Diary of the Besieged Resident in Paris

by Henry Du Pré Labouchere

Evening.

No news yet about the armistice. I hear that it is doubtful whether it will be signed, but no doubt respecting it seems to disquiet the minds of the Parisians. I cannot help thinking that they have got themselves again into a fool's paradise. Their newspapers tell them that the Neutral Powers are forcing Prussia to be reasonable, and that Bismarck is struck with awe at the sight of our "heroic attitude." As for his not accepting any terms which we may put forward, the idea does not enter the mind of any one. I must say, however, that there is a vague feeling that perhaps we are not quite so very sublime as we imagine. Even to pay a war indemnity seems to be a concession which no one anticipated. For the first time since I have known the Parisians, they are out of conceit with themselves. "If Prussia forces us to make peace now, in five years we will crush her," is the somewhat vague threat with which many console themselves. Others say that on the conclusion of peace they will leave France; but whether this is intended to punish France, Prussia, or themselves, I do not know. Others boldly assert that they are prevented from immolating themselves by the Neutral Powers. It is the old story of "hold me back, don't let me get at him." One thing, however, is certain, that the capture of Bazaine, the disaster at Bourget, the row at the Hôtel de Ville, the Prussian cannon on the heights of Meudon, and the opportune arrival of Thiers, have made this population as peaceful to-day, as they were warlike a few weeks ago.

I really am sorry for these vain, silly, gulled humbugs among whom I am living. They have many amiable qualities, although, in trying to be Spartans, they have mistaken their vocation. They are, indeed, far too agreeable to be Spartans, who in private life must have been the most intolerable of bores. It is a sad confession of human weakness, but, as a rule, persons are not liked on account of their virtues. Excessively good people are—speaking socially—angular. Take, for instance, the Prussians; they are saints compared with the French. They have every sort of excellence: they are honest, sober, hard-working, well-instructed, brave, good sons, husbands, and fathers; and yet all this is spoilt by one single fault—they are insupportable. Laugh at the French, abuse them as one may, it is impossible to help liking them. Admire, respect the Prussians as one may, it is impossible to help disliking them. I will venture to say that it would be impossible to find 100 Germans born south of the Main who would declare, on their honour, that they prefer a Prussian to a Frenchman. The only Prussian I ever knew who was an agreeable man was Bismarck. All others with whom I have been thrown—and I have lived for years in Germany—were proud as Scotchmen, cold as New Englanders, and touchy as only Prussians can be. I once had a friend among them. His name was Buckenbrock. Inadvertently I called him Butterbrod. We have never spoken since. A Prussian lieutenant is the most offensive specimen of humanity that nature and pipeclay have ever produced. Apart from all political considerations, the supremacy of this nation in Europe will be a social calamity, unless France, like vanquished Greece, introduces the amenities of society among these pedants, squires, and martinets.

What, however, is to be done for the French? Nothing, I am afraid. They have brought their troubles on their own heads; and, to use an Americanism, they must face the music. Even at this late moment they fail to realise the fact that they ever will be called upon to endure any real hardships, or that their town ever really will be bombarded. I was watching the crowd on the Boulevards this afternoon. It was dispirited because it had for twenty-four hours set its heart upon peace, and was disappointed like a child who cannot get the toy it wants; but I will venture to say, not one person in his heart of hearts really imagined that perhaps within a week he might be blown up by a bomb. They either will not or cannot believe that anything will happen which they do not desire. Facts of this kind must be palpably brought home to them before they will even imagine that they are possible.

The army has been re-organized by that arch organizer Trochu. According to this new plan, the whole armed force is divided into three armies. The first comprises the National Guards; the second, under General Ducrot, is what may be called the active army; it consists of three corps, commanded respectively by Generals Vinoy, d'Exea, and Renault. The third comprises all the troops in the forts, in the cottages adjacent to the forts, which have to be occupied for their defence, and the fourth commanded by Trochu. The second army will have four cannon to each thousand men, and will be used to effect a sortie, if possible. This new arrangement is not well received by military men. Both among soldiers and officers, General Vinoy is far more popular than any other general; he is a sort of French Lord Clyde. Until now he had a coordinate command with Ducrot. That he should be called upon to serve under him is regarded as an injustice, more particularly because Ducrot is an intimate personal friend of Trochu. Ducrot and Trochu believe in themselves, and believe in each other; but no one else believes in them. They certainly have not yet given the slightest evidence of military capacity, except by criticising what has been done by others. Now, at last, however, Trochu will have an opportunity to carry out his famous plan, by which he asserts that he will raise the blockade in fourteen days, and of which he has given the fullest details in his will. Ridicule kills in France—and since this eminent General, as an evidence that he had a plan, appealed to the will which he had deposited with his lawyer, he lost all influence. I need not say that this influence has not been restored by the absurd arrest to which he was subjected by Messrs. Flourens and Blanqui.

November 6th.

So we have declined the armistice. The Government deliberated exactly five minutes over the question. The Journal Officiel says:—"Prussia expressly refused to entertain the question of revictualment, and only admitted under certain reserves the vote of Alsace and Lorraine." No further details are given. An opportunity has been lost, which may never recur. Public opinion was disposed to accept a cessation of the siege on almost any terms. General Trochu, however, and his colleagues had not the civic courage to attach their names to a document which would afterwards have been cast in their teeth. A friend of mine, a military man, saw Trochu late last night. He strongly urged him to accept the armistice, but in vain. "What do you expect will occur? You must know that the position is hopeless," said my friend. "I will not sign a capitulation," was all he could get from Trochu. This worthy man is as obstinate as only weak men can be; his colleagues, as self-seeking as only French politicians can be. The news that the armistice had been rejected, fell like a thunderclap upon the population. I never remember to have witnessed a day of such general gloom since the commencement of the siege. The feeling of despair is, I hear, still stronger in the army. Were the real condition of things outside known, I am certain that the Government would be forced to conclude an armistice, on no matter what terms. I happened to come across to-day a file of English newspapers up to the 22nd ult., and I fully realised how all intelligence from without has been distorted by the Government to serve its own purposes. Now a few days ago, these very papers had been lent to Trochu. He read them, kept them two days to show some of his colleagues, and then returned them. One single extract was published by the Journal Officiel—a German report upon the defences of Paris. No man in the House of Commons is more fond of special pleading than Sir Roundell Palmer. When anyone complains of it, the reply is, that he teaches some children their catechism on Sundays. So, when anyone ventures to question the veracity of Trochu, one is told that he has adopted his brother's children.

According to measurements which have been made, the Prussian batteries at Sèvres and Meudon will carry to the Champ de Mars. From Montretout their guns would throw shells into the Champs Elysées; but we think that Valérien will silence them as soon as they open. Meat is getting more and more scarce every day. That great moralist, Dr. Johnson, said that he should prefer to dine with a Duke than the most agreeable of Commoners. I myself at present should prefer to dine with a leg of mutton than the most agreeable of human beings—Duke or Commoner. I hear, on what I believe to be good authority, that we shall see the end of our fresh meat on or about the 20th of this month.

Yesterday, all the hidden stores which had been hoarded up with an eye to a great profit were thrown on the market. To-day they have again disappeared. Lamb is, however, freely offered for sale, and curiously enough, at the same time, live dogs are becoming scarce.

Several Ultras have been elected mayors of the different arrondissements; among them Citizen Mottu, who was turned out of his mayorship about a fortnight ago because he refused to allow any child to attend a place of worship except with his own consent. It is all very well for M. Jules Favre to say that the election of mayors is a negation of a Commune. As I understand it, a Commune is but a council of elected mayors. If the Government loses its popularity, the new mayors will become a Commune. The more, however, the majority desire peace, the less likely will they be to throw themselves into the arms of Citizen Mottu and his friends, who are all for war à outrance.