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 rôle 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 attaché 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 Grévy 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
Maréchale afterward if she were afraid. "Oui, j'avais très 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 coupé,
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 Kléber, 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 Français and
the Odéon. 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.
The chamberlain was waiting just outside the door, also two ladies in
waiting, just as fat as the Queen. Certainly the mise en scène was very
effective. The number of servants in red liveries, the solitary standing
figure at the end of the long enfilade of rooms, the high diamond comb
and long veil, quite transformed the very stout, red-faced lady whom I
used to meet often walking in the Bois.
We dined once or twice at the palace, always a very handsome dinner. One
for the Marshal and Madame de MacMahon was beautifully done--all the
footmen, dozens, in gala liveries, red and yellow, the maître d'hôtel in
very dark blue with gold epaulettes and aiguillettes. The table was
covered with red and yellow flowers and splendid gold plate, and a very
good orchestra of guitars and mandolins played all through dinner, the
musicians singing sometimes when they played a popular song. We were all
assembled in one of the large rooms waiting for the Queen to appear. As
soon as the Marshal and Madame de MacMahon were announced, she came in,
meeting them at the door, making a circle afterward, and shaking hands
with all the ladies.
Lord Lyons gave a beautiful ball at the embassy that season. The hotel
of the British embassy is one of the best in Paris--fine reception-rooms
opening on a very large garden, and a large courtyard and side exit--so
there was no confusion of carriages. He had need of all his room--Paris
was crowded with English. Besides all the exposition people, there were
many tourists and well-known English people, all expecting to be
entertained at the embassy. All the world was there. The Prince and
Princess of Wales, the Marshal and Madame de MacMahon, the Orléans
princes, Princesse Mathilde, the Faubourg St. Germain, the Government,
and as many foreigners as the house could hold, as he invited a great
many people, once his obligations, English and official, were
satisfied. It was only at an embassy that such a gathering could take
place, and it was amusing to see the people of all the different camps
looking at each other.
There was a supper up-stairs for all the royalties before the cotillion.
I was told that the Duc d'Aumale would take me to supper. I was very
pleased (as we knew him very well and he was always charming to us) but
much surprised, as the Orléans princes never remained for supper at any
big official function. There would have been questions of place and
precedence which would have been very difficult to settle. When the move
was made for supper, things had to be changed, as the Orléans princes
had gone home. The Crown Prince of Denmark took me. The supper-room was
prettily arranged, two round tables--Lord Lyons with the Princesses of
Wales and Denmark presiding at one--his niece, the Duchesse of Norfolk,
at the other, with the Princes of Wales and Denmark. I sat between the
Princes of Denmark and Sweden. Opposite me, next the Prince of Wales,
sat a lady I didn't know. Every one else at the table did. She was very
attractive-looking, with a charming smile and most animated manner. I
asked the Prince of Denmark in a low voice, who she was--thought it must
be one of the foreign princesses I hadn't yet met. The Prince of Wales
heard my question, and immediately, with his charming tact and ease of
manner, said to me: "You don't know the Princesse Mathilde; do let me
have the pleasure of presenting you to her," naming me at once--in my
official capacity, "wife of the Minister of Foreign Affairs." The
princess was very gracious and smiling, and we talked about all sorts of
things--some of her musical protégées, who were also mine. She asked me
if I liked living at the ministry, Quai d'Orsay; she remembered it as
such a beautiful house. When the party broke up, she shook hands, said
she had not the pleasure of knowing M. Waddington, but would I thank him
from her for what he had done for one of her friends. I tried to find W.
after supper to present him to the princess, but he had already gone,
didn't stay for the cotillion--the princess, too, went away immediately
after supper. I met her once or twice afterward. She was always
friendly, and we had little talks together. Her salon--she received once
a week--was quite a centre--all the Bonapartists of course, the
diplomatic corps, many strangers, and all the celebrities in
literature and art.
With that exception I never saw nor talked with any member of that
family until I had been some years a widow, when the Empress Eugénie
received me on her yacht at Cowes. When the news came of the awful
tragedy of the Prince Imperial's death in Zululand, W. was Foreign
Minister, and he had invited a large party, with music. W. instantly put
off the party, said there was no question of politics or a Bonapartist
prince--it was a Frenchman killed, fighting bravely in a foreign
country. I always thought the Empress knew about it and appreciated his
act, for during his embassy in London, though we never saw her, she
constantly sent him word through mutual friends of little negotiations
she knew about and thought might interest him, and always spoke very
well of him as a "clear-headed, patriotic statesman." I should have
liked to have seen her in her prime, when she must have been
extraordinarily beautiful and graceful. When I did see her she was no
longer young, but a stately, impressive figure, and had still the
beautiful brow one sees in all her pictures. One of our friends, a very
clever woman and great anti-Bonapartist, told us an amusing story of her
little son. The child was sometimes in the drawing-room when his mother
was receiving, and heard her and all her friends inveighing against the
iniquities of the Imperial Court and the frivolity of the Empress. He
saw the Empress walking one day in the Bois de Boulogne. She was
attracted by the group of children, stopped and talked to them. The boy
was delighted and said to his governess: "Elle est bien jolie,
l'Impératrice, mais il ne faut pas le dire à Maman." (The Empress is
very pretty, but one must not say it to mother.)
VII
THE BERLIN CONGRESS
Seventy-eight was a most important year for us in many ways. Besides the
interest and fatigues of the exposition and the constant receiving and
official festivities of all kinds, a great event was looming before
us--the Berlin Congress. One had felt it coming for some time. There
were all sorts of new delimitations and questions to be settled since
the war in the Balkans, and Europe was getting visibly nervous. Almost
immediately after the opening of the exposition, the project took shape,
and it was decided that France should participate in the Congress and
send three representatives. It was the first time that France had
asserted herself since the Franco-Prussian War in 1870, but it was time
for her now to emerge from her self-imposed effacement, and take her
place in the Congress of nations. There were many discussions, both
public and private, before the plénipotentiaires were named, and a great
unwillingness on the part of many very intelligent and patriotic
Frenchmen to see the country launching itself upon dangerous ground and
a possible conflict with Bismarck. However, the thing was decided, and
the three plenipotentiaries named--Mr. Waddington, Foreign Minister,
first; Comte de St. Vallier, a very clever and distinguished
diplomatist, actual ambassador at Berlin, second; and Monsieur Desprey,
Directeur de la Politique au Ministère des Affaires Etrangères, third.
He was also a very able man, one of the pillars of the ministry, au
courant of every treaty and negotiation for the last twenty years, very
prudent and clear-headed. All W.'s colleagues were most cordial and
charming on his appointment. He made a statement in the House of the
line of policy he intended to adopt--and was absolutely approved and
encouraged. Not a disparaging word of any kind was said, not even the
usual remark of "cet anglais qui nous représente." He started the 10th
of June in the best conditions possible--not an instruction of any kind
from his chief, M. Dufaure, Président du Conseil--very complimentary to
him certainly, but the ministers taking no responsibility
themselves--leaving the door open in case he made any mistakes. It was
evident that the Parliament and Government were nervous. It was rather
amusing, when all the preparations for the departure were going on. W.
took a large suite with him, secretaries, huissiers, etc., and I told
them they were as much taken up with their coats and embroideries and
cocked hats as any pretty woman with her dresses. I wanted very much to
go, but W. thought he would be freer and have more time to think things
over if I were not there. He didn't know Berlin at all, had never seen
Bismarck nor any of the leading German statesmen, and was fully
conscious how his every word and act would be criticised. However, if a
public man is not criticised, it usually means that he is of no
consequence--so attacks and criticisms are rather welcome--act as a
stimulant. I could have gone and stayed unofficially with a cousin, but
he thought that wouldn't do. St. Vallier was a bachelor; it would have
been rather an affair for him to organise at the embassy an apartment
for a lady and her maids, though he was most civil and asked me to come.
[Illustration: M. William Waddington. In the uniform he wore as Minister
of Foreign Affairs and at the Berlin Congress, 1878]