Old Vinoy has issued an order of the day denouncing the conduct of the soldiers and officers who ran away when the Prussians issued from the cellars at Villa Evrard. It requires a great deal of courage just now to praise the Line, and to find fault with the National Guard. But General Vinoy is a thorough soldier, and stands no nonsense. If anything happens to Trochu, and he assumes the command-in-chief, I suspect the waverers of the National Guard will have to choose between fighting and taking off their uniforms. The General is above seventy—a hale and hearty old man; sticks to his profession, and utterly ignores politics. He has a most unsurrendering face, but I do not think that he would either hold out vain hopes to the Parisians, or flatter their vanity. He would tell them the truth, and with perfect indifference as to the consequences. He is a favourite both with the soldiers and the officers, and hardly conceals his contempt for the military capacity of Trochu, or the military qualities of Trochu's civic heroes.
December 28th.
The proverbial obstinacy of the donkey has been introduced into our systems, owing to the number of these long-eared quadrupeds which we have eaten. We "don't care" for anything. We don't care if the armies of the provinces have been beaten, we don't care if we have been forced to suspend offensive operations, we don't care if the Prussians bombard us, we don't care if eventually we have to capitulate. We have ceased to reason or to calculate. We are in the don't-care mood. How long this will last with so impulsive a people it is impossible to say. Our stomachs have become omnivorous; they digest anything now; and even if in the end they be invited to digest the leek, as we shall not be called upon to eat this vegetable either to-morrow or the next day, we don't care. The cold is terrible, and the absence of firewood causes great suffering. The Government is cutting down trees as fast as possible, and by the time it thaws there will be an abundance of fuel. In the meantime it denounces in the Official Journal the bands of marauders who issue forth and cut down trees, park benches, and garden palings. I must say that I don't blame them. When the thermometer is as low as it is now, and when there is no fire in the grate, the sanctity of property as regards fuel becomes a mere abstraction. Yesterday the Prussians unmasked several batteries, and opened fire against the plateau of Avron and the eastern forts. They fired above 3000 shells, but little damage was done. We had only thirty-eight killed and wounded. One shell fell into a house where eight people were dining and killed six of them. The firing is going on to-day, but not so heavily. The newspapers seem to be under the impression that we ought to rejoice greatly over this cannonade. Some say that it proves that the Prussians have given up in despair the idea of reducing us by famine; others that it is a clear evidence that Prince Frederick Charles has been beaten by General Chanzy. On Monday, Admiral La Roncière received a letter from a general whose name could not be deciphered about an exchange of prisoners. In this letter there was an allusion to a defeat which our troops in the North had sustained. But this we consider a mere wile of our insidious foe.
The Gaulois continues its crusade against the English Correspondents in Paris. They are all, it says, animated by a hostile feeling towards France. "We give them warning, and we hope that they will profit by it." Now, we know pretty well what French journalists term a hostile feeling towards their country. We were told at the commencement of the war that the English press was sold to Prussia, because it declined to believe in the Imperial bulletins of victories. That a correspondent should simply tell the truth, without fear or favour, never enters into the mind of a Gaul. For my part, I confess that my sympathies are with France; and I am glad to hear, on so good authority, that these sympathies have not biassed my recital of events. Notwithstanding the denunciations of the Gaulois, I have not the remotest intention to describe the National Guards as a force of any real value for offensive operations. If, as the Gaulois insists, they are more numerous and better armed than the Prussians, and if the French artillery is superior to the Prussians, they will be able to raise the siege; and then I will acknowledge that I have been wrong in my estimate of them. As yet they have only blown their own trumpets, as though this would cause the Prussian redoubts, like the walls of Jericho, to fall down. I make no imputation on their individual courage; but I say that this siege proves once more the truth of the fact, that unless citizen soldiers consent to merge for a time the citizen in the soldier, and to submit to discipline, as troops they are worthless. The Gaulois wishes to anticipate the historical romance which will, perhaps, be handed down to future generations. Posterity may, if it pleases, believe that the Parisians were Spartans, and that they fought with desperate valour outside their walls. I, who happen to see myself what goes on, know that all the fighting is done by the Line and the Mobiles, and that the Parisians are not Spartans. They are showing great tenacity, and suffering for the sake of the cause of their country many hardships. That General Trochu should pander to their vanity, by telling them that they are able to cope outside with the Prussians, is his affair. I do not blame him. He best knows how to deal with his fellow-countrymen. I am not, however, under the necessity of following his example.
The usual stalls which appear at this season of the year have been erected on the Boulevards. They are filled with toys and New Year's gifts. But a woolly sheep is a bitter mockery, and a "complete farmyard" in green and blue wood only reminds one painfully of what one would prefer to see in the flesh. The customers are few and far between. I was looking to-day at a fine church in chalk, with real windows, price 6fr., and was thinking that one must be a Mark Tapley to buy it, and walk home with it under one's arm under present circumstances. Many of the stallkeepers have in despair deserted the toy business, and gone in for comforters, kepis, and list soles.
Until the weather set in so bitterly cold, elderly sportsmen, who did not care to stalk the human game outside, were to be seen from morning to night pursuing the exciting sport of gudgeon-fishing along the banks of the Seine. Each one was always surrounded by a crowd deeply interested in the chase. Whenever a fish was hooked, there was as much excitement as when a whale is harpooned in more northern latitudes. The fisherman would play it for some five minutes, and then, in the midst of the solemn silence of the lookers-on, the precious capture would be landed. Once safe on the bank, the happy possessor would be patted on the back, and there would be cries of "Bravo!" The times being out of joint for fishing in the Seine, the disciples of Isaac Walton have fallen back on the sewers. The Paris Journal gives them the following directions how to pursue their new game:—"Take a long, strong line, and a large hook, bait with tallow, and gently agitate the rod. In a few minutes a rat will come and smell the savoury morsel. It will be some time before he decides to swallow it, for his nature is cunning. When he does, leave him five minutes to meditate over it; then pull strongly and steadily. He will make convulsive jumps; but be calm, and do not let his excitement gain on you, draw him up, et voilà votre dîner."
December 29th.
So we have withdrawn from the plateau of Avron. Our artillery, says the Journal Officiel, could not cope with the Krupp cannons, and, therefore, it was thought wise to withdraw them. The fire which the Prussians have rained for the last two days upon this position has not been very destructive of human life. It is calculated that every man killed has cost the Prussians 24,000lbs. of iron. We are still speculating upon the reasons which induced the Prussians at last to become the assailants. That they wished to drive us from this plateau, which overlooks many of their positions, is far too simple an explanation to meet with favour. The Vérité of this morning contains an announcement that a Christmas Session of the House of Commons has turned out Mr. Gladstone by a hostile vote, and that he has been succeeded by a "War Minister." We are inclined to think that the Prussians, being aware of this, have been attempting to terrify us, in order that we may surrender before Sir Disraeli and Milord Pakington come to our rescue. The Parisians, intelligent and clever as they are, are absolutely wanting in plain common sense. I am convinced that if 500 of them were boiled down, it would be impossible to extract from the stew as much of this homely, but useful quality, as there is in the skull of the dullest tallow-chandler's apprentice in London.
The vital question of food is now rarely alluded to in the journals. The Government is, however, called to task for not showing greater energy, and the feeling against the unfortunate Trochu is growing stronger. He is held responsible for everything—the frost, the dearth of food, the ill-success of our sorties, and the defeats of the armies of succour. I am sorry for him, for he is a well-meaning man, although unfitted for such troubled waters. But to a great extent he has himself to thank for what is occurring. He has risked his all upon the success of his plan, and he has encouraged the notion that he could force the Prussians to raise the siege. In the meantime no one broaches the question as to what is to be done when our provisions fail. The members of the Government still keep up the theory that a capitulation is an impossible contingency. The nearer the fatal moment approaches the less anyone speaks of it, just as a man, when he is growing old, avoids the subject of death. Frenchmen have far more physical than civic courage. They prefer to shut their eyes to what is unpleasant than to grapple with it. How long our stores of flour will last it is difficult to say, but if our rulers wait to treat until they are exhausted, they will perforce be obliged to accept any terms; and, for no satisfactory object, they will be the cause that many will starve before the town can be revictualled. They call this, here, sublime. I call it folly. Its sublimity is beyond me. As is the case with a sick man given over by the physicians, the quacks are ready with their nostrums. The Ultra journals recommend that the Government should be handed over to a commune. The Ultra clubs demand that all generals and colonels should be cashiered, and others elected in their place. One club has subscribed 1,600frs. for Greek fire; another club suggests blowing up the Hôtel de Ville; another sending a deputation clothed in white to offer the King of Prussia the presidency of the Universal Republic; another—and this comes home to me—passed a vote yesterday evening demanding the immediate arrest of all English correspondents.
I am looking forward with horrible misgivings to the moment when I shall have no more money, so that perhaps I shall be thankful for being lodged and fed at the public expense. My banker has withdrawn from Paris, and his representative declines to look at my bill, although I offer ruinous interest. As for friends, they are all in a like condition, for no one expected the siege to last so long. At my hotel, need I observe that I do not pay my bill, but in hotels the guests may ring in vain now for food. I sleep on credit in a gorgeous bed, a pauper. The room is large. I wish it were smaller, for the firewood comes from trees just cut down, and it takes an hour to get the logs to light, and then they only smoulder, and emit no heat. The thermometer in my grand room, with its silken curtains, is usually at freezing point. Then my clothes—I am seedy, very seedy. When I call upon a friend, the porter eyes me distrustfully. In the streets the beggars never ask me for alms; on the contrary, they eye me suspiciously when I approach them, as a possible competitor. The other day I had some newspapers in my hand, an old gentleman took one from me and paid me for it. I had read it, so I pocketed the halfpence. My wardrobe is scanty, like the sage omnia mea mecum porto. I had been absent from Paris before the siege, and I returned with a small bag. It is difficult to find a tailor who will work, and even if he did I could not send him my one suit to mend, for what should I wear in the meantime? Decency forbids it. My pea jacket is torn and threadbare, my trousers are frayed at the bottom, and of many colours—like Joseph's coat. As for my linen, I will only say that the washerwomen have struck work, as they have no fuel. I believe my shirt was once white, but I am not sure. I invested a few weeks ago in a pair of cheap boots. They are my torment. They have split in various places, and I wear a pair of gaiters—purple, like those of a respectable ecclesiastic, to cover the rents. I bought them on the Boulevard, and at the same stall I bought a bright blue handkerchief which was going cheap; this I wear round my neck. My upper man resembles that of a dog-stealer, my lower man that of a bishop. My buttons are turning my hair grey. When I had more than one change of raiment these appendages remained in their places, now they drop off as though I were a moulting fowl. I have to pin myself together elaborately, and whenever I want to get anything out of my pocket I have cautiously to unpin myself, with the dread of falling to pieces before my eyes. For my food, I allowance myself, in order to eke out as long as possible my resources. I dine and breakfast at a second-class restaurant. Cat, dog, rat, and horse are very well as novelties, but taken habitually, they do not assimilate with my inner man. Horse, doctors say, is heating; I only wish it would heat me. I give this description of my existence, as it is that of many others. Those who have means, and those who have none, unless these means are in Paris, row in the same boat.