long as the exposition lasted, but when the Chambers met again in
November, it was evident that things were not going smoothly. The
Republicans and Radicals were dissatisfied. Every day there were
speeches and insinuations against the marshal and his government, and
one felt that a crisis was impending. There were not loaves and fishes
enough for the whole Radical party. If one listened to them it would
seem as if every préfet and every general were conspiring against the
Republic. There were long consultations in W.'s cabinet, and I went
often to our house in the rue Dumont d'Urville to see if everything was
in order there, as I quite expected to be back there for Christmas. A
climax was reached when the marshal was asked to sign the deposition of
some of the generals. He absolutely refused--the ministers persisted in
their demands. There was not much discussion, the marshal's mind was
made up, and on the 30th of January, 1879, he announced in the Conseil
des Ministres his irrevocable decision, and handed his ministers his
letter of resignation.
We had a melancholy breakfast--W., Count de P., and I--the last day of
the marshal's presidency. W. was very blue, was quite sure the marshal
would resign, and foresaw all sorts of complications both at home and
abroad. The day was gloomy too, grey and cold, even the big rooms of the
ministry were dark. As soon as they had started for Versailles, I took
baby and went to mother's. As I went over the bridge I wondered how many
more times I should cross it, and whether the end of the week would see
me settled again in my own house. We drove about and had tea together,
and I got back to the Quai d'Orsay about six o'clock. Neither W. nor
Count de P. had got back from Versailles, but there were two
telegrams--the first one to say that the marshal had resigned, the
second one that Grévy was named in his place, with a large majority.
[Illustration: M. Jules Grevy, reading Marshal MacMahon's letter of
resignation to the Chamber of Deputies. From _L'Illustration_,
February 8. 1879.]
W. was rather depressed when he came home--he had always a great
sympathy and respect for the marshal, and was very sorry to see him
go,--thought his departure would complicate foreign affairs. As long as
the marshal was at the Elysee, foreign governments were not afraid of
coups d'état or revolutions. He was also sorry that Dufaure would not
remain, but he was an old man, had had enough of political life and
party struggles--left the field to younger men. The marshal's letter was
communicated at once to the Parliament, and the houses met in the
afternoon. There was a short session to hear the marshal's letter read
(by Grévy in the Chamber of Deputies) and the two houses, Senate and
Chamber of Deputies, were convoked for a later hour of the same
afternoon. There was not much excitement, two or three names were
pronounced, but every one felt sure that Grévy would be the man. He was
nominated by a large majority, and the Republicans were
jubilant--thought the Republic was at last established on a firm and
proper basis. Grévy was perfectly calm and self-possessed--did not show
much enthusiasm. He must have felt quite sure from the first moment that
he would be named. His first visitor was the marshal, who wished him all
possible success in his new mission, and, if Grévy was pleased to be the
President of the Republic, the marshal was even more pleased not to be,
and to take up his private life again.
There were many speculations as to who would be charged by Grévy to form
his first cabinet--and almost permanent meetings in all the groups of
the Left. W.'s friends all said he would certainly remain at the Foreign
Office, but that depended naturally upon the choice of the premier. If
he were taken from the more advanced ranks of the Left, W. could not
possibly stay. We were not long in suspense. W. had one or two
interviews with Grévy, which resulted in his remaining at the Foreign
Office, but as prime minister. W. hesitated at first, felt that it would
not be an easy task to keep all those very conflicting elements
together. There were four Protestants in the ministry, W., Léon Say, de
Freycinet, and Le Royer. Jules Ferry, who took the Ministry of Public
Instruction, a very clever man, was practically a freethinker, and the
Parliament was decidedly more advanced. The last elections had given a
strong Republican majority to the Senate. He consulted with his brother,
Richard Waddington, then a deputy, afterward a senator, president of the
Chamber of Commerce of Rouen, and some of his friends, and finally
decided to accept the very honourable, but very onerous position, and
remained at the Foreign Affairs with Grévy, as prime minister.
If I had seen little of him before, I saw nothing of him now, as his
work was exactly doubled. We did breakfast together, but it was a most
irregular meal--sometimes at twelve o'clock, sometimes at one-thirty,
and very rarely alone. We always dined out or had people dining with us,
so that family life became a dream of the past. We very rarely went
together when we dined out. W. was always late--his coupé waited hours
in the court. I had my carriage and went alone. After eight or ten days
of irregular meals at impossible hours (we often dined at nine-thirty) I
said to Count de P., W.'s chef de cabinet: "Can't you arrange to have
business over a little earlier? It is awful to dine so late and to wait
so long," to which he replied: "Ah, madame, no one can be more desirous
than I to change that order of things, for when the minister dines at
nine-thirty, the chef de cabinet gets his dinner at ten-thirty." We did
manage to get rather more satisfactory hours after a little while, but
it was always difficult to extract W. from his work if it were anything
important. He became absorbed, and absolutely unconscious of time.
The new President, Grévy, installed himself at once at the Elysée with
his wife and daughter. There was much speculation about Madame Grévy--no
one had ever seen her--she was absolutely unknown. When Grévy was
president of the National Assembly, he gave very pleasant men's
dinners, where Madame Grévy never appeared. Every one (of all opinions)
was delighted to go to him, and the talk was most brilliant and
interesting. Grévy was a perfect host, very cultivated, with a
marvellous memory--quoting pages of the classics, French, and Latin.
Madame Grévy was always spoken of as a quiet, unpretending
person--occupied with domestic duties, who hated society and never went
anywhere--in fact, no one ever heard her name mentioned. A great many
people didn't know that Grévy had a wife. When her husband became
President of the Republic, there was much discussion as to Madame
Grévy's social status in the official world. I don't think Grévy wanted
her to appear nor to take any part in the new life, and she certainly
didn't want to. Nothing in her former life had prepared her for such a
change, and it was always an effort for her, but both were overruled by
their friends, who thought a woman was a necessary part of the position.
It was some little time before they were settled at the Elysée. W. asked
Grévy once or twice when Madame Waddington might call upon his wife--and
he answered that as soon as they were quite installed I should receive a
notice. One day a communication arrived from the Elysee, saying that
Madame Grévy would receive the diplomatic corps and the ministers' wives
on a fixed day at five o'clock. The message was sent on to the
diplomatic corps, and when I arrived on the appointed day (early, as I
wanted to see the people come in, and also thought I must present the
foreign ladies) there were already several carriages in the court.
[Illustration: M. Jules Grévy elected President of the Republic by the
Senate and Chamber of Deputies meeting as the National Assembly. From
_l'Illustration_, February 8. 1879.]
The Elysee looked just as it did in the marshal's time--plenty of
servants in gala liveries--two or three huissiers who knew
everybody--palms, flowers, everywhere. The traditions of the palace are
carried on from one President to another, and a permanent staff of
servants remains. We found Madame Grévy with her daughter and one or two
ladies, wives, I suppose, of the secretaries, seated in the well-known
drawing-room with the beautiful tapestries--Madame Grévy in a large gold
armchair at the end of the room--a row of gilt armchairs on each side of
hers--mademoiselle standing behind her mother. A huissier announced
every one distinctly, but the names and titles said nothing to Madame
Grévy. She was tall, middle-aged, handsomely dressed, and visibly
nervous--made a great many gestures when she talked. It was amusing to
see all the people arrive. I had nothing to do--there were no
introductions--every one was announced, and they all walked straight up
to Madame Grévy, who was very polite, got up for every one, men and
women. It was rather an imposing circle that gathered around
her--Princess Hohenlohe, German ambassadress, sat on one side of
her--Marquise Molins, Spanish ambassadress, on the other. There were not
many men--Lord Lyons, as doyen of the diplomatic corps, the nonce, and a
good many representatives of the South American Republics. Madame Grévy
was perfectly bewildered, and did try to talk to the ladies next to her,
but it was an intimidating function for any one, and she had no one to
help her, as they were all quite new to the work. It was obviously an
immense relief to her when some lady of the official world came in, whom
she had known before. The two ladies plunged at once into a very
animated conversation about their children, husbands, and various
domestic matters--a perfectly natural conversation, but not interesting
to the foreign ladies.
We didn't make a very long visit--it was merely a matter of form. Lord
Lyons came out with me, and we had quite a talk while I was waiting for
my carriage in the anteroom. He was so sensible always in his
intercourse with the official world, quite realised that the position
was difficult and trying for Madame Grévy--it would have been for any
one thrown at once without any preparation into such perfectly different
surroundings. He had a certain experience of republics and republican
manners, as he had been some years in Washington as British minister,
and had often seen wives of American statesmen and ministers, fresh from
the far West, beginning their career in Washington, quite bewildered by
the novelty of everything and utterly ignorant of all questions of
etiquette--only he said the American women were far more adaptable than
either French or English--or than any others in the world, in fact. He
also said that day, and I have heard him repeat it once or twice since,
that he had _never_ met a stupid American woman....
I have always thought it was unnecessary to insist upon Madame Grévy's
presence at the Elysée. It is very difficult for any woman, no longer
very young, to begin an entirely new life in a perfectly different
milieu, and certainly more difficult for a Frenchwoman of the
bourgeoisie than any other. They live in such a narrow circle, their
lives are so cramped and uninteresting--they know so little of society
and foreign ways and manners that they must be often uncomfortable and
make mistakes. It is very different for a man. All the small questions
of dress and manners, etc., don't exist for him. One man in a dress coat
and white cravat looks very like another, and men of all conditions are
polite to a lady. When a man is intelligent, no one notices whether his
coat and waist-coat are too wide or too short and whether his boots
are clumsy.
Madame Grévy never looked happy at the Elysée. They had a big dinner
every Thursday, with a reception afterward, and she looked so tired when
she was sitting on the sofa, in the diplomatic salon, making
conversation for the foreigners and people of all kinds who came to
their receptions, that one felt really sorry for her. Grévy was always a
striking personality. He had a fine head, a quiet, dignified manner, and
looked very well when he stood at the door receiving his guests. I don't
think he cared very much about foreign affairs--he was essentially
French--had never lived abroad or known any foreigners. He was too
intelligent not to understand that a country must have foreign
relations, and that France must take her place again as a great power,
but home politics interested him much more than anything else. He was a
charming talker--every one wanted to talk to him, or rather to listen to
him. The evenings were pleasant enough in the diplomatic salon. It was
interesting to see the attitude of the different diplomatists. All were
correct, but most of them were visibly antagonistic to the Republic and
the Republicans (which they considered much accentuée since the
nomination of Grévy--the women rather more so than the men). One felt,
if one didn't hear, the criticisms on the dress, deportment, and general
style of the Republican ladies.
[Illustration: The Elysée Palace, Paris]
I didn't quite understand their view of the situation. They were all
delighted to come to Paris, and knew perfectly well the state of things,
what an abyss existed between all the Conservative party, Royalists and
Bonapartists, and the Republican, but the absence of a court didn't make
any difference in their position. They went to all the entertainments
given in the Faubourg St. Germain, and all the société came to theirs.
With very few exceptions they did only what was necessary in the way of
intercourse with the official world. I think they made a mistake, both
for themselves and their governments. France was passing through an
entirely new phase; everything was changing, many young intelligent men
were coming to the front, and there were interesting and able
discussions in the Chambers, and in the salons of the Republican
ministers and deputies. I dare say the new theories of liberty and
equality were not sympathetic to the trained representatives of courts,
but the world was advancing, democracy was in the air, and one would
have thought it would have interested foreigners to follow the movement
and to judge for themselves whether the young Republic had any chance of
life. One can hardly imagine a public man not wishing to hear all sides
of a question, but I think, _certainly_ in the beginning, there was such
a deep-rooted distrust and dislike to the Republic, that it was
impossible to see things fairly. I don't know that it mattered very
much. In these days of rapid travelling and telephone, an ambassador's
rôle is much less important than in the old days when an ambassador with
his numerous suite of secretaries and servants, travelling by post,
would be days on the road before reaching his destination, and when all
sorts of things might happen, kingdoms and dynasties be overthrown in
the interval. Now all the great measures and negotiations are discussed
and settled in the various chancelleries--the ambassador merely
transmits his instructions.
I think the women were rather more uncompromising than the men. One day
in my drawing-room there was a lively political discussion going on, and
one heard all the well-known phrases "le gouvernement infect," "no
gentleman could serve the Republic," etc. I wasn't paying much
attention--never did; I had become accustomed to that style of
conversation, and knew exactly what they were all going to say, when I
heard one of my friends, an American-born, married to a Frenchman of
very good old family, make the following statement: "Toute la canaille
est Républicaine." That was really too much, and I answered: "Vous êtes
bien indulgente pour l'Empire." When one thinks of the unscrupulous (not
to use a stronger term) and needy adventurers, who made the Coup d'Etat
and played a great part in the court of the Second Empire, it was really
a little startling to be told that the Republicans enjoyed the monopoly
of the canaille. However, I suppose nothing is so useless as a political
discussion (except perhaps a religious one). No one ever converts any
one else. I have always heard it said that the best political speech
never changed a vote.
The first person who entertained Grévy was Prince Hohenlohe, the German
ambassador. They had a brilliant reception, rooms crowded, all the
official world and a fair contingent from the Faubourg St. Germain. The
President brought his daughter with him (Madame Grévy never accepted any
invitations) and they walked through the rooms arm-in-arm, mademoiselle
declining the arm of Count Wesdehlen, first secretary of the
German Embassy.
However, she was finally prevailed upon to abandon the paternal support,
and then Wesdehlen installed her in a small salon where Mollard,
Introducteur des Ambassadeurs, took charge of her and introduced a great
many men to her. No woman would ask to be introduced to an unmarried
woman, and that of course made her position difficult. The few ladies
she had already seen at the Elysée came up to speak to her, but didn't
stay near her, so she was really receiving almost alone with Mollard.
Grévy was in another room, très entouré, as he always was. The
diplomatic corps did not spare their criticisms. Madame Grévy received
every Saturday in the afternoon, and I went often--not every time. It
was a funny collection of people, some queerly dressed women and one or
two men in dress coats and white cravats,--always a sprinkling of
diplomatists. Prince Orloff was often there, and if anybody could have
made that stiff, shy semicircle of women comfortable, he would have done
it, with his extraordinary ease of manner and great habit of the world.
Gambetta was installed in the course of the month at the Palais Bourbon,
next to us. It was brilliantly lighted every night, and my chef told me
one of his friends, an excellent cook, was engaged, and that there would
be a great many dinners. The Palais Bourbon had seen great
entertainments in former days, when the famous Duc de Morny was
Président de la Chambre des Députés. Under Napoleon III his
entertainments were famous. The whole world, fashionable, political, and
diplomatic thronged his salons, and invitations were eagerly sought for
not only by the French people, but by the many foreigners who passed
through Paris at that time. Gambetta must have been a curious contrast
to the Duc de Morny.
We went to see a first function at the Elysée some time in February, two
Cardinals were to be named and Grévy was to deliver the birettas.
Mollard asked to see me one morning, telling me that the two ablegates
with their suite had arrived, and wished to pay their respects to me.
One of them was Monsignor Cataldi, whom we had known well in Rome when
we were living there. He was a friend of my brother (General Rufus King,
the last United States minister to the Vatican under Pia Nono), and came
often to the house. He was much excited when he found out that Madame
Waddington was the Mary King he had known so well in Rome. He had with
him an English priest, whose name, curiously enough, was English. They
appeared about tea-time and were quite charming, Cataldi just as fat and
cheerful and talkative as I remembered him in the old days in Rome. We
plunged at once into all sorts of memories of old times--the good old
times when Rome was small and black and interesting--something quite
apart and different from any other place in the world. Monsignor English
was much younger and more reserved, the Anglo-Saxon type--a contrast to
the exuberant Southerners. We asked them to dine the next night and were
able to get a few interesting people to meet them, Comte et Comtesse de
Sartiges, and one or two deputies--bien-pensants. Sartiges was formerly
French ambassador in Rome to the Vatican, and a very clever diplomatist.
He was very autocratic, did exactly what he liked. I remember quite well
some of his small dances at the embassy. The invitations were from ten
to twelve, and at twelve precisely the musicians stopped playing--no
matter who was dancing, the ball was over. His wife was an American,
from Boston, Miss Thorndike, who always retained the simple, natural
manner of the well-born American. Their son, the Vicomte de Sartiges,
has followed in his father's footsteps, and is one of the most serious
and intelligent of the young diplomatists.
Cataldi made himself very agreeable, spoke French perfectly well, though
with a strong Italian accent. He confided to me after dinner that he
would have liked to see some of the more advanced political men, instead
of the very conservative Catholics we had invited to meet them. "I know
what these gentlemen think; I would like to talk to some of the others,
those who think 'le clericalism c'est l'ennemi,' and who are firmly
convinced that the soutane serves as a cloak for all sorts of underhand
and unpatriotic dealings; I can only see them abroad, never in Rome." He
would have talked to them quite easily. Italians have so much natural
tact, in discussing difficult questions, never irritate people
unnecessarily.
W. enjoyed his evening. He had never been in Rome, nor known many
Romans, and it amused him to see how skilfully Cataldi (who was a
devoted admirer of Leo XIII) avoided all cross-currents and difficult
questions, saying only what he intended to say, and appreciating all
that was said to him.
Henrietta and I were very anxious to see the ceremony at the Elysée, and
asked Mollard, Introducteur des Ambassadeurs and chef du Protocole--a
most important man on all official occasions, if he couldn't put us
somewhere in a corner, where we could see, without taking any part. W.
was of no use to us, as he went officially, in uniform. Madame Grévy was
very amiable, and sent us an invitation to breakfast. We found a small
party assembled in the tapestry salon when we arrived at the Elysée--the
President with all his household, civil and military, Madame and
Mademoiselle Grévy, three or four ladies, wives of the aides-de-camp and
secretaries, also several prominent ecclesiastics, among them Monsignor
Capel, an English priest, a very handsome and attractive man, whom we
had known well in Rome. He was supposed to have made more women converts
to Catholicism than any man of his time; I can quite understand his
influence with women. There was something very natural and earnest about
him--no pose. I had not seen him since I had married and was very
pleased when I recognised him. He told me he had never seen W.--was most
anxious to make his acquaintance.
While we were talking, W. came in, looking very warm and uncomfortable,
wearing his stiff, gold-embroidered uniform, which changed him very
much. I introduced Capel to him at once. They had quite a talk before
the Archbishops and ablegates arrived. The two future Cardinals,
Monseigneur Pie, Archbishop of Poitiers, and Monseigneur Desprey,
Archbishop of Toulouse, were well known in the Catholic world. The
Pope's choice was generally approved. They were treated with all due
ceremony, as befitted princes of the church. One of the Elysée carriages
(always very well turned out), with an escort of cavalry, went to fetch
them, and they looked very stately and imposing in their robes when they
came into the room where we were waiting. They were very different,
Monseigneur Pie tall, thin, cold, arrogant,--one felt it was a trial for
him to receive his Cardinal's hat from the hands of a Republican
President. Monseigneur Desprey had a kind good expression. I don't think
he liked it much either, but he put a better face on the matter.
Both Cardinals said exactly what one imagined they would say--that the
traditional fidelity of France to the church should be supported and
encouraged in every way in these troubled days of indifference to
religion, etc. One felt all the time the strong antagonism of the church
to the Republic. Grévy answered extremely well, speaking with much
dignity and simplicity, and assuring the Cardinals that they could
always count upon the constitutional authority of the head of the state,
in favour of the rights of the church. I was quite pleased to see again
the red coats and high boots of the gardes nobles. It is a very showy,
dashing uniform. The two young men were good-looking and wore it very
well. I asked to have them presented to me, and we had a long talk over
old days in Rome when the Pope went out every day to the different
villas, and promenades, and always with an escort of gardes nobles. I
invited them to our reception two or three nights afterward, and they
seemed to enjoy themselves. They were, of course, delighted with their
short stay in Paris, and I think a little surprised at the party at the
Foreign Office under a Republican régime. I don't know if they expected
to find the rooms filled with gentlemen in the traditional red
Garibaldian shirt--and ladies in corresponding simplicity of attire.
[Illustration: Her Majesty Queen Victoria, about 1879. From a photograph
by Chancellor, Dublin.]