Sunday afternoon while they were there.
We had a little difficulty over the Russian National Hymn, which they,
naturally, wanted to play. The Chef de Fanfare came to see me one day
and we looked over the music together. I had it only for the piano, but
I explained the tempo and repetitions to him and he arranged it very
well for his men. They made quite an imposing entrance. Half the
population of La Ferté escorted them (all much excited by the idea of
seeing the Russian Ambassador), and they were reinforced by the two
villages they passed through. We waited for them in the gallery--doors
and windows open. They played the spirited French march "Sambre et
Meuse" as they came up the avenue. It sounded quite fine in the open
air. They halted and saluted quite in military style as soon as they
came in front of the gallery--stopped their march and began immediately
the Russian Hymn, playing it very well.
They were much applauded, we in the gallery giving the signal and their
friends on the lawn joining in enthusiastically. They were a motley
crowd--over a hundred I should think--ranging from the municipal
councillor of La Ferté, in his high hat and black cloth Sunday coat, to
the humpbacked daughter of the village carpenter and the idiot boy who
lived in a cave on the road and frightened the children out of their
wits by running out and making faces at them whenever they passed. They
played three or four times, then W. called up one or two of the
principal performers and presented them to the Staals. Mme. de Staal
spoke to them very prettily, thanked them for playing the Russian Hymn
and said she would like to hear the "Sambre et Meuse" again. That, of
course, delighted them and they marched off to the strains of their
favourite tune. About half-way down the avenue we heard a few cries of
"Vive la Russie," and then came a burst of cheers.
Our dinner was rather pleasant that evening. We had the Préfet, M.
Sebline; Senator of the Aisne, Jusserand, present Ambassador to
Washington; Mme. Thénard, of the Comédie Française, and several young
people. Jusserand is always a brilliant talker--so easy--no pose of any
kind, and Sebline was interesting, telling about all sorts of old
customs in the country.
Though we were so near Paris, hardly two hours by the express, the
people had remained extraordinarily primitive. There were no
manufacturing towns anywhere near us, nothing but big farms, forests and
small far-apart villages. The modern socialist-radical ideas were
penetrating very slowly into the heads of the people--they were quite
content to be humble tillers of the soil, as their fathers had been
before them. The men had worked all their lives on the farms, the women
too; beginning quite young, taking care of cows and geese, picking
beet-root, etc.
What absolutely changed the men was the three years military service.
After knocking about in garrison towns, living with a great many people
always, having all sorts of amusements easily at hand and a certain
independence, once the service of the day was over, they found the dull
regular routine of the farm very irksome. In the summer it was well
enough--harvest time was gay, everyone in the fields, but in the short,
cold winter days, with the frozen ground making all the work doubly
hard, just enough food and no distraction of any kind but a pipe in the
kitchen after supper, the young men grew terribly restive and
discontented. Very few of them remain, and the old traditions handed
down from father to son for three or four generations are disappearing.
After dinner we had music and some charming recitations by Mme. Thénard.
Her first one was a comic monologue which always had the wildest success
in London, "Je suis veuve," beginning it with a ringing peal of laughter
which was curiously contagious--everyone in the room joined in. I like
her better in some of her serious things. When she said "le bon gite"
and "le petit clairon," by Paul Déroulède, in her beautiful deep
voice, I had a decided choke in my throat.
We often had music at the château. Many of our artist friends came
down--glad to have two or three days rest in the quiet old house. We had
an amusing experience once with the young organist from La Ferté--almost
turned his hair gray. He had taught himself entirely and managed his old
organ very well. He had heard vaguely of Wagner and we had always
promised him we would try and play some of his music with two
pianos--eight hands. Four hands are really not enough for such
complicated music. Mlle. Dubois, premier prix du conservatoire--a
beautiful musician--was staying with us one year and we arranged a
concert for one evening, asking the organist to come to dinner. The poor
man was rather terrified at dining at the château--had evidently taken
great pains with his dress (a bright pink satin cravat was rather
striking) and thanked the butler most gratefully every time he handed
him a dish--"Je vous remercie beaucoup, Monsieur." We had our two grand
pianos and were going to play the overture of Tannhäuser, one of the
simplest and most melodious of Wagner's compositions. The performers
were Francis and I, Mlle. Dubois and the organist. It was a little
difficult to arrange who he should play with. He was very nervous at the
idea of playing with Mlle. Dubois--rather frightened of me and in
absolute terror at the idea of playing before W. Finally it was decided
that he and I should take the second piano--he playing the bass. It was
really funny to see him; his eyes were fixed on the music and he counted
audibly and breathlessly all the time, and I heard him muttering
occasionally to himself, "Non ce n'est pas possible," "Non ce n'est pas
cela."
I must say that the Walpurgis Night for a person playing at sight and
unaccustomed to Wagner's music is an ordeal--however, he acquitted
himself extremely well and we got through our performance triumphantly,
but great drops of perspiration were on his forehead. W. was very nice
to him and Mlle. Dubois quite charming, encouraging him very much. Still
I don't think his evening at the château was one of unmixed pleasure,
and I am sure he was glad to have that overture behind him.
We saw our neighbours very rarely; occasionally some men came to
breakfast. The sous-préfet, one or two of the big farmers or some local
swells who wanted to talk politics to W. One frequent visitor was an
architect from Château-Thierry, who had built W.'s farm. He was an
enormous man, very stout and red, always attired in shiny black
broadcloth. He was a very shrewd specimen, very well up in all that
went on in the country and very useful to W. He had a fine appetite,
always tucking his napkin carefully under his chin when he sat down to
table. He talked a great deal one day about his son, who had a good
tenor voice and had just got an engagement at the Opéra Comique. Said he
would like us to hear him sing--might he bring him some day to
breakfast?
He came back two or three weeks later with the young man, who was a
great improvement upon his father. The Paris boulevards and the
coulisses of the opera had quite modified the young provincial. He
talked a good deal at table, was naturally much pleased to have got into
the Opéra Comique. As it is a "théâtre subventionné" (government
theatre), he considered himself a sort of official functionary. After
breakfast he asked us if we would like to hear him sing--sat down to the
piano, accompanying himself very simply and easily and sang extremely
well. I was much astonished and Mme. A. was delighted, especially when
he sang some old-fashioned songs from the "Dame Blanche" and the "Domino
Noir." The old father was enchanted, a broad smile on his face. He
confided to W. that he had hoped his son would walk in his footsteps and
content himself with a modest position as architect in the country, but
after six months in Paris where he had sent him to learn his
profession his ideas had completely changed and he would not hear of
vegetating in the country.
[Illustration: A visit at the château.]
We had, too, sometimes a doctor from one of the neighbouring villages.
He had married an Englishwoman. They had a nice house and garden and he
often had English boys over in the summer to learn French. He brought
them occasionally to us for tea and tennis, begging us not to speak
English to them. But that was rather difficult, with the English terms
at tennis--horses and dogs always spoken to in English. One could not
speak French to a fox-terrier bred in Oxfordshire.
* * * * *
Another pretty, simple fête was the Blessing of the Flag given by
Francis to the Pompiers of Montigny, our little village in the woods
just above the château. My husband had always promised them a flag, but
he died before their society was formed. Three years after his death,
when we were living in the small place which now belongs to my son, a
deputation arrived from Montigny one Sunday afternoon to ask if Francis
would give the flag his father had promised. This of course he was
delighted to do. He knew all the men and they all knew him--had seen him
since he was a baby--all of them had worked in his father's woods, and
two or three of the older ones had taken care of him and his gun when he
first began to shoot.
His father gave him a gun when he was twelve years old--had it made at
Purdy's in London, a reduced model of his own. No one is allowed to
shoot in France till he is sixteen years old and then must have his
"permis de chasse" duly signed by the Mayor. So it was rather difficult
to get Francis and his gun into the woods--once there they were safe.
Nothing would have induced him to let any of the men carry it. He walked
beside the keeper with his gun over his shoulder just like him; they did
meet two gendarmes one day and quickly the gun was given to some one
else. I think the gendarmes quite realised the situation (Labbey, the
keeper, said they knew all about it), but they were friends of the
family, W.'s appointment, probably, and asked no questions.
It was necessary of course to consult the local authorities before
deciding such an important question as the presentation of a flag to the
Pompiers. Francis went over two or three days later and interviewed the
curé, the Mayor and the school-master, found out where the flag must be
ordered in Paris and decided the day a fortnight later, a Sunday, of
course. The function was to consist of a service and sermon at the
church and a "vin d'honneur" offered by the Pompiers at the Mairie,
which they hoped Madame Waddington would grace by her presence.
The flag was duly ordered, sent direct to Montigny and everything was
ready on the appointed day. We had fine weather, a bright, cold November
afternoon; the country looked beautiful, all the trees red and yellow, a
black line of pines in the middle of the woods. The long straggling
village street, ending at the church on the top of the hill, was full of
people; all the children in the middle of the road, their mothers
dashing after them when they heard the horn of the auto.
We were quite a large party, as the house was full, and we brought all
our guests with us, including an American cousin, who was much
interested in the local festivities. The Pompiers were drawn up in the
court-yard of the Mairie, their beautiful new flag well to the front.
Almost all were in uniform, and those who had not yet been able to get
one wore a clean white shirt and the Pompier's red belt. There was a
cheer and a broad smile on all their faces when we drove up. Francis got
out, as he was to head the procession with the Mayor and the curé. We
went on to the church and stationed ourselves on the steps of the Infant
School to see the cortège arrive.
It was quite a pretty sight as it wound up the hill: first the banner of
blue silk with gold cords, which was held proudly aloft by two tall
young fellows, then Francis walking between the curé and the Mayor, the
Pompiers immediately behind them, then the Municipal Council, the usual
escort of children that always turns out on such occasions bringing up
the rear. We let the procession pass into the church and then took our
places; a front pew was reserved for the family, but Francis and I sat
on two arm-chairs inside the chancel, just behind the Pompiers.
The fine old church, which is rather large for such a small village, was
crowded; they told me many people had come from the neighbouring
hamlets. The Montigny people had done their best to beautify their
church; there were a few plants and flowers and some banners and
draperies--church property, which always figured upon any great
occasion. They told us with pride that the school-master had arranged
the music. I suppose the poor man did what he could with the material he
had, but the result was something awful. The chorister, a very old man,
a hundred I should think, played the harmonium, which was as old as he
was. It groaned and wheezed and at times stopped altogether. He started
the cantique with a thin quavering voice which was then taken up by the
school-children, particularly the boys who roared with juvenile
patriotism and energy each time they repeated the last line, "pour notre
drapeau, pour notre patrie."
The sermon was very good--short and simple. It was preached by the Doyen
of Neuilly--a tall, strong, broad-shouldered man who would have seemed
more at home in a dragoon's uniform than in the soutane. But he knew his
business well, had a fine voice and very good delivery; his peroration
and appeal to the men to "remember always that the flag was the symbol
of obedience, of loyalty, of devotion, to their country and their God,"
was really very fine. I almost expected to hear cheers. The French are
very emotional, and respond instantly to any allusion to country or
flag. The uniform (even the Pompier's) has an enormous prestige. Then
came the benediction, the flag held high over the kneeling congregation,
and the ceremony was ended.
We stopped a few moments after the service to let the procession pass
out and also to thank the preacher and one or two curés who had assisted
on the occasion; they did not come to the "vin d'honneur."
We walked down to the Mairie, where the Mayor and his Adjoint were
waiting for us; they conducted us to a large room upstairs where there
was a table with champagne bottles, glasses and a big brioche. As soon
as we had taken our places at the top of the room, the Pompiers and
Municipal Council trouped in and Francis made quite a pretty little
speech. It was the first time I had ever heard him speak in public; he
did it very well, was not at all shy. Then there was a pause--the Mayor
filled a glass of champagne, handed it to me, took one himself and we
"trinqué'd" solemnly. Still there seemed a little hitch, no one else
took any and there was an air of expectancy. I made a sign to the
school-master, who was also the Adjoint, and he explained to me in a low
voice that he thought it would give great pleasure if I would shake
hands and trinquer with all the Pompiers. So I asked to have all the
glasses filled and made the round, shaking hands with every one.
Some of them were very shy, could hardly make up their minds to put out
their big, rough hands; some of the old ones were very talkative: "C'est
moi qui suis Jacques, Madame, j'ai nettoyé le premier fusil de M.
Francis." Another in a great hurry to get to me: "C'est moi qui ai
remassé le premier lièvre de M. Francis," etc. I remember the "premier
lièvre" quite well; Francis carried it home himself and dashed into his
father's study swinging the poor beast by its long ears, the blood
dripping from a hole in its neck. It was difficult to scold, the child
was so enchanted, even old Ferdinand did not grumble but came to the
rescue at once with brushes and "savon noir."
The wine had loosened the tongues and made every one more at ease. I
asked that Hubert (our coachman who had been in W.'s service for
thirty-one years) should be invited to come up and have a glass of
champagne. He knew everybody, having driven W. about in his dog-cart all
over the country. He was delighted to take part in the fête and made his
little speech, saying he had seen Monsieur Francis when he was only a
few hours old, and that he had _grown since_--which joke was received
with great applause.
Then some of the young men went off with Francis to look at the
automobile, a great novelty at that time. We went out and talked to the
women who were waiting in the street. Every one looked smiling and
pleased to see us; the men all formed again in procession and escorted
us to the end of the street, the whole village naturally following. They
stopped at the foot of the hill, giving us a ringing cheer as we left.
* * * * *
I never but once saw the whole neighbourhood assembled--when the only
son of the Baron de L. married. The Baron and his wife were very good
specimens of provincial _noblesse_. He was a tall, heavily-built man,
square-shouldered, with the weather-beaten complexion of a man who spent
all his days riding about his fields and woods; a pleasant, jovial
manner, quite the type of the country gentleman.
They lived in a charming old Louis XV. château almost in the forest of
Villers-Cotterets--their park touching the line of wood. They went
rarely to Paris; lived almost all the year in the country and were
devoted to their place. One just saw the pointed red roof of the château
in the trees as one passed on the road. It stood high, a very steep road
leading up to it. At the foot of the hill were market gardens, which
made a very curious effect from a distance--the long rows of glass
"cloches" making huge white spots. The vegetables always looked very
tempting as we passed in the early summer. They were all "primeurs"--the
gardens lying in full sun and were sent off to the Paris market.
Half-way up the slope was a pretty little church almost hidden in the
trees, and a tiny village struggled up the hill and along the road.
The bride, dressed in white--a slight girlish figure--was standing near
her mother-in-law and had a pretty smile of welcome for all the guests.
It was rather an ordeal for her, as she was a stranger in the country
(she came from the south of France) and every one was looking at the
newcomer.
It was in the first year of my marriage, my first appearance in the
country, and I was rather puzzled about my dress for the occasion. We
were asked to dinner at seven o'clock. My first idea was to wear full
dress--light-blue satin and diamonds--but a niece of Mme. A.'s, who was
staying with us and who had been to some entertainments in that part of
the country, advised me strongly to dress more simply. "They would not
understand that sort of toilette and I would be overdressed and probably
uncomfortable." So I compromised with a high white dress, no diamonds
and one string of pearls.
We had a short hour's drive. It was a clear, cold night and we saw the
château from a great distance. It was brilliantly lighted. The lights
twinkling through the trees looked like huge fireflies. As we drove into
the rather small court-yard there was quite a stir of carriages arriving
and backing out. The hall doors were wide open; a flood of light
streaming out over the steps--Baron de L. and his son at the door. There
was a hum of voices in the drawing-room and there seemed to be a great
many people. The rooms were handsome--plenty of light, the old tapestry
furniture looked very well, standing straight and stiff against the
wall, and the number of people took away the bare unused look they
generally had.
All the châteaux of the neighbourhood were represented: The Comte de
Lubersac and his sister had come over from their fine place, Maucreux.
He was a very handsome young man--a great hunter and master of hounds of
the stag hunting in the forest of Villers-Cotterets; his sister, Mlle.
de Lubersac, most attractive, with the face of a saint. She was very
simply dressed in a high black dress. She lived almost the life of a
Sister of Charity--going about all day among the sick and poor, but she
had promised her father, who was a great invalid, almost crippled with
gout, to remain with him as long as he lived. It was only after his
death that she took the vows and entered one of the strictest orders
(Carmelites) in France.
There were also the châtelaines of Thury en Valois--a fine château and
estate, not very far from us in the other direction. They had splendid
gardens and their fruit and vegetables were famous all over the country.
Mme. de Thury was a compatriot--the daughter of an American general; the
young Comte de Melun from Brumetz--very delicate looking, with a refined
student's face. His father was a great friend of the Maréchal MacMahon
and one of the leaders of the Catholic clerical party, and the young man
was very religious. Their woods touched ours and once or twice when we
were riding late, we saw him kneeling at a little old shrine, "the White
Lady," which was almost hidden under the big trees--so little left that
the ordinary passer-by would have seen nothing. There were also the
owners of Colinance--rather an ugly square house standing low,
surrounded by a marsh, but a good property--and three or four men I did
not know--the bride's brother and one or two of her relations.
There was hardly time to introduce every one, as dinner was announced
almost immediately. We were a large party, about twenty. All the women,
except the bride and me, were dressed in black, high or a very little
open--no lace, nor jewels. Henriette was right. I would have looked
absurd if I had worn a low dress. The dinner was very good, very
abundant and very long. The men said the wines were excellent. The talk
was animated enough--it was principally the men who talked. I didn't
think the women said much. I listened only, as I was too new in the
country to be at all up in local topics.
After coffee the men went off to smoke and we women remained alone for
some time. I wasn't sorry, as one had so few opportunities of seeing the
neighbours, particularly the women, who rarely went out of their own
places. One met the men hunting, or in the train, or at the notary's.
The notary is a most important person in all small country towns in
France. Everybody consults him, from the big landowner when he has
discussions with his neighbour over right of way, to the peasant who
buys a few metres of land as soon as he has any surplus funds. We were
constantly having rows with one of our neighbours over a little strip of
wood that ran up into ours. Whenever he was angry with us, which
happened quite often (we never knew why), he had a deep, ugly ditch made
just across the road which we always took when we were riding around the
property. The woods were so thick and low, with plenty of thorns, that
we could not get along by keeping on one side and were obliged to go
back and make quite a long détour. The notary did his best to buy it for
us, but the man would never sell--rather enjoyed, I think, having the
power to annoy us.
Mme. de Thury and I fraternised a little and I should have liked to see
more of her, but soon after that evening they had great trouble. They
had a great deal of illness and lost a son. I never saw Thury till after
both of them were dead. The château had been sold, most of the furniture
taken away and the whole place had a deserted, neglected look that made
one feel quite miserable. The big drawing-room was piled up with straw,
over the doors were still two charming dessus-de-porte, the colours
quite fresh--not at all faded--chickens were walking about in another
room, and upstairs in a pretty corner room, with a lovely view over
woods and park, was a collection of photographs, engravings (one the
mother of the late owner), a piece of unfinished tapestry, samplers,
china vases, books, papers, two or three knots of faded ribbon, all
tossed in a corner like a heap of rubbish. The things had evidently been
forgotten in the big move, but it looked melancholy.
The château must have been charming when it was furnished and lived in.
Quantities of rooms, a long gallery with small rooms on one side, the
"garçonnière" or bachelors' quarters, led directly into the church,
where many Thurys are sleeping their last sleep. The park was beautiful
and there was capital shooting. W. had often shot there in the old days
when their shooting parties were famous.
We ended our evening with music, the bride playing extremely well. Mme.
de Thury also sang very well. She had learnt in Italy and sang in quite
bravura style. The evening didn't last very long after the men came in.
Everybody was anxious to get the long, cold drive over.
I enjoyed myself very much. It was my first experience of a French
country entertainment and it was very different from what I had
expected. Not at all stiff and a most cordial welcome. I thought--rather
naïvely perhaps--that it was the beginning of many entertainments of
the same kind, but I never dined out again in the country. It is only
fair to say that we never asked any one to dine either. It was not the
habit of the house, and I naturally fell into their ways. Luncheon was
what people liked best, so as not to be too late on the road or to cross
the forest after nightfall, when the darkness was sometimes
impenetrable. Some of the châtelaines received once a week. On that day
a handsome and plentiful luncheon was provided and people came from the
neighbouring châteaux, and even from Paris, when the distance was not
too great and the trains suited.
* * * * *
We had quite an excitement one day at the château. Francis was riding
with the groom one morning about the end of August, and had hardly got
out of the gates, when he came racing back to tell us that the
manoeuvres were to take place very near us, small detachments of troops
already arriving; and the village people had told him that quite a large
contingent, men and horses, were to be quartered at the château. W. sent
him straight off again to the mayor of Marolles--our big village--to
know if his information was correct, and how many people we must provide
for. Francis met the mayor on the road on his way to us, very busy and
bustled with so many people to settle. He was billeting men and horses
in the little hamlet, and at all the farms. He told us we were to have
thirty men and horses--six officers, twenty-four men; and they would
arrive at sundown, in time to cook their dinner. Hubert, the coachman,
was quite bewildered at first how to provide for so many, but
fortunately the stables and dependencies were very large, and it was
quite extraordinary how quickly and comfortably everything was arranged.
Men from the farm brought in large bundles of straw, and everybody lent
a willing hand--they love soldiers in France, and are always proud and
happy to receive them.
About 4.30, when we had just moved out to the tennis ground for tea, we
saw an officer with his orderly riding up the avenue. He dismounted as
soon as he caught sight of us sitting on the lawn, and introduced
himself, said he was sent on ahead to see about lodging for himself, his
brother-officers, and his men. They were part of a cavalry regiment,
chasseurs, stationed at a small town in the neighbourhood. He asked W.
if he might see the soldiers' quarters, said they brought their own food
and would cook their dinner; asked if there was a room in the château
where the sous-officiers could dine, as they never eat with their men.
He, with W. and Francis, went off to inspect the arrangements and give
the necessary orders. We had already seen to the officers' rooms, but
hadn't thought of a separate dining-room for the sous-officiers;
however, it was easily managed. We gave them the children's dining-room,
in the wing near the kitchen and offices.
When W. came in he told us the whole party had arrived, and we started
off to the communs to see what was going on. The stable-yard, which is
very large, with some fine trees and outbuildings all around it, was
filled with blue-coated soldiers and small chestnut horses--some were
drinking out of the troughs; some, tied to the trees, and rings on the
wall, were being rubbed down--the men walking about with the officers'
valises and their own kits, undoing blankets, tin plates, and cups; and
I should think every man and boy on our place and in the small hamlet
standing about anxious to do something. Our little fox-terriers were mad
with excitement; even the donkey seemed to feel there was something
different in the air. He brayed noisily, and gave little vicious kicks
occasionally when some of the horses passed too near. A group of
officers was standing at the door of the stables talking to Hubert, who
had managed very well, putting all the officers' horses into a second
stable, which was always kept for guests, and the others in the various
sheds and outhouses, all under cover.
[Illustration: Soldiers at the château.]
W. introduced the officers--a nice-looking lot, chasseurs, in the
light-blue uniform, which is so smart. He had asked permission for the
men to dine at the château. They had their own meat and bread, but our
chef was most anxious to cook it for them, and make them another
substantial dish; so it was agreed that they should dine at six in the
servants' hall. They all marched up in procession, headed by their
sergeants; the blue tunics and red trousers looked very pretty as they
came along the big avenue. The commandant asked W. if he would go and
say a few words to them when they were having their coffee. They were
very quiet; one hardly heard anything, though all the windows were open.
W. said it was quite interesting to see all the young faces smiling and
listening hard when he made his little speech. He asked them if they had
had a good dinner; he hoped his man knew how to cook for soldiers. They
all nodded and smiled at the chef, who was standing at the door looking
very hot and very pleased. He had produced a sweet dish--I don't know
what with, as he didn't habitually have thirty extra people to
dinner--but I have always seen that when people _want_ to do anything it
is usually accomplished.
Our dinner was very pleasant. We were ten at table--W. and I, Henrietta,
and a niece. The men talked easily, some of them Parisians, knowing
every one. They knew that W. had remained at the château all during the
Franco-German War, and were much interested in all he told them of the
Prussian occupation. Only one of them had, as a very young fellow,
served in 1870. All the rest were too young, and, like all young
soldiers who have not been through a war and seen the horrors of it,
were rather anxious to have their chance, and not spend all the best
years of their lives in a small, dull garrison town.
We discussed the plans for the next day. They were going to have a sham
fight over all the big fields in our neighbourhood, and advised us to
come and see it. They said the best time would be about ten in the
morning, when they were to monter à l'assaut of a large farm with moat
and drawbridge near Dammarie. They were to make a very early start (four
o'clock), and said they would be very pleased to have some hot coffee
before mounting, if it could be had at that unearthly hour. They were
very anxious about choosing a horse out of their squadron for the
general, who was an infantryman, very stout, very rheumatic, and a very
bad rider. The horse must be sure-footed, an easy mouth, easy canter, no
tricks, accustomed to drum and bugle, to say nothing of the
musket-shots, etc.
Henrietta and I rather amused ourselves after dinner teaching the
commandant and another officer halma, which was just then at the height
of its popularity. We had brought it over from London, where the whole
society was mad over it. We were staying in a country house one year
where there were seven tables of halma in the long gallery. The
gentlemen rather disdained it at first, but as the game went on and they
began to realise that there was really some science in it, and that our
men were placing themselves very comfortably in their little squares,
while theirs were wandering aimlessly about the centre of the board,
they warmed to their task, and were quite vexed when they were badly
beaten. They wanted their revanche. W. came in and gave a word of advice
every now and then. The others finished their billiards, came to look
on, each one suggesting a different move, which, of course, only
complicated matters, and they lost again. Then some of the others tried
with the same result. I think we played five or six games. They were so
much pleased with the game that they asked us to write down the name and
where to get it, and one of them afterward told my nephew, also a
cavalry officer, that they introduced it at their mess and played every
night instead of cards or dominoes. It was really funny to see how
annoyed they were when their scientific combinations failed. The next
morning was beautiful--a splendid August day, not too hot, little white
clouds scurrying over the bright blue sky, veiling the sun. We started
about nine, W., Francis, and I riding, the others driving. There were a
good many people about in the fields and cross-roads, a few farmers
riding, and everybody wildly interested telling us which way to go.
Janet, my American niece, who was staying in the country in France for
the first time, was horrified to see women working in the fields,
couldn't believe that her uncle would allow it on his farm, and made
quite an appeal to him when we all got home, to put an end to such cruel
proceedings. It seems women never work in the fields in America, except
negresses on some of the Southern plantations. I have been so long away
that I had forgotten that they didn't, and I remember quite well my
horror the first time we were in Germany, when we saw a woman and an ox
harnessed together.
We separated from the carriage at the top of the hill, as we could get a
nice canter and shorter road across the fields. We soon came in sight of
the farmhouse, standing low, with moat and drawbridge, in rather an
isolated position in the middle of the fields, very few trees around it.
There was no longer any water in the moat. It was merely a deep, wide,
damp ditch with long, straggling vines and weeds filling it up, and a
slippery, steep bank. Soldiers were advancing in all directions, the
small infantrymen moving along with a light, quick step; the cavalry
apparently had been on the ground some time, as they were all dismounted
and their horses picketed. We didn't go very near, as W. wasn't quite
sure how the horses would stand the bugle and firing. They were already
pulling hard, and getting a little nervous. It was pretty to see the
soldiers all mount when the bugle rang out, and in a moment the whole
body was in motion. The rush of the soldiers over the wide plains and
the drawbridge looked irresistible--the men swarmed down the bank and
over the ditch--one saw a confused mass of red trousers and kepis. The
cavalry came along very leisurely, guarding the rear. I looked for the
general. He was standing with some of his staff on a small hill
directing operations. He did look stout and very red and warm; however,
it was the last day, so his troubles were over for the present.
One of the officers saw us and came up to pay his respects; said they
wouldn't be back at the château until about five; perhaps the ladies
would come to the stable-yard and see the pansage. It was quite
interesting; all the horses ranged in a semi-circle, men scrubbing and
combing hard, the sous-officiers superintending, the officers standing
about smoking and seeing that everything was being packed and ready for
an early start the next morning. I was astonished to see how small the
horses were. My English horse, also a chestnut, was not particularly
big, but he looked a giant among the others. They admired him very much,
and one of the officers asked Hubert if he thought I would like to sell
him.
Our dinner was again very pleasant, and we had more halma in the
evening. W. played once or twice, and as he was a fairly good player,
the adversaries had no chance. We broke up early, as they were to start
again at some unearthly hour the next morning. It seems they were very
lively in the stables after dinner--we heard sounds of merriment,
singing, and choruses, and, I fancy, dancing. However, it made quite a
pleasant break in our summer, and the big place seemed quieter and
lonelier than ever after such unusual animation. W. said the war talk
was much keener than the first day when they were smoking in the
gallery; all the young ones so eager to earn their stripes, and so
confident that the army had profited by its bitter experience during the
Franco-German War.
* * * * *
Election day is always a very important day in France. The village
farmers and labourers put on their best clothes--usually a black coat,
silk hat and white shirt--and take themselves solemnly to the Mairie
where the voting takes place. For weeks beforehand agents and lecturers
come from Paris and bamboozle the simple village people with newspapers,
money and wonderful promises. It is astounding how easily the French
peasant believes all that the political agents tell him and all that he
reads in the cheap papers, for, as a rule--taken en masse--they are very
intelligent and at the same time suspicious (méfiants), manage their own
little affairs very well and are rarely taken in; but there is something
in the popular orator that carries them away and they really believe
that a golden epoch is coming--when there will be no rich and no poor
and plenty and equality for all. They don't care a bit what form of
government they live under as long as their crops are good, and they can
have regular work and no war. The political agitators understand that
very well. They never lay any stress on Royalist or Bonapartist, or even
a military candidate. The "People's Candidate" is always their cry--one
of themselves who understands them and will give them all they want.
They are disappointed _always_. The ministers and deputies change, but
their lives don't, and run on in the same groove; but they are just as
sanguine each time there is an election, convinced that, at last, the
promised days of high pay and little work are coming.
I tried to reason with a nice, respectable man one day, the village
mason--one of the most fiery orators at the café, over his dominoes, but
in everyday life a sober, hard-working man, with a sickly wife and
several children, who are all clothed and generally looked after by us.
His favourite theme was the owners of châteaux and big houses who lived
in luxury and thought nothing of the poor.
I said to him, "Why do you listen to all those foolish speeches that are
made in the cafés? You know it isn't true half they say. Whenever you
come and ask for anything for your wife and your children, it is always
given to you. You know quite well whenever any one is ill in the
village, they always come here for wine, old linen, or bouillon."
"Oh, oui, Madame is good, but Madame does not understand."
"But it is you, mon ami, who don't understand. Once the election is
over, and they have got your vote, no one will think about you any
more."
"Oh, yes, Madame, everything will be divided--there will be no more big
houses, every one will have a garden and rabbits--not all for the rich.
It is not right; Madame knows it is not right." It was quite useless
talking to him.
Women in France never take the active part in elections that they do in
England. It interested me so much when we were living in England to see
many of the great ladies doing all they could for their candidate,
driving all over the country, with his colours on servants and horses, a
big bill in the windows of their carriages with "Vote for A." on it. In
the drawing-room windows of a well-known society leader there were two
large bills--"VOTE FOR A." I asked W. one day, when he was standing for
the Senate, if he would like me to drive all about the country with his
colours and "VOTE FOR WADDINGTON" on placards in the windows of the
carriage; but he utterly declined any such intervention on my part,
thought a few breakfasts at the château and a quiet talk over coffee and
cigars would be more to the purpose. He never took much trouble over his
elections the last years--meetings and speeches in all the small towns
and "banquets de pompiers" were things of the past. He said the people
had seen him "à l'oeuvre" and that no speeches would change a vote.
The only year that we gave ourselves any trouble was during the
Boulanger craze. W. went about a great deal and I often went with him.
The weather was beautiful and we rode all over the country. We were
astounded at the progress "Boulangism" had made in our quiet villages.
Wherever we went--in the cafés, in the auberges, in the grocer's
shop--there was a picture of Boulanger prancing on his black horse.
We stopped one day at a miserable little cottage, not far from our
place, where a workman had had a horrible accident--been caught in the
machine of one of the sugar mills. Almost all the men in the village
worked in W.'s woods and had always voted--as one man--for him or his
friends. When we went into the poor little dark room, with literally
nothing in it but the bed, a table, and some chairs, the first thing we
saw was the well-known picture of Boulanger, on the mantelpiece. We
talked a little to the man and his wife (the poor fellow was suffering
terribly), and then W. said, "I am surprised to see that picture. Do you
know General Boulanger? Have you ever seen him?" The man's face quite
lighted up as he looked at the picture, and he answered: "Non, Monsieur,
je ne l'ai jamais vu--mais il est crâne celui-là," and that was all that
he could ever get out of him--"il est crâne." I don't know exactly what
he meant. I don't think he knew himself, but he was quite excited when
he spoke of the hero.
Boulanger's campaign was very cleverly done. His agents distributed
papers, pictures and _money_ most liberally. One of the curious features
of that episode was the quantity of money that was given. Gold flowed
freely in to the General's coffers from all parts of France; great
names, grandes dames, giving largely and openly to the cause--a great
deal sent anonymously and a great deal in very small sums.
Boulanger lived in our street, and I was astounded one day when I met
him (I did not know him) riding--always with a man on each side of him.
Almost every one took off his hat to him, and there were a few faint
cries of "Vive Boulanger," proceeding chiefly from the painters and
masons who were building a house just opposite ours.
Certainly for a short time he had the game in his hands--could, I think,
have carried the country, but when the moment to act arrived, his nerve
failed him. It is difficult to understand what made his great popularity.
Politics had not been satisfactory. The President--Grévy--had resigned
under unfortunate circumstances. There had been a succession of weak
and inefficient cabinets, and there was a vague feeling of unrest in
the country. Boulanger seemed to promise something better. He was a
soldier (which always appeals to the French), young and dashing,
surrounded by clever unscrupulous people of all classes. Almost all
the young element of both parties, Radical and Conservative (few of
the moderate Republicans), had rallied to his programme--"Révision et
Dissolution." His friends were much too intelligent to let him issue a
long "manifesto" (circular), promising all sorts of reforms and
changes he never could have carried out, while his two catch words
gave hopes to everybody. A revision of the constitution might mean a
monarchy, empire, or military dictatorship. Each party thought its
turn had come, and dissolving the chambers would of course bring a
new one, where again each party hoped to have the majority.
The Paris election by an overwhelming majority was his great triumph.
The Government did all they could to prevent it, but nothing could stop
the wave of popularity. The night of the election Boulanger and his
État-major were assembled at Durand's, the well-known café on the corner
of the Boulevard and the rue Royale. As the evening went on and the
returns came in--far exceeding anything they had hoped for--there was
but one thought in every one's mind--"A l'Élysée." Hundreds of people
were waiting outside and he would have been carried in triumph to the
Palace. He could not make up his mind. At midnight he still wavered. His
great friend, the poet Déroulède, then took out his watch--waited, in
perfect silence, until it was five minutes past twelve, and then said,
"Général, depuis cinq minutes votre auréole baisse." Boulanger went out
by a side door, leaving his friends--disappointed and furious--to
announce to the waiting crowd that the General had gone home. He could
certainly have got to the Elysée that night. How long he would have
stayed, and whom he would have put there, we shall never know.
MAREUIL, October 31st.
It has been a beautiful, warm, bright autumn day and, for a wonder, we
have had no frost yet, not even a white one, so that the garden is still
full of flowers, and all day the village children have been
coming--begging for some to decorate the graves for to-morrow. I went in
to the churchyard this afternoon, which was filled with women and
children--looking after their dead. It is not very pretty--our little
churchyard--part of a field enclosed on the slope of the hill, not many
trees, a few tall poplars and a laurel hedge--but there is a fine open
view over the great fields and woods--always the dark blue line of the
forest in the distance. They are mostly humble graves--small farmers and
peasants--but I fancy they must sleep very peacefully in the fields they
have worked in all their lives--full of poppies and cornflowers in
summer and a soft gold brown in the autumn, when the last crops are cut
and the hares run wild over the hills.
I think these two days--the "Toussaint" and the "Jour des Morts"--are
the two I like best in the Catholic Church, and certainly they are the
only ones, in our part of the world, when the churches are full. I
walked about some little time looking at all the preparations. Every
grave had some flowers (sometimes only a faded bunch of the last field
flowers) except one, where there were no flowers, but a little border of
moss all around and a slip of pasteboard on a stick stuck into the
ground with "à ma Mere" written on it. All the graves are very simple,
generally a plain white cross with headstone and name. One or two of the
rich farmers had something rather more important--a slab of marble, or a
broken column when it was a child's grave, and were more ambitious in
the way of flowers and green plants, but no show of any kind--none of
the terrible bead wreaths one sees in large cities.
There was a poor old woman, nearly bent double, leaning on a stick,
standing at one of the very modest graves; a child about six years old
with her, with a bunch of flowers in a broken cup she was trying to
arrange at the foot of the grave. I suppose my face was expressive, for
the old woman answered my unspoken thought. "Ah, yes, Madame, it is _I_
who ought to be lying there instead of my children. All gone before me
except this one grandchild, and I a helpless, useless burden upon the
charity of the parish."
On my way home I met all the village children carrying flowers. We had
given our best chrysanthemums for the "pain bénit," which we offer
to-morrow to the church. Three or four times a year, at the great fêtes,
the most important families of the village offer the "pain bénit," which
is then a brioche. We gave our boulanger "carte blanche," and he
evidently was very proud of his performance, as he offered to bring it
to us before it was sent to the church, but we told him we would see it
there. I am writing late. We have all come upstairs. It is so mild that
my window is open; there is not a sound except the sighing of the wind
in the pines and the church bells that are ringing for the vigil of All
Saints. Besides our own bells, we hear others, faintly, in the distance,
from the little village of Neufchelles, about two miles off. It is a bad
sign when we hear Neufchelles too well. Means rain. I should be so sorry
if it rained to-morrow, just as all the fresh flowers have been put on
the graves.