How much more than credit have we sent since to help beloved, beleaguered France!
My interview with President Poincaré of France was set for five-thirty in the Elysée Palace. I had to wait some minutes in an ante-room, hung with splendid tapestries, where the secretary in charge introduced me to Deschanel, the Secrétaire perpétuel of the Academie Française, with whom I had a few minutes' talk.
The President sat in a small, beautifully decorated room in this historical Elysée Palace. A small fire burned in the grate, a bit of grateful warmth in almost coalless Paris. He, too, plied me with questions, but not as closely as others, about the land I had left behind. He spoke of a great gift of money made by James Stillman, a fund to help the families of members of the Legion of Honour.
Poincaré is a man of fifty-seven, wears a small beard growing grey, and is a little under medium height (of this country) and has much the manner of an American lawyer. What a contrast those polite, agreeable Frenchmen were to the stiff, formal, overbearing Germans. There are "well born" Germans with charming international manners and the lower classes in Germany have kindly, natural manners, but the manners of the minor members of the merchant class and of the lesser officials is rude to boorishness.
And here I want to say a word about the democracy of my own countrymen. Before the war and during it we entertained countless Americans in the Embassy; all sorts and under a variety of conditions, Jew and Gentile, business men and students, travellers and musicians. They carried themselves with ease, whatever the occasion. I was proud of them always and of our system of education that had given them such pleasant equality.
After my arrival in Berlin a magnificent darkey, named George Washington Bronson, called in search of a job. Over six feet four and well built, I thought he would make an impressive appearance opening carriage doors or taking hats in the hall. So I engaged him. But he did not get on well with the other servants, and his discharge followed. Great consternation was caused shortly afterwards at our Lincoln day reception when Mrs. Gerard and the ladies of the Embassy were receiving the American Colony, by the report that George Washington, dressed up to the nines, accompanied by a coloured friend, presenting the appearance of a new red buggy, was on his way up stairs. I decided that on Lincoln's birthday all were welcome; so George Washington and his friend, resplendent, received the same greeting accorded all Americans and the manners of George Washington excelled those of a Grand Duke. But although one could see his mouth water, he did not approach the table where our local Ruggles presided over the refreshments. There was "that" about Ruggles' eye which told George Washington he would have to "go to the mat" before his former superior officer would serve him with champagne.
The cold in Paris was bitter, biting into the very bones, and all classes of the population suffered intensely from the lack of coal. In the theatres, for instance, there was absolutely no heat. Theatrical performances were permitted in each theatre three times a week. Evening dress was prohibited. I went to the Folies Bergères, arriving so late that the crowded house had warmed itself and it was possible to stay until the end in spite of the want of ventilation.
At one of the theatres I arrived early, but the cold was so bitter that even sitting in fur overcoat and with my hat on I was so chilled I had to leave after twenty minutes. This play was a revue, the actresses appearing in the scanty costumes peculiar to that form of entertainment, but the cold was of such intensity that they had added their street furs, presenting a curiously comical effect.
I spoke to many of the soldiers in the streets. All were animated by a new spirit in France, an obstinate calm, a determination to see this thing through, to end forever the fear of Prussian invasion which for so many years had impended. If any sign of weakness was apparent it was among the financiers; not among the poor and the men of the trenches.
At the railway station I talked with a blue-clad French soldier, calm, witty, but determined. He said, "My family comes from the East of France, my great grandfather was killed by the Prussians in 1814, my grandfather was shot in his garden by the Prussians in 1870, my father died of grief, in 1916, because my two sisters in Lille fell into Prussian hands and were taken as their slaves with all that that means. I have decided that we must end this horror once and for all, so that my children can cultivate their little fields without this constant haunting fear of the invading Prussian."