Diary of the Besieged Resident in Paris

by Henry Du Pré Labouchere

The following article is from the Vérité:—

"What troubles would not have been spared to our unhappy country if only it had been told the truth. If only anyone had been courageous enough to tell us what were our resources when Grammont made his famous declaration from the tribune, the war would not have taken place. On the 4th of September, many members of the new Government were under no delusions, but as it was necessary to say that we were strong, in order to be popular, they did not hesitate to proclaim that the Republic would save France. To-day the situation has not changed. On the faith of the assertions of their rulers, the population of Paris imagines that ultimate victory is certain, and that our provisions can never be exhausted. They have no idea that if we are not succoured we must eventually succumb. What a surprise—and perhaps what a catastrophe—it will be when they learn that there is no more bread, and no chance of victory. The people will complain that they have been deceived, and they will be right. They will shout 'treason,' and seek for vengeance. Will they be entirely in the wrong? If the Government defends itself, what future awaits us! If it does not defend itself, through what scenes shall we pass before falling into the hands of the Prussians! The Republic, like the Empire, has made mendacity the great system of government. The Press has chosen to follow the same course. Great efforts are being made to destroy the reciprocal sentiments of union and confidence, to which we owe it that Paris still resists, after 100 days of siege. The enemy, despairing to deliver over Paris to Germany, as it had solemnly promised, on Christmas, adds now the bombardment of our advanced posts and our forts to the other means of intimidation by which it has endeavoured to enervate the defence. Use is being made, before public opinion, of the deceptions which an extraordinary winter and infinite sufferings and fatigues are causing us. It is said, indeed, that the members of the Government are divided in their views respecting the great interests the direction of which has been confided to them. The army has suffered great trials, and it required a short repose, which the enemy endeavours to dispute by a bombardment more violent than any troops were ever exposed to. The army is preparing for action with the aid of the National Guards, and all together we shall do our duty. I declare that there are no differences in the councils of the Government, and that we are all closely united in the presence of the agonies and the perils of the country, and in the thought and the hope of its deliverance."

La Patrie, of Jan. 2, says:—

"Perhaps Bourbaki has gone to meet General von Werder. If he is victorious, the road to Paris by the valley of the Seine will be open to him, or the road to Southern Germany by Besançon and Belfort, and the bridge of Bâle, the neutrality of which we are not obliged to respect any more than that of Belgium, since Europe has allowed Bismarck to violate that of Luxemburg. Ah! if Bourbaki were a Tortensen, a Wrangel, or a Turenne—perhaps he is—what a grand campaign we might have in a few weeks on the Danube, the Lech, and the Saar."

The Liberté, of Jan. 2, says:—

"A great manifestation is being organised against the Government. The object is to substitute in its place the college of Mayors of Paris and their adjuncts. The manifestation, if it occurs, will not get further than the Boulevards. General Trochu is in no fear from Mayor Mothe, but he must understand that the moment for action has arrived. His proclamation has only imperfectly replied to the apprehensions of Paris. A capitulation, the very idea of which the Government recoils from, and which would only become possible when cold, hunger, and a bombardment have made further resistance impossible, besieges the minds of all, and presses all the hearts which beat for a resistance à outrance in a vice of steel. Trochu should reply to these agonies no longer by proclamations, but by acts."

January 4th.

It is said, I know not with what truth, that there always are, on an average, 5000 families who are in destitute circumstances, because their chiefs never would play out their trumps at whist until it became too late to use them effectively. If Trochu really was under the impression that he had trumps in his hand good enough to enable him to win the game he is playing against the Prussians, he has kept them back so long that they are worthless. If he could not break through the Prussian lines a month ago, à fortiori, he will not be able to do so now. They are stronger, and he is weaker; for the inaction of the last few weeks, and the surrender of Avron, would have been enough to damp the ardour of far more veteran troops than those which he has under his command. The outcry against this excellent but vain man grows stronger every day, and sorry, indeed, must he be that he "rushed in where others feared to tread." "Action, speedy action," shout the newspapers, much as the Americans did before Bull's Run, or as M. Felix Pyat always calls it, Run Bull. The generals well know that if they yield to the cry, there will most assuredly be a French edition of that battle. In fact, the situation may be summed up in a very few words. The generals have no faith in their troops, and the troops have no faith in their generals. Go outside the walls and talk to the officers and the soldiers who are doing the real fighting, and who pass the day dodging shells, and the night freezing in their tents. They tell you that they are prepared to do their duty, but that they are doubtful of ultimate success. Come inside, and talk to some hero who has never yet got beyond the ramparts, Cato at Utica is a joke to him, Palafox at Saragossa a whining coward. Since the forts have been bombarded, he has persuaded himself that he is eating, drinking, and sleeping under the fire of the enemy. "Human nature is a rum 'un," said Mr. Richard Swiveller; and most assuredly this is true of French nature. That real civil courage and spirit of self-sacrifice which the Parisians have shown, in submitting to hardship and ruin rather than consent to the dismemberment of their country, they regard as no title to respect. Nothing which does not strike the imagination has any value in their eyes. A uniform does not make a soldier; and although they have all arrayed themselves in uniform, they are far worse soldiers than the peasantry who have been enrolled in the Mobiles. To tell them this, however, would make them highly indignant. Military glory is their passion, and it is an unfortunate one. To admire the pomp and pride of glorious war no more makes a warrior than to admire poetry makes a poet. The Parisian is not a coward; but his individuality is so strongly developed that he objects to that individuality being destroyed by some stray shot. To die with thousands looking on is one thing; to die obscurely is another. French courage is not the same as that of the many branches of the great Saxon family. A Saxon has a dogged stubbornness which gives him an every-day and every-hour courage. That of the Frenchman is more dependent upon external circumstances. He must have confidence in his leader, he must have been encouraged by success, and he must be treated with severity tempered with judicious flattery. Give him a sword, and let him prance about on a horse like a circus rider, and, provided there are a sufficient number of spectators, he will do wonders, but he will not consent to perish obscurely for the sake of anything or anyone. Trochu has utterly failed in exciting enthusiasm in those under his command; he issues many proclamations, but they fail to strike the right chord. Instead of keeping up discipline by judicious severity, he endeavours to do so by lecturing like a schoolmaster. And then, since the commencement of the siege he has been unsuccessful in all his offensive movements. I am not a military man, but although I can understand the reasons against a sortie en masse, it does appear to me strange that the Prussians are not more frequently disquieted by attacks which at least would oblige them to make many a weary march round the outer circle, and would prevent them from detaching troops for service elsewhere.

Not an hour passes without some new rumour respecting the armies of the Provinces being put in circulation. A letter in which General Chanzy is said to be playing with Frederick Charles as a cat plays with a mouse, and which is attributed to Mr. Odo Russell, English Under-Secretary of State, and Correspondent of the Times, has been read by some one, and this morning all the newspapers are jubilant over it. A copy of the Moniteur de Versailles of the 1st has found its way in; there is nothing in it about Frederick Charles, but this we consider evidence that he has sustained a defeat. Then somebody has found a bottle in the Seine with a letter in it; this letter alludes to a great French victory. Mr. Washburne has the English papers up to the 22nd, but he keeps grim guard over them, and allows no one to have a glimpse of them; since our worthy friend Otto von Bismarck sent in to him an extract from a letter of mine, in which I alluded to the contents of some of them which had reached us. He passes his existence, however, staving off insidious questions. His very looks are commented on. "We saw him to-day," says an evening paper I have just bought; "he smiled! Good sign! Our victory must have been overwhelming if John Bull is obliged to confess it." Another newspaper asks him whether, considering the circumstances, he does not consider it a duty to violate his promise to Count Bismarck, and to hand over his newspapers to the Government. In this way, thinks this tempter, the debt which America owes to France for aiding her during her revolution will be repaid. "We gave you Lafayette and Rochambeau, in return we only ask for one copy of an English paper." The anxiety for news is weighing heavier on the population than the absence of provisions or the cold. Every day, and all day, there are crowds standing upon the elevated points in the city, peering through glasses, in the wild hope of witnessing the advent of Chanzy, who is apparently expected to prick in with Faidherbe by his side, each upon a gorgeously caparisoned steed, like the heroes in the romances of the late Mr. G.P.R. James. Many pretend to distinguish, above the noise of the cannon of our forts and the Prussian batteries, the echoes of distant artillery, and rush off to announce to their friends that the army of succour has fallen on the besiegers from the rear. In the meantime the bombardment of the forts and villages to the east of the city is continuing, and with that passion for system in everything which distinguishes the Germans, it is being methodized. A fixed number of shells are fired off every minute, and at certain hours in the day there are long pauses. What is happening in the forts is, of course, kept very secret. The official bulletins say that no damage in them has yet been done. As for the villages round them, they are, I presume, shelled merely in order to make them untenable.

The Government appears now as anxious to find others to share responsibility with it as heretofore it has been averse to any division of power. The Mayors of the city are to meet with their deputies once a week at the Hôtel de Ville to express their opinions respecting municipal matters, and once a week at the Ministry of the Interior to discuss the political situation. As there are twenty mayors and forty adjuncts, they, when together, are almost numerous enough to form a species of Parliament. The all important food question remains in statu quo. It is, however, beginning to be hinted in semi-official organs, that perhaps the bread will have to be rationed; I may be wrong, but I am inclined to think that the population will not submit to this. Government makes no statement with respect to the amount of corn in store. Some say that there is not enough for two weeks, others that there is enough for two months' consumption; M. Dorien assured a friend of mine yesterday that, to the best of his belief, there is enough to carry us into March. Landlords and tenants are as much at loggerheads here as they are in Ireland; the Government has issued three decrees to regulate the question. By the first is suspended all judicial proceedings on the part of landlords for their rent; by the second, it granted a delay of three months to all persons unable to pay the October term; by the third, it required all those who wished to profit by the second to make a declaration of inability to pay before a magistrate. To-day a fourth decree has been issued, again suspending the October term, and making the three previous decrees applicable to the January term, but giving to landlords a right to dispute the truth of the allegation of poverty on the part of their tenants; the question is a very serious one, for on the payment of rent depends directly or indirectly the means of livelihood of half the nation. Thus the landlords say that if the tenants do not pay them they cannot pay the interest of the mortgages on their properties. If this interest be not paid, however, the shareholders of the Crédit Foncier and other great mortgage banks get nothing. Paris, under the fostering care of the Emperor, had become, next to St. Petersburgh, the dearest capital in Europe. Its property was artificial, and was dependent upon a long chain of connecting links remaining unbroken. In the industrial quarters money was made by the manufacture of Articles de Paris, and for these, as soon as the communications are reopened, there will be the same market as heretofore. As a city of pleasure, however, its prosperity must depend, like a huge watering-place, upon its being able to attract strangers. If they do not return, a reduction in prices will take place, which will ruin most of the shopkeepers, proprietors of houses, and hotel keepers; but this, although unpleasant to individuals, would be to the advantage of the world at large. Extravagance in Paris makes extravagance the fashion everywhere; under the Empire, to spend money was the readiest road to social distinction. The old bourgeoisie still retained the careful habits of the days of Louis Philippe, and made fortunes by cheeseparing. Imperial Paris was far above this. Families were obliged to spend 20 per cent, of their incomes in order to lodge themselves; shops in favoured quarters were let for fabulous prices, and charged fabulous prices for their wares. Cocodettes of the Court, cocottes of the Bois, wives of speculators, shoddy squaws from New York, Calmues recently imported from their native steppes, doubtful Italian Princesses, gushing Polish Countesses, and foolish Englishwomen, merrily raced along the road to ruin. Good taste was lost in tinsel and glitter; what a thing cost was the only standard of its beauty. Great gingerbread palaces were everywhere run up, and let even before they were out of the builder's hands. It was deemed fashionable to drive about in a carriage with four horses, with perhaps a black man to drive, and an Arab sitting on the box by his side. Dresses by milliners in vogue gave a ready currency to their wearers. The Raphael of his trade gave himself all the airs of a distinguished artist; he received his clients with vulgar condescension, and they—no matter what their rank—submitted to his insolence in the hope that he would enable them to outshine their rivals. Ambassadors' wives and Court ladies used to go to take tea with the fellow, and dispute the honour of filling his cup or putting sugar into it. I once went into his shop—a sort of drawing-room hung round with dresses; I found him lolling on a chair, his legs crossed before the fire. Around him were a bevy of women, some pretty, some ugly, listening to his observations with the rapt attention of the disciples of a sage. He called them up before him like school girls, and after inspecting them, praised or blamed their dresses. One, a pretty young girl, found favour in his eyes, and he told her that he must dream and meditate several days over her, in order to find the inspiration to make a gown worthy of her. "Why do you wear these ugly gloves?" he said to another, "never let me see you in gloves of that colour again." She was a very grand lady, but she slipped off her gloves, and put them in her pocket with a guilty look. When there was going to be a ball at Court, ladies used to go down on their knees to him to make them beautiful. For some time he declined to dress any longer the wife of a great Imperial dignitary who had not been sufficiently humble towards him; she came to him in tears, but he was obdurate, and he only consented at last to make a gown for her on condition that she would put it on for the first time in his shop. The Empress, who dealt with him, sent to tell him that if he did not abate his prices she would leave him. "You cannot," he replied, and in fact she could not, for she stood by him to the last. A morning dress by this artist, worth in reality about 4l., cost 30l.; an evening dress, tawdry with flounces, ribbons, and bad lace could not be had under 70. There are about thirty shops in Paris where, as at this man-milliner's, the goods are not better than elsewhere, but where they cost about ten times their value. They are patronised by fools with more money than wits, and chiefly by foreign fools. The proprietor of one of these establishments was complaining to me the other day of what he was losing by the siege; I told him that I sympathised with him about as much as I should with a Greek brigand, bewailing a falling off of wealthy strangers in the district where he was in the habit of carrying on his commercial operations. Whenever the communications are again open to Paris, and English return to it, I would give them this piece of advice—never deal where ici on parle Anglais is written up; it means ici on vole les Anglais. The only tradesmen in Paris who are making a good thing out of their country's misfortunes are the liquor sellers and the grocers; their stores seem inexhaustible, but they are sold at famine prices. "I who speak to you, I owe myself to my country. There is no sacrifice I would not make rather than capitulate to those Huns, those Vandals," said a grocer to me, with a most sand-the-sugar face, this morning, as he pocketed about ten times the value of a trifle—candles, in fact, which have risen twenty-five per cent. in the last two days—and folding his arms, scowled from under his kepi into futurity, with stern but vacuous resolution.