GAIETIES AT THE QUAI D'ORSAY
W. got home on the 17th, and was so busy the first days, with his colleagues and political friends that I didn't see much more of him than if he had been in Berlin. He was rather disgusted and discouraged at the view his colleagues of the cabinet and his friends took of France's attitude at the Congress. The only man who seemed to be able to look ahead a little and understand what a future there might be for France in Tunis was Gambetta. I remember quite well his telling of an interesting conversation with him. Gambetta was very keen about foreign affairs, very patriotic, and not at all willing that France should remain indefinitely a weakened power, still suffering from the defeat of 1870. There were many fêtes and reunions of all kinds, all through the summer months, as people had flocked to Paris for the exposition. We remained in town until the first days of August, then W. went to his Conseil-Général in the Department of the Aisne, and I went down to Deauville. He joined me there, and we had a pleasant month—bathing, driving, and seeing a great many people. We had taken Sir Joseph Oliffe's villa, one of the best in Deauville. Oliffe, an Englishman, was one of Emperor Napoleon's physicians, and he and the Duc de Morny were the founders of Deauville, which was very fashionable as long as Morny lived and the Empire lasted, but it lost its vogue for some years after the Franco-German War—fashion and society generally congregating at Trouville. There were not many villas then, and one rather bad hotel, but the sea was nearer than it is now and people all went to the beach in the morning, and fished for shrimps in the afternoon, and led a quiet out-of-doors life. There was no polo nor golf nor automobiles—not many carriages, a good tennis-court, where W. played regularly, and races every Sunday in August, which brought naturally a gay young crowd of all the sporting world. The train des maris that left Paris every Saturday evening, brought a great many men. It was quite different from the Deauville of to-day, which is charming, with quantities of pretty villas and gardens and sports of all kinds, but the sea is so far off one has to take quite a long walk to get to it, and the mornings on the beach and the expeditions to Trouville in the afternoon across the ferry, to do a little shopping in the rue de Paris, are things of the past. Curiously enough while I was looking over my notes the other day, I had a visit from an old friend, the Duc de M., who was one of the inner circle of the imperial household of the Emperor Napoleon III, and took an active part in all that went on at court. He had just been hearing from a friend of the very brilliant season at Deauville this year, and the streams of gold that flowed into the caisse of the management of the new hotel and casino. Every possible luxury and every inducement to spend money, racing, gambling, pretty women of all nationalities and facile character, beautifully dressed and covered with jewels, side by side with the bearers of some of the proudest names in France. He said that just fifty years ago he went to Deauville with the Duc de Morny, Princesse Metternich, and the Comtesse de Pourtéles to inaugurate the new watering-place, then of the simplest description. The ladies were badly lodged in a so-called hotel and he had a room in a fisherman's hut.
Marshal MacMahon had a house near Trouville that year, and he came over occasionally to see W., always on horseback and early in the morning. W. used to struggle into his clothes when "M. le Marechal" was announced. I think the marshal preferred his military title very much to his civic honours. I suppose there never was so unwilling a president of a republic, except many years later Casimir Périer, who certainly hated the "prison of the Elysée," but the marshal was a soldier, and his military discipline helped him through many difficult positions. We had various visitors who came down for twenty-four hours—one charming visit from the Marquis de Vogüé, then French ambassador at Vienna, where he was very much liked, a persona grata in every way. He was very tall, distinguished-looking, quite the type of the ambassador. When I went to inspect his room I was rather struck by the shortness of the bed—didn't think his long legs could ever get into it. The valet assured me it was all right, the bed was normal, but I doubt if he had a very comfortable night. He and W. were old friends, had travelled in the East together and discussed every possible subject during long starlight nights in the desert. They certainly never thought then that one day they would be closely associated as ambassador and foreign minister. Vogüé didn't like the Republic, didn't believe in the capacity or the sincerity of the Republicans—couldn't understand how W. could. He was a personal friend of the marshal's, remained at Vienna during the marshal's presidency, but left with him, much to W.'s regret, who knew what good service he had done at Vienna and what a difficult post that would be for an improvised diplomatist. It was then, and I fancy is still, one of the stiffest courts in Europe. One hears amusing stories from some diplomatists of the rigid etiquette in court circles, which the Americans were always infringing. A great friend of mine, an American, who had lived all her life abroad, and whose husband was a member of the diplomatic corps in Vienna, was always worrying over the misdemeanours of the Americans who never paid any attention to rules or court etiquette. They invaded charmed circles, walked boldly up to archdukes and duchesses, talking to them cheerfully and easily without waiting to be spoken to, giving them a great deal of information upon all subjects, Austrian as well as American, and probably interested the very stiff Austrian royalties much more than the ordinary trained diplomatist, who would naturally be more correct in his attitude and conversation. I think the American nationality is the most convenient in the world. The Americans do just as they like, and no one is ever surprised. The explanation is quite simple: "They are Americans." I have often noticed little faults of manners or breeding, which would shock one in a representative of an older civilisation, pass quite unnoticed, or merely provoke a smile of amusement.
We drove about a great deal—the country at the back of Deauville, going away from the sea, is lovely—very like England—charming narrow roads with high banks and hedges on each side—big trees with spreading branches meeting overhead—stretches of green fields with cows grazing placidly and horses and colts gambolling about. It is a great grazing and breeding country. There are many haras (breeding stables) in the neighbourhood, and the big Norman posters are much in demand. I have friends who never take their horses to the country. They hire for the season a pair of strong Norman horses that go all day up and down hill at the same regular pace and who get over a vast amount of country. We stopped once or twice when we were a large party, two or three carriages, and had tea at one of the numerous farmhouses that were scattered about. Boiling water was a difficulty—milk, cider, good bread and butter, cheese we could always find—sometimes a galette, but a kettle and boiling water were entirely out of their habits. They used to boil the water in a large black pot, and take it out with a big spoon. However, it amused us, and the water really did boil.
We had an Italian friend, Count A., who went with us sometimes, and he was very débrouillard, made himself delightful at once to the fermière and got whatever he wanted—chairs and tables set out on the grass, with all the cows and colts and chickens walking about quite undisturbed by the unusual sights and sounds. It was all very rustic and a delightful change from the glories of the exposition and official life. It amused me perfectly to see W. with a straw hat, sitting on a rather rickety three-legged stool, eating bread and butter and jam. Once or twice some of W.'s secretaries came down with despatches, and he had a good morning's work, but on the whole the month passed lazily and pleasantly.
We went back to Paris about the 10th of September, and remained there until the end of the exposition. Paris was again crowded with foreigners—the month of October was beautiful, bright and warm, and the afternoons at the exposition were delightful at the end of the day, when the crowd had dispersed a little and the last rays of the setting sun lingered on the Meudon Hills and the river. The buildings and costumes lost their tawdry look, and one saw only a mass of moving colour, which seemed to soften and lose itself in the evening shadows. There were various closing entertainments. The marshal gave a splendid fête at Versailles. We drove out and had some difficulty in making our way through the crowd of carriages, soldiers, police, and spectators that lined the road. It was a beautiful sight as we got near the palace, which was a blaze of light. The terraces and gardens were also illuminated, and the effect of the little lamps hidden away in the branches of the old trees, cut into all sorts of fantastic shapes, was quite wonderful. There were not as many people at the entrance of the palace as we had expected to find, for the invitations had been most generously given to all nationalities. At first the rooms, which were brilliantly lighted, looked almost empty. The famous Galerie des Glaces was quite enchanting, almost too light, if there can be too much light at a fête. There were very few people in it when we arrived rather early—so much so that when I said to M. de L., one of the marshal's aides-de-camp, "How perfectly beautiful it is, even now, empty; what will it be when all the uniforms and jewels are reflected in the mirrors," his answer was: "Ah, Madame, I am afraid we shan't have people enough, the hall is so enormous."
I thought of him afterward when an angry crowd was battering at the doors of one of the salons where the royalties were having refreshments. I don't think they realised, and we certainly didn't, what the noise meant, but some of the marshal's household, who knew that only a slight temporary partition was between us and an irate mob, struggling up the staircase, were green with anxiety. However, the royalties all got away without any difficulty, and we tried to hurry immediately after them, but a dense crowd was then pouring into the room at each end, and for a moment things looked ugly. The gentlemen, my husband and my brother-in-law, Eugene Schuyler, Lord Lyons, British ambassador (a big square-shouldered man), and one or two others, put us, my sister Schuyler and me, in a recess of one of the big windows, with heavy furniture in front of us, but that was not very pleasant—with the crowd moving both ways closing in upon us—and the men were getting nervous, so one of our secretaries squeezed through the crowd and found two or three huissiers, came back with them, and we made a procession—two big huissiers in front, with their silver chains and swords, the mark of official status, which always impresses a French crowd, then Lord Lyons, my sister, and I, then W. and Schuyler, and two more men behind us—and with considerable difficulty and a good many angry expostulations, we made our way out. Happily our carriages and servants with our wraps were waiting in one of the inner courts, and we got away easily enough, but the evening was disastrous to most of the company.
There must have been some misunderstanding between the marshal's household and the officials at Versailles, as but one staircase (and there are several) was opened to the public, which was of course absolutely insufficient. Why others were not opened and lighted will always be a mystery. Every one got jammed in the one narrow stairway—people jostled and tumbled over each other—some of the women fainted and were carried out, borne high aloft over the heads of the struggling multitudes, and many people never saw their cloaks again. The vestiaire was taken by storm—satin and lace cloaks lying on the ground, trampled upon by everybody, and at the end, various men not having been able to find their coats were disporting themselves in pink satin cloaks lined with swan's-down—over their shoulders. Quantities of people never got into the palace—not even on the staircase. The landing was directly opposite the room where the princes had their buffet—and if they had succeeded in forcing the door, it would have been a catastrophe. While we were standing in the window, looking into the park, which looked an enchanted garden, with the lights and flowers—we wondered if we could jump or climb down if the crowd pressed too much upon us, but it was too high and there were no projecting balconies to serve as stepping-stones. It was a very unpleasant experience.
We were giving a ball at the Quai d'Orsay a few nights afterward, and had also asked a great many people—all the ambassadors sent in very large lists of invitations they wanted for their compatriots, but much the largest was that sent in by the American minister. The invitations sent to the United States Legation (as it was then) were something fabulous. It seemed to me the whole of the United States were in Paris and expecting to be entertained. It is a very difficult position for the American representative on these occasions. Everybody can't be invited to the various entertainments and distinctions are very hard to make. We had some amusing experiences. W. had a letter from one of his English friends, Lord H., saying he was coming to Paris for the fêtes, with his two daughters, and he would like very much to be invited to some of the parties at the Elysee and the ministries. W. replied, saying he would do what he could, and added that we were to have two large dinners and receptions,—one with the Comédie Française afterward and one with music—which one would they come to. Lord H. promptly replied, "to both." It was funny, but really didn't make any difference. When you have a hundred people to dinner you can quite easily have a hundred and three, and in such large parties, arranged weeks beforehand, some one always gives out at the last moment.
We had a great many discussions in W.'s cabinet with two of his secretaries, who were especially occupied with the invitations for our ball. The Parliament of course (le peuple souverain) was invited, but it was a different question for the women, wives of the senators and deputies. We finally arrived at a solution by inviting only the wives I knew. We had an indignant response from one gentleman: "M. X., Député, ne valsant qu'avec sa femme, a l'honneur de renvoyer la carte d'invitation que le Ministre des Affaires Etrangères et Madame Waddington lui ont adressée pour la soirée du 28…." (Mr. X., Deputy, who waltzes only with his wife, has the honour to send back the card of invitation which the Minister of Foreign Affairs and Madame Waddington have sent to him for the party of the 28… ) It was unanimously decided that the couple must be invited—a gentleman who went to balls only to dance with his wife must be encouraged in such exemplary behaviour. Another was funny too, in a different style: "Madame K., étant au ciel depuis quelques années, ne pourrait pas se rendre à la gracieuse invitation que le Ministre des Affaires Etrangères et Madame Waddington ont bien voulu lui adresser. Monsieur K. s'y rendra avec plaisir."… (Madame K., being in heaven for some years, cannot accept the amiable invitation of the Minister of Foreign Affairs and Madame Waddington. Mr. K. will come with pleasure.) We kept the letters in our archives with many other curious specimens. The house was given over to workmen the last two or three days before the ball. With the remembrance of the staircase at Versailles in our minds, we were most anxious to have no contretemps of any kind to interfere with our entertainment. Both entrances were arranged and the old elevator (which had not worked for years) was put in order. It had been suggested once or twice that I should use it, but as I always had heard a gruesome tale of Madame Drouyn de l'Huys, when her husband was Foreign Minister, hanging in space for four or five hours between the two floors, I was not inclined to repeat that experience.
My recollection of the lower entrance and staircase, which we never used, was of rather a dark, grimy corner, and I was amazed the morning of the ball to see the transformation. Draperies, tapestries, flags, and green plants had done wonders—and the elevator looked quite charming with red velvet hangings and cushions. I don't think any one used it. We had asked our guests at nine-thirty, as the princes said they would come at ten. I was ready about nine, and thought I would go down-stairs by the lower entrance, so as to have a look at the staircase and all the rooms before any one came. There was already such a crowd in the rooms that I couldn't get through; even my faithful Gérard could not make a passage. We were obliged to send for two huissiers, who with some difficulty made room for me. W. and his staff were already in the salon réservé, giving final instructions. The servants told us that since eight o'clock there had been a crowd at the doors, which they opened a little before nine, and a flood of people poured in. The salon réservé had a blue ribbon stretched across the entrance from door to door, and was guarded by huissiers, old hands who knew everybody in the diplomatic and official world, and would not let any one in who hadn't a right to penetrate into the charmed circle (which of course became the one room where every one wanted to go). There were, too, one or two members of W.'s cabinet always stationed near the doors to see that instructions were obeyed.
I don't think the salon réservé exists any more—the blue ribbon certainly not. The rising flood of democracy and equality wouldn't submit to any such barrier. I remember quite well one beautiful woman standing for some time just the wrong side of the ribbon. She was so beautiful that every one remarked her, but she had no official rank or claim of any kind to enter the salon réservé—no one knew her, though every one was asking who she was. She finally made her entrée into the room on the arm of one of the members of the diplomatic corps, a young secretary, one of her friends, who could not refuse her what she wanted so much. She was certainly the handsomest woman in the room with the exception of the actual Queen Alexandra, who was always the most beautiful and distinguished wherever she was.
The royalties didn't dance much. We had the regular quadrille d'honneur with the Princes and Princesses of Wales, Denmark, Sweden, Countess of Flanders, and others. None of the French princes came to the ball. There was a great crowd, but as the distinguished guests remained all the time in the salon réservé, they were not inconvenienced by it. Just before supper, which was served at little round tables in a room opening out of the rotonde, the late King of Denmark, then Crown Prince, brother of the Princess of Wales, told me he would like to go up-stairs and see all the rooms; he had always heard that the Palais d'Orsay was a beautiful house. We made a difficult but stately progress through the rooms. The staircase was a pretty sight, covered with a red carpet, tapestries on the walls, and quantities of pretty women of all nationalities grouped on the steps. We walked through the rooms, where there were just as many people as there were down-stairs, an orchestra, supper-room, people dancing—just like another party going on. We halted a few minutes in my petit salon at the end of the long suite of rooms. It looked quite charming, with the blue brocade walls and quantities of pink roses standing in high glass vases. I suggested taking the elevator to go down, but the prince preferred walking (so did I). It was even more difficult getting through the crowd down-stairs—we had the whole length of the house to cross. Several women stood on chairs as we passed along, in the hope of seeing one of the princesses, but they had wisely remained in the salon réservé, and were afraid to venture into the crowd.
Supper was a serious preoccupation for the young secretaries of the ministry, who had much difficulty in keeping that room private. Long before the supper hour some enterprising spirits had discovered that the royalties were to sup in that room, and finding the secretaries quite inaccessible to any suggestions of "people who had a right to come in"—presidents of commissions and various other distinctions—had recourse to the servants, and various gold pieces circulated, which, however, did not accomplish their object. The secretaries said that they had more trouble with the chamberlains of the various princes than with the princes themselves; they all wanted to sup in the private room, and were much more tenacious of having a good place, or the place they thought was due to them, than their royal masters. The supper was very gay—the Prince of Wales (the late King Edward) perfectly charming—talking to every one, remembering every one with that extraordinary gracious manner which made him friends in all classes. Immediately after supper the princes and distinguished strangers and W. departed. I remained about an hour longer and went to have a look at the ballroom. It was still crowded, people dancing hard, and when finally about two o'clock I retreated to my own quarters, I went to sleep to the sound of waltzes and dance music played by the two orchestras. The revelry continued pretty well all through the night. Whenever I woke I heard strains of music. Supper went on till seven in the morning. Our faithful Kruft told us that there was absolutely nothing left on the tables, and they had almost to force the people out, telling them that an invitation to a ball did not usually extend to breakfast the next morning.
There was a grand official closing of the exposition at the end of November, with a distribution of prizes—the city still very full and very gay—escorts and uniforms in every direction—the Champs-Elysées brilliant with soldiers—equipages of all descriptions, and all the afternoon a crowd of people sitting under the trees, much interested in all that was going on, particularly when carriages would pass with people in foreign and striking costumes. The Chinese always wore their costume; the big yellow birds of paradise became quite a feature of the afternoon défilé. An Indian princess too, dressed entirely in white—a soft clinging material, with a white veil, not over her face, and held in place by a gold band going around the head—was always much admired. Every now and then there would be a great clatter of trotting-horses and jingling sabres, when an escort of dragoons would pass, escorting some foreign prince to the Elysée to pay his formal visit to the marshal. Everybody looked gay—French people so dearly love a show—and it was amusing to see the interest every one took in the steady stream of people, from the fashionable woman driving to the Bois in her victoria to the workmen, who would stand in groups on the corners of the streets—some of them occasionally with a child on their shoulders. Frenchmen of all classes are good to children. On a Sunday or fête day, when whole families are coming in from a day at the Bois, one often sees a young husband wheeling a baby-carriage, or carrying a baby in his arms to let the poor mother have a rest. It was curious at the end of the exposition to see how quickly everything was removed (many things had been sold); and in a few days the Champ de Mars took again the same aspect it had at the beginning of the month of May—heavy carts and camions everywhere, oceans of mud, lines of black holes where trees and poles had been planted, and the same groups of small shivering Southerners, all huddled together, wrapped in wonderful cloaks and blankets, quite paralysed with cold. I don't know if the exposition was a financial success—I should think probably not. A great deal of money came into France (but the French spent enormously in their preparations) but the moral effect was certainly good—all the world flocked to Paris. Cabs and river steamers did a flourishing business, as did all the restaurants and cafés in the suburbs. St. Cloud, Meudon, Versailles, Robinson, were crowded every night with people who were thirsting for air and food after long hot days in the dust and struggles of the exposition. We dined there once or twice, but it was certainly neither pleasant nor comfortable—even in the most expensive restaurants. They were all overcrowded, very bad service, badly lighted, and generally bad food. There were various national repasts—Russian, Italian, etc.—but I never participated in any of those, except once at the American restaurant, where I had a very good breakfast one morning, with delicious waffles made by a negro cook. I was rather glad when the exhibition was over. One had a feeling that one ought to see as much as possible, and there were some beautiful things, but it was most fatiguing struggling through the crowd, and we invariably lost the carriage and found ourselves at the wrong entrance, and had to wait hours for a cab. Tiffany had a great success with the French. Many of my friends bought souvenirs of the exposition from him. His work was very original, fanciful, and quite different from the rather stiff, heavy, classic silver that one sees in this country.