The book is valuable as a revelation of an individual, but more valuable as the show-up of an aspect of society largely neglected. It is like seeing the reverse side of the life that Wells, or even Galsworthy, writes of. The novel begins; the butler is bringing in the electric toaster. The mistress enters in an elaborate breakfast costume and a “pet.” But instead of remaining in her presence, you follow the butler into the pantry. That is new, and not altogether pleasant. It is cramped back there. Beds are “let down” in the pantry and there is not too much freshness about the atmosphere. The cook quarrels with the housekeeper; the housekeeper spies on the maids. The butler lords it over the footmen; the footmen cuff the grooms. But they like each other. They have their dinners and dances where social barriers are even more strict than among the “gentry.” Living is good—wine is plenty—if you have the keys.
Life here is quite like that on the other side of the picture, save that you have no subtleties, no nerves, no intrigues. Everything is out in the open, static, with a fist fight or so. At the same time there is a certain style to it. Things must be done properly. The silver is put in order—if you have to blister your hands—not because you are afraid of “the sack,” but because of respect for things as they should be and for the traditions of the house. There is a curious infiltration of champagne somewhat mixed with dishwater.
As to the pictures of the “gentry,” they are real, and at times touching. But they have been done before. We know the “gentry” better than we do their servants. The butler has, until Eric Horne spoke, been a sphinx to the world at large, so much so that one has been many times tempted to punch him to see if he is real. He is, and once having broken the traditional silence there is no stopping him. Words fall over themselves in their haste to get written. This reminds him of that, which has no connection with what came before it or what is to follow. The butler is avenged! He has said his say. Let the gentry writhe if they will, or smile if they can. The butler takes a long breath—his first—he pops the gold buttons off his braided waistcoat. Let them roll!
XVI
THE LADIES
Madama Récamier et Ses Amis, by Edouard Herriot.
My Portion, by Rebekah Kohut.
Noon, by Kathleen Norris.
A Woman of Fifty, by Rheta Childe Dorr.
The most famous Beauty of China, Yang Kuei-Fei, by Shu-Chiung.
Few periods of French History have tempted the pens of biographers and historians more than that of the Directoire. It was then that political and literary passions clashed and in the effort to reconcile and unite them, expression of ideas was encouraged; salons were formed where the craft of literature, art and statesmanship could be discussed; and freedom of speech ceased to be a myth. Society was no longer composed of the exclusive aristocracy; personal merit, intelligence and wit were now the passports for the man—and charm, vivacity, culture and kindness for the woman. All of them strove to be numbered among the élite of the fastidious salons. Those who succeeded have their names permanently written in the annals of the period. Many of them contributed enormously to the development and dissemination of literature among the upper middle-class in France, and their influence is still felt among critics and writers. Only two generations separate us from them, and if Madame Récamier, Madame de Staël and Benjamin Constant seem like figures of another world, remote and dimmed, their younger contemporaries like Sainte-Beuve and Napoléon III belong to modern times. It is not the distance of the Directoire that makes it part of historical tradition; it is the extraordinary change that has taken place in manners, in customs and in society, since then.
Mme. RÉCAMIER
Of all the names that come to mind when the time of the Directoire and the years following it are mentioned, none carries so much charm, mystery, fascination and meaning as that of Juliette Récamier. She personifies the early nineteenth century and as years go by motives become clearer, and understanding easier; as the vista of time improves judgment, biographers of Madame Récamier and her circle add to our knowledge and to our appreciation of the period.
The latest of these is Edouard Herriot, recently Prime Minister of France, a man of classical education, who attaches much importance to culture and who has always shown interest in literature. Madame Récamier and Her Friends testifies to his quality. The mere mention of her name suggests a world of wit, of beauty, of romance and of achievement. M. Herriot has neglected none of the facets of her charm. Indeed he dwells upon them at length; yet he gives to the story of her life more significance than a mere record of herself; it reveals the world of the early nineteenth century, and it is through this world that we contemplate and admire his heroine.