THE FRENCH PRESS
In the visit of Nicholas II. to Paris the press played a considerable
part. Indeed in no country of the world do newspapers wield such an
influence as they do in France, where the bourgeois, the workman, and
the peasant believe implicitly in what the papers say, especially if his
particular news-sheet has the chauvinistic opinions which he himself
espouses. It would hardly have been possible to organise the magnificent
reception which was awarded to the Emperor of Russia, if newspapers of
all shades had not contributed to it their long articles written in
praise of the future visitor and in general of the Russian nation and
the Russian army. These were material factors in securing the popular
demonstration that took place. Thanks to them the Russian loans were
covered several times over, and Russian policy, be it in the East or
elsewhere, was warmly supported by the powers that ruled at the Quai
d’Orsay.
The Minister for Foreign Affairs at that time was M. Gabriel Hanotaux,
himself a writer of no mean talent, and a journalist in his spare
moments. A few years later he was to be elected to the Academy for his
fine work on the life of Cardinal Richelieu. M. Hanotaux was an
excessively shrewd man, and moreover one who had a vast knowledge of the
world; he understood better than anyone else the use to which the press,
and especially the daily press, can be put. He organised a special
service which kept the whole of France informed as to the doings and
sayings of the Russian Sovereigns, and was clever enough to give a
spontaneous character to the vast manifestation of sympathy which threw
France into the arms of Russia.
I don’t remember now who said, very wittily one must admit, that “each
country and each epoch has the press which it deserves.” That phrase is
far from being the paradox it seems, because it is an undeniable fact,
and particularly so in France, that though the press leads public
opinion, yet it is public opinion which leads the press into the road
where its instincts--political or financial--tell it to go. And in the
last twenty-five years the French, and especially the Parisian, press
has undergone a total transformation. It is no longer what it was in the
time of the Second Empire, when the restraining hand of the government
was always more or less over its head. At present independence reigns
among the papers that rule the boulevards, though this does not prevent
the principal among them from accepting the inspirations which come
either from the Quai d’Orsay or from the Place Beauveau. In the latter
place, journalists had a good time of it during the few months when M.
Clemenceau, the most brilliant among them, reigned as its master, and
did not disdain to communicate to the press his views and his opinions
on one or other of the questions of the day. The _Matin_, the _Journal_,
the _Débats_, and especially the _Temps_, like to entertain their
readers in an atmosphere favourable to the ministry which happens to be
in power. The last-named paper has upon its staff men of the rarest
literary merit, among others M. Tardieu, who writes the leaders on
foreign affairs and of whom Prince von Bülow once said jokingly that
there “existed in Europe three great Powers and--M. Tardieu.”
That opinion had been endorsed long before it was uttered by M. Adrien
Hébrard, the greatest journalist that France can boast, and of whom she
can justly be proud. M. Hébrard, if he had only wished it, might have
become an important political personage, a minister, a member of the
French Academy, but to all these glories he preferred the editorship of
the _Temps_.
The paper is Republican in its opinions, with sometimes a leaning
towards Radicalism, and stronger leanings still towards
anti-Clericalism. At the same time, it has constantly displayed coolness
in its judgments, and has always abstained from exaggerations either in
one sense or the other. It has never failed in courtesy towards its
antagonists, and has made itself respected, even when it has caused
itself to be disliked. Everyone in political or social circles reads it
with interest, and very often the news which it gives _en dernière
heure_, as it is called, has a European importance, and is cabled all
over the world. Its chronicles also are something more than those of
other papers, and its dramatic weekly letter decides the success or
failure of every new theatrical piece which sees the footlights of the
principal Paris theatres.
Another serious paper, whose importance is almost as great as that of
the _Temps_, is the old _Journal des Débats_, which is considered the
organ of the Academy, and which certainly has always the last word to
say concerning its elections.
In the _Débats_ correct polished French is always to be found. It is
grave, pompous, essentially bourgeois in its opinions, and is not read
by the multitude.
The three great organs that have acquired front-rank importance are
certainly the _Matin_, the _Journal_, its rival in everything, even in
impudence, and the _Petit Parisien_. You will find many people in Paris
who do not know the _Temps_, except that they have seen it in the
newspaper kiosks, you will find a great many more who do not know even
that much about the _Débats_, but you will never come across any man or
woman, to begin with your concierge, and to end with the foremost
politician in the Chamber, who does not know the _Matin_ and its chief
editor and proprietor, M. Alfred Edwards, of Lanthelme fame. In the
opinion of many the _Matin_ is not a credit to French journalism.
More popular even than the _Matin_ are the _Journal_ and the _Petit
Parisien_, whose proprietor, M. Jean Dupuy, has already been several
times entrusted with a ministerial portfolio, and is a member of the
Senate, where his opinion is always listened to with attention. The
_Petit Parisien_ has many editions, and is extensively read in the
provinces. It instils into millions of people the Radical opinions which
it professes.
One of the reasons why everybody who can wield a pen in France turns to
journalism nowadays lies in this knowledge that it leads to anything one
likes--and principally to politics, after which every Frenchman craves.
In olden times every young man wanted to become a member of the Bar,
persuaded that the Bar alone could lead him to the Chamber and thence to
become a member of the government. At present journalists have it all
their own way. I won’t pretend to say that the change is by any means to
advantage.
The general tone of the press lacks sadly of sympathy. Journalists like
M. Hébrard become rarer and rarer every day. The press is no longer a
tribune, it is something like the servants’ hall of political life, and
though its successes are greater than they have ever been they are not
lasting, and they are forgotten the very next hour after they have
reached their culminating height.
Politics, thanks to this degeneration, have become a hurried, feverish
occupation, are more talked about than discussed, more felt than acted
upon. Ministries, too, change far too often for France to work out her
regeneration with anything like stability, and at present she is obliged
to lean upon Russia, because only in so doing can she have any hope of
remaining a Great Power.
There are, however, a few great journalists left on the banks of the
Seine, and I am sure that no one will contradict me when I say that one
of the first places among the few is occupied by that remarkable man,
Arthur Meyer, the son of a Jewish tailor and the grandson of a rabbi,
who by a strange freak of destiny has become the most fervent supporter
of both Monarchy and Catholicism. He was associated with Boulanger and
also with that most ardent of anti-Semites, Edouard Drumont, and, after
having become the friend, adviser, and counsellor of the Comte de Paris,
who had replaced Napoleon III. in his affections, succeeded in being
admitted into the intimacy of the Duchesse d’Uzès and the noblest great
ladies of the noble Faubourg, where at last he found himself a wife in
the person of the charming but dowerless daughter of the Comte and
Comtesse de Turenne.
Such a career is one of the most curious products of our times, and
stranger still than its success is the fact that no one, save a few bad
tempered people whose opinions do not count and to whom no one listens,
has ever expressed the least astonishment at its development. Paris has
accepted M. Arthur Meyer just as it accepted the Republic and the
institution of the Concours Hippique; and Parisian society has acquired
the habit of turning to him not only for news but also for the manner in
which it ought to be received. He has become an oracle among certain
circles, and his whiskers, his ties, and the shape and cut of his
clothes are copied not only by fashionable men but also by fashionable
tailors. The morning coat of M. Meyer has replaced the frock coat of the
Prince de Sagan, and the dinner-jacket of King Edward VII.
I quoted at the beginning the remark that every country has the press
which it deserves. I can complete it by saying that every society has
the leader that it merits. And Parisian fashionable circles can boast of
having kept M. Arthur Meyer, though circumstances compelled it to lose
Count Boni de Castellane.
I have mentioned the marriage of this favourite of the gods. People
wondered at it excessively, but it would be extremely unfair to M. Meyer
not to maintain that he decided to ask for the hand of Mademoiselle de
Turenne under circumstances that were entirely to his honour. The young
girl belonged to a family just as illustrious as it was poor, and though
she had very rich relations, none of them attempted to do anything in
her favour nor even to try to marry her in her own sphere. Arthur Meyer
was a frequent visitor at the house of her parents, and had many
opportunities of watching the revolts of a youthful mind disgusted at
what it perceived of the injustices of the world. One day she told him
that she did not know what she could do to escape the misery of her
existence, adding that she knew that only two roads were open to her,
either a convent or the free life of a woman who had put aside all
prejudices and the principles in which she had been reared. “And,” she
added, “I don’t want to become a nun, I have not got the courage to
leave the society to which I belong, and I would never commit suicide. I
have often wondered what I could do.”
Meyer was above all chivalrous, and the despair of that young and lovely
woman touched him deeply. He did not love her, and he knew very well
that she could feel no love for him, but he asked her to become his
wife, and, after some hesitation, she accepted his offer. Of course
society rose up in arms when it heard about it, but nevertheless neither
her uncle, Count Louis de Turenne, nor her aunt, the Marquise de
Nicolai, whose wealth could be counted by millions, ever tried by making
her a small dowry to give her the chance of marrying within her own
sphere.
And so, one fine autumn day, the son of a little Jewish tailor became
the husband of a girl whose ancestry had helped in the making of some of
the most glorious pages in the history of France. Verily, life holds
strange surprises in reserve for those who care to watch it.
Arthur Meyer is altogether a curious type both as a man and as a
journalist. One cannot help liking him even when one does not sympathise
with his opinions, or with his person. He is an anomaly in everything,
and no one would ever feel surprised at anything he might do or say. He
has certainly forsaken his race and his creed, yet so thoroughly has he
succeeded in impressing those who know him with his good qualities that
he has never been repulsed for the light-heartedness with which he has
burned the boats of his faith.
M. Arthur Meyer is the proprietor of the _Gaulois_, the fashionable
organ of fashionable Paris, of the upper ten thousand who constitute
Parisian society, that motley crowd in which unfortunately money is the
only passport needed to ensure an entrance. It has one rival, the
_Figaro_. The _Figaro_ is extremely well informed, has contributors of
great talent, and is as eminently respectable as that kind of paper can
be which devotes a large part to gossip more or less good-natured. But
it is no longer what that king among journalists, Villemessant, had made
it.
Of papers in which popular passions are constantly appealed to, and in
which one only seeks the criticism of the existing government, only one,
the _Presse_, deserves more than a passing mention, and that only
because its editor was M. Henri Rochefort, who up to his death in 1913
always wrote the leading article which figures at the head of the paper.
M. Rochefort was one of the most extraordinary productions of modern
journalism, to which he gave a direction that had been unknown until he
initiated it. His talent, which was essentially critical, bordering on
satire when it did not frankly take that tinge, procured for him a
celebrity which spread far and wide beyond the frontiers of France.
No one ever succeeded as he did in finding words that appealed to the
mob, and which in a few words expressed so much. His _Lanterne_
contributed more than anything else to the fall of the Empire, and
Napoleon III., who knew humanity perhaps better than anyone else, did
not despise him as an adversary, although his importance was denied by
Napoleon’s ministers and entourage, who advised him to pay no notice to
the weekly attacks of the _Lanterne_ against his person and his
government. One day M. Rouher tried to minimise the influence of that
sheet, saying that though people read it, its attacks were despised. The
Emperor replied that he knew it, but, he added, “I am also aware that
there exist women whom we despise but to whom, nevertheless, we pay
attention.”
There was a deep meaning in this simple phrase. Certain it was that all
reasonable and well-thinking people despised the attacks against
everything that others held sacred in which the Marquis de Rochefort
Luçay continually indulged, but nevertheless the seeds blossomed in
time; indeed, no one more than himself contributed to discredit
authority. By this Rochefort became the idol of the Parisian masses, and
remained its favourite until his death.
I was very fond of M. Rochefort, and used to find great pleasure in
spending a few hours in his company whenever I found an opportunity.
Nothing could be more amusing than his conversation; the mixture of
cynicism and irony that now and then came out in brilliant paradoxes
full of wit if devoid of common sense, constituted something quite
unique, which was bound to appeal to the imagination of his listeners,
and make them smile even when they felt a sense of distaste.
He believed in nothing, not even in himself; respected nothing, loved
nothing, but liked many things--his collections, his pictures, his work,
the influence which he imagined that he wielded around him, and which in
reality was not so considerable as he thought. And he never hesitated
before uttering one of his bon mots, or writing one of his bitter
scathing articles, even when he was perfectly aware that by doing so he
was hurting innocent people--people who had done no wrong, and who had
only incurred his displeasure by being either related or connected with
those who had become the subject of his criticism.
The best description that one can make of M. Rochefort would be that he
was “perfectly unscrupulous,” and if he were still living I do not think
he would deny that this was so. Rather, he would glory in it, because,
as he once told me, “Dans ce monde il faut toujours mordre, ne fut ce
que pour ôter aux autres la possibilité d’en faire autant avec vous”
(“In this world one must always bite, if only to prevent others doing
the same to you”). One could have replied to this remark that there are
some mortal and some insignificant bites, and that it was not always the
latter that he indulged in.
A curious peculiarity of M. Rochefort was that, fierce Republican though
he pretended to be, yet he was inordinately fond of his name and of his
title, and a servant who would forget to call him Monsieur le Marquis
would be dismissed instantly. Bereft of his parents, and so without
experience of the affection of home life, his earliest days were most
difficult.
Until he attempted journalism he had been a subordinate clerk at the
Hotel de Ville, earning barely enough to keep body and soul together. He
never forgot this period of his existence, and, whenever he allowed
himself to speak about it, a bitterness showed itself which he could not
keep within bounds.
One day, alluding to those dark and hopeless times, when he had spent
many hours scribbling at some wearisome task, he said to me: “It is
impossible for anyone who has not undergone it to imagine what it feels
like to see the spring and not be able to get out of doors.” The remark
appeared to me almost too poetic to be the expression of a real feeling,
but when I told him so, he replied quite earnestly: “Evidently you have
never experienced what it is to know that you are a drudge, although
possessing the inner feeling that you are born to better things.” I
could not help then inquiring what his feelings had been when he was in
prison, to which he exclaimed: “Oh, that was very different, one always
comes out of prison, but sometimes one never escapes from the necessity
of earning one’s bread and butter by copying the stupidities which other
people have written.”
Before he died in July, 1913, the Marquis de Rochefort Luçay was a
quasi-millionaire, the owner of one of the handsomest houses in all
Paris, received everywhere that he cared to go, a desired guest, and an
envied journalist. Even in his later days his pen was as sharp as ever,
though perhaps it was no longer appreciated as was the case in the later
days of the Empire.
He was often to be seen at the Hotel Drouot, attending the principal art
sales of the year, where his knowledge of pictures and bibelots was
highly appreciated. His life was like a fairy tale in many things, and
in others like a dark nightmare. He made many foes, and kept few
friends. Appearing to be everlastingly dissatisfied, he was yet one of
the happiest men in the world--perhaps because he was one of the most
selfish.