“Really, everything is upside down! My husband was in the House of Lords; my eldest son is now a member of it; his two brothers sat in the last House of Commons; my family has always been Liberal. During the fifty years that I have lived in the political world I have always been accustomed to see the Tories considered our enemies. And now, thanks to Mr. Gladstone, we are forced to acknowledge that, for the moment, only the Tories can save England; and all my sons have entered the field on behalf of their former adversaries.”
It is evident that every one whom I have seen is much alarmed. People are greatly exasperated against Mr. Gladstone, who, in order to succeed, will not hesitate to provoke a war of classes. The dissentients who have abandoned him have shown great loyalty to their new allies, for, in many instances several of them have withdrawn from the contest, leaving the field open for the Conservatives.
What will be the result of this struggle? In the general opinion of all who were present at the dinner the elections would not throw any light upon the situation. The Conservatives would gain a great deal, but would not have a majority without the support of some of the dissentients. Now the latter will vote for them and against Mr. Gladstone on the question of Home Rule, but they will vote for Mr. Gladstone and against the Conservatives on every other subject. It will therefore, if these predictions should be realised, become necessary to have a third election before long. These are some of the circumstances in which we admire a parliamentary government.
Here I leave the English side of the question. To-morrow I start for Ireland. I am going to live in the country governed by the Land League; I shall see the principal heads of the Nationalist movement; in their turn they will explain the situation to me from the Irish side; and after hearing the pros and cons of the question I will endeavour to form an opinion.
July 3rd.—I really do not know why London should be described as a frightful city; but it is the English who speak of it in those terms. The French are contented to believe the report, and, as a rule, take care not to go there. For my part I have only visited it two or three times in my life, and have never remained more than four days at a time, but I own that I think London is charming. I only find fault with the distances.
In Paris one can get anywhere in twenty minutes; here the shortest drive takes at least half an hour or forty minutes, and yet the cabs travel faster than our fiacres. But what animation in the streets, which are nearly all filled with two and sometimes four rows of carriages following each other uninterruptedly. And, besides, I have a weakness for the small English houses, which, without any architectural pretensions, all look so clean and comfortable. Still, the absence of porches for carriages (portes cochères) must be very inconvenient, particularly for women. What state must their satin shoes be in when they are obliged to cross a muddy pavement on a wet evening? We are, perhaps, a little inclined to exaggerate English comfort. But, really, when we have seen M. Boulanger’s untidy, bearded army, it is quite refreshing to look at the fine English soldiers, who walk about the streets holding a small cane in the hand. We may, perhaps, find fault with them for looking a little too much like fashion-plates, with their well-pomatumed hair and their small forage caps stuck over the right ear, in utter defiance of the most elementary laws of equilibrium; but it is always advisable that a soldier should take pride in his appearance. Still, some of them a little exaggerate the effect. But the Scotchmen—the Highlanders—are my delight. They exhibit their ruddy calves, and the long plaids that hang from their shoulders, with such amusing pride. But one should see them in India. A few years ago I was at Singapore at the same time as a Scotch regiment. We never missed going to see them parade and drill every evening. There was the officer passing in front of his troops, stiff, formal, handsome as a god. The men stood perfectly still, but their grimacing, convulsed features indicated the revolt of the flesh against discipline; as soon as the officer had passed the flesh asserted its right; the bayonets waved like corn shaken by the wind. In defiance of breaking the line all hastily bent down and furiously rubbed their legs, which resembled zebra’s stripes from mosquito bites. It was a splendid sight.
I was staying at the Alexandra Hotel. From my windows I could see the fine trees and green lawns of Hyde Park. I occupied the same room four years ago. But then we formed quite a party, M. de Lesseps, the Duc de F——, and several others. I can never help laughing at the recollection of the disaster that awaited us. The promoters of the Channel Tunnel had invited us to come and see the works, which were being actively pressed forward, a little, I believe, in the hope of forcing the hand of the English Government, which did not seem very enthusiastic about it. At Dover they had invited us to a grand dinner at the Lord Warden Hotel; and on the following day a special train conveyed us to the entrance of the tunnel, at the foot of the long white cliffs by which the railway runs—the “white cliffs of Old England!” Everybody was in the most delightful humour, except, however, M. Hervé Mangon, since Minister of the French Republic, who would not unbend, but threatened a diplomatic representation because he had lost his portmanteau.
Small trucks drawn by workmen took us to the end of the long gallery already excavated. They had reached 1,600 metres from the shore. Colonel Beaumont’s perforating machine bit heartily into the white chalk, scarcely firmer than cheese, through which they daily advanced three or four yards. We emptied a respectable number of champagne bottles to the success of the enterprise, which to us all seemed so certain that we treated those who hinted that it could not be opened under two years as lukewarm partisans.