had a banquet on the 2d of December. My left-hand neighbour, a senator,
said to me casually: "This room looks very different from what it did
the last time I was in it." "Does it? I should have thought a big
official dinner at the Foreign Office would have been precisely the same
under any régime." "A dinner perhaps, but on that occasion we were not
precisely dining. I and a number of my friends had just been arrested,
and we were waiting here in this room strictly guarded, until it was
decided what should be done with us." Then I remembered that it was the
2d of December, the anniversary of Louis Napoléon's coup d'état. He said
they were quite unprepared for it, in spite of warnings. He was sent out
of the country for a little while, but I don't think his exile was a
very terrible one.
I got my first lesson in diplomatic politeness from Lord Lyons, then
British ambassador in Paris. He was in Paris during the Franco-German
War, knew everybody, and had a great position. He gave very handsome
dinners, liked his guests to be punctual, was very punctual himself,
always arrived on the stroke of eight when he dined with us. We had an
Annamite mission to dine one night and had invited almost all the
ambassadors and ministers to meet them. There had been a stormy sitting
at the Chamber and W. was late. As soon as I was ready I went to his
library and waited for him; I couldn't go down and receive a foreign
mission without him. We were quite seven or eight minutes late and found
all the company assembled (except the Annamites, who were waiting with
their interpreter in another room to make their entry in proper style).
As I shook hands with Lord Lyons (who was doyen of the diplomatic corps)
he said to me: "Ah, Madame Waddington, I see the Republic is becoming
very royal; you don't receive your guests any more, merely come into the
room when all the company is assembled." He said it quite smilingly, but
I understood very well, and of course we ought to have been there when
the first guests arrived. He was very amiable all the same and told me a
great many useful things--for instance, that I must never invite a
cardinal and an ambassador together, as neither of them would yield the
precedence and I would find myself in a very awkward position.
[Illustration: Lord Lyons.]
The Annamites were something awful to see. In their country all the men
of a certain standing blacken their teeth, and I suppose the dye makes
their teeth fall out, as they hadn't any apparently, and when they
opened their mouths the black caverns one saw were terrifying. I had
been warned, but notwithstanding it made a most disagreeable impression
on me. They were very richly attired, particularly the first three, who
were très grands seigneurs in Annam,--heavily embroidered silk robes,
feathers, and jewels, and when they didn't open their mouths they were
rather a decorative group,--were tall, powerfully built men. They knew
no French nor English--spoke through the interpreter. My intercourse
with them was very limited. They were not near me at dinner, but
afterward I tried to talk to them a little. They all stood in a group at
one end of the room, flanked by an interpreter--the three principal
chiefs well in front. I don't know what the interpreter said to them
from me, probably embellished my very banal remarks with flowers of
rhetoric, but they were very smiling, opening wide their black mouths
and made me very low bows--evidently appreciated my intention and effort
to be amiable.
They brought us presents, carpets, carved and inlaid mother-of-pearl
boxes, cabinets, and some curious saddles, also gold-embroidered
cushions and slippers. Some Arab horses were announced with great pomp
from the Sultan's stables. I was rather interested in them, thought it
would be amusing to drive a long-tailed Arab pony in a little cart in
the morning. They were brought one morning to the Quai d'Orsay, and W.
gave rendezvous to Comte de Pontécoulant and some of the sporting men of
the cabinet, in the courtyard. There were also several stablemen, all
much interested in the idea of taming the fiery steeds of the desert.
The first look was disappointing. They were thin, scraggy animals,
apparently all legs and manes. Long tails they had, and small heads, but
anything so tame and sluggish in their movements could hardly be
imagined. One could scarcely get them to canter around the courtyard. We
were all rather disgusted, as sometimes one sees pretty little Arab
horses in Paris. I don't know what became of them; I fancy they were
sent to the cavalry stables.
Our first great function that winter was the service at the Madeleine
for the King of Italy, Victor Emmanuel, who died suddenly in the
beginning of January, 1878. France sent a special mission to the
funeral--the old Marshal Canrobert, who took with him the marshal's son,
Fabrice de MacMahon. The Church of the Madeleine was filled with people
of all kinds--the diplomatic corps in uniform, a very large
representation of senators and deputies. There was a slight hesitation
among some of the Left--who were ardent sympathisers with young
Italy--but who didn't care to compromise themselves by taking part in a
religious ceremony. However, as a rule they went. Some of the ladies of
the Right were rather put out at having to go in deep mourning to the
service. I said to one of them: "But you are not correct; you have a
black dress certainly, but I don't think pearl-grey gloves are proper
for such an occasion." "Oh, they express quite sufficiently the grief I
feel on this occasion."
It was curious that the King should have gone before the old Pope, who
had been failing for some time. Every day we expected to hear of his
death. There were many speculations over the new King of Italy, the
Prince Humbert of our day. As we had lived so many years in Rome, I was
often asked what he was like, but I really had no opinion. One saw him
very little. I remember one day in the hunting-field he got a nasty
fall. His horse put his foot in a hole and fell with him. It looked a
bad accident, as if the horse were going to roll over on him. I, with
one of my friends, was near, and seeing an accident (I didn't know who
it was) naturally stopped to see if our groom could do anything, but an
officer rode hurriedly up and begged us to go on, that the Prince would
be very much annoyed if any one, particularly a woman, should notice his
fall. I saw him later in the day, looking all right on another horse,
and no one made any allusion to the accident.
About a month after Victor Emmanuel's death the old Pope died, the 8th
of February, 1878, quite suddenly at the end. He was buried of course in
Rome, and it was very difficult to arrange for his funeral in the Rome
of the King of Italy. However, he did lie in state at St. Peter's, the
noble garde in their splendid uniforms standing close around the
catafalque--long lines of Italian soldiers, the bersaglieri with their
waving plumes, on each side of the great aisle. There was a magnificent
service for him at Notre Dame. The Chambers raised their sitting as a
mark of respect to the head of the church, and again there was a great
attendance at the cathedral. There were many discussions in the monde
(society not official) "as to whether one should wear mourning for the
Saint Père." I believe the correct thing is not to wear mourning, but
almost all the ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain went about in black
garments for some time. One of my friends put it rather graphically: "Si
on a un ruban rose dans les cheveux on a tout de suite l'air d'être la
maîtresse de Rochefort."
All Europe was engrossed with the question of the Pope's successor.
Intrigues and undercurrents were going on hard in Rome, and the issue of
the conclave was impatiently awaited. No one could predict any result.
The election of Cardinal Pecci, future Leo XIII, seemed satisfactory, at
least in the beginning.
My winter passed pleasantly enough; I began to feel more at home in my
new quarters, and saw many interesting people of all kinds. Every now
and then there would be a very lively debate in the Parliament. W. would
come home very late, saying things couldn't go on like that, and we
would surely be out of office in a few weeks. We always kept our house
in the rue Dumont d'Urville, and I went over every week, often thinking
that in a few days we should be back there again.
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, Gérard,
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 très bien à l'Hôtel de Londres à Rome," quite an
insignificant and inoffensive remark--merely to say something. She
replied haughtily: "Je n'en sais rien, Madame; je n'ai jamais quitté
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 Pontécoulant, 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 Trocadéro, 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 Trocadéro 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 François d'Assizes, and the
Duc d'Aosta (King Amadée), 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 Elysée, 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 à fait égal; 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 Comédie Française 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 Elysée for the Austrian crown
prince, the unfortunate Archduke Rudolph. All the stars of the Théâtre
Français 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-Elysées, 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-Elysées and boulevards. As we drove across the bridge on our
way home from the reception at the Elysée, 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 Elysée 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 Elysée. We arrived a little late (we always
did) and found a large party assembled. The Grants came in just
after us.
The Maréchale 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 Maréchale
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 cortège 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 à
Madame Grant que je ne puis pas répondre; 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 à 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 fête, 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 Maréchale, 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 Maréchale," 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.