XVI
MADAME LA PRÉSIDENTE, M. GEORGES CLEMENCEAU AND THE UNFORTUNATE M. PAMS
There is an important reason for the popularity of M. le Président: there is Madame la Présidente.
Less than a month ago Madame Raymond Poincaré, wife of the President of the French Republic, was the hostess, in Paris, of King George and Queen Mary; to-day, as I write, she is helping to entertain, with almost similar brilliancy, their Majesties Christian and Alexandrine of Denmark. In the interval between these two Royal visits, Madame Poincaré has spent a few days on the Riviera, but it wasn’t a holiday. Madame la Présidente was accompanied to the south of France by the most punctilious, the most rigid, the most terrible of all tutors—a high official of the French Protocol. And instead of enjoying the drowsy charms or the worldly delights of the Riviera, it was Madame Poincaré’s duty to master a few elegant phrases from the difficult Danish language; to acquaint herself with the brightest episodes in Danish history; to discern the subtleties and intricacies of Danish etiquette; and incidentally (and always under the respectful but intense eye of the high Protocol official) to discover which kinds of flowers grow in Denmark; what the climate is like; at what hours the Danes rise and retire; and whether they are particularly fond of music, literature, the drama, pictures, sculpture, dancing, needlework, and so on, and so forth.
Although an extremely clever and accomplished woman, it is probable that Madame Poincaré experienced hardships and even miseries in “getting up” her Denmark: for it is a country—and a language—that does not easily accommodate itself to an emergency. (You, reader, could you gossip, here and now, glibly and elegantly, even in your own language, about Danish national characteristics?) Moreover, it must be remembered that, when she left for the Riviera to acquaint herself with Denmark, Madame Poincaré had only recently finished “getting up” her England: the latter, of course, a less arduous, but nevertheless a strenuous, task. Two languages, two countries; two Kings and two Queens; banquets, gala opera performances, military reviews, special race-meetings, drives in State carriages across Paris, ceremonious greetings and adieux at the gaily decorated Royal railway station—decorations, illuminations, soldiers and soldiers, the National Anthems of England, Denmark and France—all this brilliancy, and excitement, and hard labour in the short space of one month! Such, nevertheless, has been the duty of Madame Raymond Poincaré as hostess of the Presidential Palace of the Élysée: and yet even here in England, and even there in Denmark, one hears scarcely a word about the personality or the functions of Madame la Présidente!
An ungrateful, even an ironical position, that of a French President’s wife. She is the hostess of foreign Royalty: but never, in her turn, their guest. The rigid French Protocol forbids, for some reason or other, that Madame la Présidente shall accompany her husband on his State visits abroad. She may drive through the streets of Paris by the side of Queen Mary: but she must not drive, officially, through the streets of London, or Copenhagen, or St Petersburg. In a word, Madame la Présidente must suffer all the anxieties and responsibilities of the arduous, proud position of hostess to Royalty: and is left behind in Paris when her husband goes away on visits of State to receive almost Royal honours. Yes: an ungrateful, an ironical position, that of Madame la Présidente. Particularly so, when one remembers that, upon social occasions at all events, she is almost invariably more tactful, sympathique and ornamental than M. le Président.
Well, the French Chief of the State goes almost royally abroad. In his own country, when he opens exhibitions or “inaugurates” monuments and statues and lycées at Lyons and Marseilles, he is very nearly a king—and Madame la Présidente stays at home. She “counts” only in Paris; her powers are confined within the walls of the Élysée, where she is for ever dispensing all kinds of hospitalities—hospitalities that demand infinite skill and tact. For instance, one of those dinners upon other occasions—“eminent” Academicians, leading barristers, men of letters, and clericals, and anti-clericals, and militarists, and pacifists, and ambiguities, enigmas, and “dark horses” (so far as their political opinions are concerned)—many of whom are the bitterest of enemies, and all of whom Madame la Présidente has “placed” around the dinner-table, with such incomparable tact and discretion that not a guest can see more than the nose or the chin of his particular foe. Also, Madame la Présidente has often reconciled enemies—to the advantage of M. le Président—whose own endeavours to obtain the same reconciliation have proved vain. Furthermore, it is on record that, during an acute Cabinet crisis, Madame la Présidente stopped one of France’s leading statesmen, as he flung out of the Élysée, by grasping his arm and putting a rose in his button-hole, and the Cabinet Minister, exclaiming: “Ah, madame, vous êtes exquise!” allowed himself to be led by Madame la Présidente back to the Council Chamber.
Has Madame la Présidente been once again working miracles? What is this we hear in the month of June, 1913? A reconciliation, an alliance, even, between M. Raymond Poincaré and M. Georges Clemenceau.