It is a lengthy tale, and such a tissue of lies and intrigue that
common sense wonders if the impossible cannot be possible, if wrong
cannot be right. You probably know more of the details of the case
than I do, if you have followed it from the beginning, as I am just
beginning to follow.
I assure you it is as much as your life is worth to speak about it;
and, as for bringing people together or inviting them to dinner, you
must first find out if they are Dreyfusards or anti-Dreyfusards,
otherwise you risk your crockery. The other day I was talking to an
old gentleman who seemed very level-headed on the start. Perhaps I
might learn something! I ventured to say, "Do tell me the real facts
about the Dreyfus affair." Had I told him that he was sitting on a
lighted bomb the effect on him could not have been more startling.
"Do you know that he is the greatest traitor that has ever lived? He
gave the _bordereau_ to the German government."
"What is a _bordereau_?" I asked.
He seemed astonished that I did not know what a _bordereau_ was. "It
is a list of secret documents. He gave this three years ago."
"Who discovered it?" I inquired.
"It was found in the paper-basket of the German Embassy, and Monsieur
Paty du Clam knew about it."
"And then?"
"Well, then he was arrested and brought before the _conseil de
guerre_, found guilty, and degraded before the army."
"Did he confess that he wrote the _bordereau_?"
"No! On the contrary, he swore he had not, but the generals decided
that he had. So he _must_ have!"
"The generals may have been mistaken," I said. "Such things have
happened."
"Oh no. It is impossible that these officers could have been
mistaken."
"What did he say when he was accused?" I continued.
"I hardly think that he was told of what he was accused."
"Do you mean to say," I cried, "that he did not know that he was
suspected of high treason?"
"He must have known that he wrote the _bordereau_," he replied.
"_If_ he wrote it," I interrupted. "Was he not condemned only on his
handwriting?"
"Yes," replied my elderly friend, whose head I had thought level. "But
to discover the truth one had to resort to all sort of ruses in order
to convict him and convince the public."
"Why did the generals want to condemn him, if he was not guilty?" I
asked.
"They had to condemn some one," said my friend, who was beginning to
be dreadfully bored. "The generals found Dreyfus guilty, therefore
Dreyfus was guilty without doubt."
"Do you think that if an injustice has been done it will create a
great indignation in other countries and will affect the coming
Exposition?" I inquired.
"Ah," said my wise friend, "_that_ is another thing. I think myself
that it would be prudent to do something toward revising the judgment;
everything ought to be done to make the Exposition a success."
And there the matter rested.
I doubt if his friendship stood this test. Any one who takes Dreyfus's
defense is looked upon as an enemy in the camp. I devour the papers.
_Le Matin_ seems to be the only unprejudiced one. J. reads the others,
but I have no patience with all their cooked-up and melodramatic
stories.
On the 11th of September the King of Siam gave the diplomats an
opportunity to meet him at a reception in the new and beautiful
Siamese Legation.
The King is good-looking, and tall for a Siamese. He talked English
perfectly and showed the greatest interest in everything he had seen.
When he left Paris a few days later he bought three hundred dozen
pairs of silk stockings for his three hundred wives. Quite a sum for
the royal budget! One can't imagine bigamy going much further than
that, can one? And he is only forty-two years old!
I was very glad to meet Colonel Picquard at a dinner in a Dreyfusard
house. All that I had heard of him made me feel a great admiration for
him. I was not disappointed. He is a most charming man, handsome, with
such an honest and kind face. I hoped he would talk with me about
Dreyfus, and said as much to my hostess, who in her turn must have
said "as much" to him, for he came and sat by me. I did not hesitate
to broach the tabooed subject. He said: "I do not and have never
thought that Dreyfus was guilty. He may have done something else, but
he never, in my belief, wrote the _bordereau_. I had not known him
before. I was the officer who was sent to his cell to make him write
his name; they forced him to write it a hundred times. He was
perfectly calm, but it was so cold in his room that his fingers were
stiff and his hands trembled. He kept saying, 'Why am I to do this?' I
was convinced then and there of his innocence. I could have wept with
compassion when I saw how unconscious the poor fellow was. I was also
on duty," he added, "when Dreyfus was conducted to the Ecole Militaire
the day he was degraded before the troops: his epaulettes were torn
from his shoulders and his sword was broken in two. I never could have
imagined that any one could endure so much. My heart bled for him."
Dreyfus was imprisoned _two weeks_ and subjected every day to
mysterious questionings, of which he could not divine the purpose.
Neither he nor his counsel knew on what grounds he was arrested.
Forzinetti, who was in charge of Dreyfus's prison, also believed him
innocent, and said he had never seen a man suffer as he did. He kept
repeating, "My only crime is having been born a Jew." He has been
confined ever since on the _Ile du Diable_ under the strictest
surveillance. His jailer was not allowed to speak to him. When airing
himself in the little inclosure, exposed to the awful heat, there was
always a gun pointed at him. Sometimes he was chained to his bed with
irons, and a loaded pistol was always placed by his side in case he
became weary of life. Colonel Picquard said:
"It can only be the strong desire to prove his innocence that keeps
his courage up." Colonel Schwartkopfen (the German military _attaché_
in Paris) declares solemnly to any one who will listen that the German
Embassy has never had anything to do with Dreyfus, and the _bordereau_
is unknown there.
We are very anxious about the news we get from Denmark. The dear Queen
is very ill, and there is little hope of her recovery.
PARIS, _29th September_.
Dear ----,--The Queen died last night.
Every one in Paris has come to us to express his sympathy. As is the
custom in Europe, people write their names in a book placed in the
antechamber. There are several hundred signatures. In Denmark there is
mourning ordered for six months. As there is no Danish church in
Paris, a memorial service for the Queen was celebrated in the Greek
chapel. It was most solemn and beautiful. I love to hear the mournful
chants of the white-robed, solemn priests.
It was very sad to hear of the assassination of the beautiful Empress
of Austria. She was in Geneva and about to take the little boat to go
up the lake. The assassin met her and, apparently running against her
accidentally, stabbed her. She did not feel the thrust and continued
to walk on. When she stepped on the boat they noticed the blood on her
dress, and soon after, on being taken to the hotel, she died.
The French military _attaché_ in Copenhagen was in Paris some days and
invited us to dinner at his mother's, who has a charming home. We met
a great many agreeable people, among whom was the poet Rostand (he is
the brother-in-law of the _attaché_). Rostand was very talkative, and
I enjoyed, more than words can tell, my conversation with him. He was
most amusing when he told of his efforts "to be alone with his
thoughts." He said that when he was writing _L'Aiglon_ he was almost
crazy.
"My head seemed bursting with ideas. I could not sleep, and my days
were one prolonged irritation, and I became so nervous _que j'etais
devenu impossible_. The slightest interruption sent me into spasms of
_delire_. Do you know what I did?" he asked me.
"I suppose," I answered, "you went on writing, all the same."
"No. You could never guess," he laughed. "I sat in a bath-tub all day.
In this way no one could come and disturb me, and I was left alone."
"Tubs," I remarked, "seem to belong to celebrities. Diogenes had one,
I remember, where he sat and pondered."
"But it was not a bath-tub. I consider my idea rather original! Do you
not think that the Great Sarah is magnificent in '_L'Aiglon_'?"
"Magnificent," I said. "You are fortunate to have such an
interpreter."
"Am I not?" He was a delightful man.
He sent me a few lines of the Princess Lointaine, with his autograph.
At Mr. Dannat's, the well-known American portrait-painter, I met the
celebrated composer Moskowski. One does not expect to find good looks
and a pleasing talker and a _charmeur_ in a modern artist. But he
combines all of these. He said:
"I shall die a most miserable and unhappy man."
"Why?" I inquired. I feared he would confide in me the secrets of his
heart, which is at present mostly occupied with his handsome and giddy
wife. These, however, he kept wisely to himself.
"I am like Rubinstein," he said. "He was wretched because he could not
write an opera. I also wish to write an opera, but I cannot."
"Who could, if not you?" I said. "I think your Concerto one of the
most beautiful things I have ever heard."
"You flatter me," he said, modestly, "but, alas! you cannot make me a
writer of operas. To-morrow afternoon is the _répétition générale_ at
the Cologne Concert of my Concerto. Teresa Careno plays the piano
part. Would you allow me to accompany you, if you would like to go?"
Did I accept? Yes!
Teresa Careno surpassed herself, and the Concerto was enthusiastically
received. Siegfried Wagner led the orchestra in a composition of his
own. He was very arbitrary and made the artists go over and over again
the same phrase without any seeming reason. One poor flutist almost
tore his hair out by the roots. Wagner was so dissatisfied with his
playing that he stopped him twenty times. At last, as if it were a
hopeless task, he shrugged his shoulders and went on.
[Illustration:
LINES FROM "LA PRINCESSE LOINTAINE" WITH ROSTAND'S
AUTOGRAPH]
Count and Countess Castellane (Miss Gould) gave a great entertainment
to inaugurate their hotel-palace in the Bois. The young King of Spain
was their guest of honor, and the smiling hostess clung to his arm
throughout the entire evening, introducing people as they passed. She
did not know every one's name nor half of their titles.
The cotillion was short and the supper long, and both were costly. The
King of Spain is not handsome, but he has charming manners and a
determined jaw and a very sympathetic smile. We met him again at the
Grand Prix in the President's pavilion. It was a most brilliant sight.
Every one in Paris was there, and the toilets of the ladies were of
the _dernier cri_.
The King of Sweden kept his word and really did come to Paris. A
dinner for him at the Elysées included us (the only persons who were
not French except the Swedish Legation). We are, as you know, what
they call "_une legation de famille_." I was more than enchanted to
see the King again. He promised to come and take tea with me the next
day.
"Who would your Majesty care to meet?" I asked him.
"My old lady friends whom I used to know here before," the King
answered.
"Your Majesty does not mean all of them--that would be a legion."
"No, no," he laughed. "Not _all_, only ..." and named several.
Every one came, although invited at the eleventh hour. It was a merry
meeting, and such _souveniring_!
The King walked to my house accompanied by Herr Ancacronra, and the
gentlemen whom the French government attached to his Majesty during
his visit. They were surprised that a King should prefer walking
through the streets to being driven in a landau from the Elysées.
The King brought several photographs, which he distributed to his
friends, and, wishing to write his name on them, desired me to give
him "a nice pen with a broad point." Oh dear! Not a "nice" pen could
be found in the house! And one with a broad point did not exist. As
for the ink, it was thick at the bottom and thin on the top. He had to
stir it about each time he put the pen in.