Apart from any statesmanlike leanings and aspirations which did exist in him, he was drawn towards it by his own personal vanity, and the desire to be able to welcome in Paris as his guests, first the representatives of the most autocratic Sovereign in the world, and later on that Sovereign himself, by whom he, the son of a Havre tanner, would be treated as an equal. That would be a triumph indeed, and in order to obtain it he used every effort to break through all the barriers which existed between the realisation of his dream and the hard reality.
Huge sums of money were spent at that time both in France and in Russia in order to prepare the public mind, through the press, for this extraordinary turn in the politics of both countries. The campaign was engineered with consummate skill, and very few people saw through it. It very quickly brought about the wished-for results, and might have done so even more quickly had it not been for various indiscretions committed by M. Mohrenheim, whose personal wants were sometimes ahead of the march of events, and who allowed himselfupon one or two occasions to let his impatience take the upper hand of his prudence, and in order to satisfy those for whom he worked to attack with violence certain French politicians whom he feared might prove rebellious against the efforts which were being made. He tried, therefore, to oblige them to walk in the path mapped out for them.
One of these two occasions arose when M. Clemenceau, who already at that time had made for himself an eminent position in the ranks of the Radical party, whose leader he was supposed to be, uttered some doubts as to whether the French Government was not going too far in its advances to Russia, and was compromising the dignity of France without feeling sure that its conduct would be reciprocated on the banks of the Neva. Alexander III. was reigning still, and it was very well known he had no sympathies for Republics in general, and many people believed, together with Clemenceau, that though the Marseillaise had been played at the State dinner which was given at Peterhof in honour of the French naval squadron anchored at Cronstadt, things would not go further, and the Tsar would hesitate a very long time before he would condescend to admit Marianne in his intimacy, and to walk hand in hand with her, amidst the crowned heads of Europe, whilst they stood aghast at the unexpected spectacle.
Furious to discover that the doubts uttered by M. Clemenceau had found an echo among many prudent French political circles, Baron Mohrenheim, in his impatience, unburdened his outraged feelings to the Marquis de Morès, that fierce adversary of everything that had to do with the Republic and its partisans. Morès did not hesitate to say openly that it was the Radical party in France that was doing its best to prevent an alliance with Russia, for which the latter country was yearning. Upon this Clemenceau,indignant and never behindhand on occasions when he could attack someone, took up his best Toledo pen and wrote to the Russian Ambassador the following letter, which certainly deserves not to fall into oblivion, where it has remained these long years:
“Paris, September 7th, 1892.“Monsieur l’Ambassadeur,—In a letter that has been made public, the Marquis de Morès declares quite positively that you have exchanged with him the following remarks: ‘We do not know in Russia with whom we can treat here. The greater number of public functionaries and officials and the whole of the press is in the hands of the Jews, or of England. I have not sufficient money to be able to fight them, whilst England is prodigal with hers. Clemenceau is openly attacking, in the corridors of the Chamber, the alliance with Russia; I am getting very uneasy, the more so that I do not see upon whom I could eventually lean in case of necessity.’“I only desire to notice in these words of yours the part which refers to myself.“I cannot allow you, by reason of your official position as Ambassador, to attribute to me publicly language of that kind without declaring to you that you have been misinformed.“When the Tsar stood up to listen to the Marseillaise, I was, as all Frenchmen were too, justly proud at this public homage rendered to my country. Before the whole of Europe, looking attentively at what was taking place on that day, the French nation put her hand loyally into the hand that had stretched itself towards her.“It is not my place to discuss with you, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur, the consequences of the events which have taken place at Cronstadt; all that I can say is that no one desiresmore ardently than I do that these might prove beneficial for both nations, and also for the whole of Europe.“Any excesses of zeal connected with such a noble cause find most certainly their excuse in that cause itself. It is only to be regretted that they also might harm it. It is for that very reason, I do not doubt, that by thinking the thing over you have already convinced yourself that the ancient precept of ‘Ne quid nimis,’ especially when such important interests are at stake, is an excellent safeguard.“As concerns myself, I put it into practice to-day. You are our honoured guest, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur; allow me not to forget it, and to beg of you to accept the assurance of my most respectful feelings.“(Signed)Georges Clemenceau.”
“Paris, September 7th, 1892.
“Monsieur l’Ambassadeur,—In a letter that has been made public, the Marquis de Morès declares quite positively that you have exchanged with him the following remarks: ‘We do not know in Russia with whom we can treat here. The greater number of public functionaries and officials and the whole of the press is in the hands of the Jews, or of England. I have not sufficient money to be able to fight them, whilst England is prodigal with hers. Clemenceau is openly attacking, in the corridors of the Chamber, the alliance with Russia; I am getting very uneasy, the more so that I do not see upon whom I could eventually lean in case of necessity.’
“I only desire to notice in these words of yours the part which refers to myself.
“I cannot allow you, by reason of your official position as Ambassador, to attribute to me publicly language of that kind without declaring to you that you have been misinformed.
“When the Tsar stood up to listen to the Marseillaise, I was, as all Frenchmen were too, justly proud at this public homage rendered to my country. Before the whole of Europe, looking attentively at what was taking place on that day, the French nation put her hand loyally into the hand that had stretched itself towards her.
“It is not my place to discuss with you, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur, the consequences of the events which have taken place at Cronstadt; all that I can say is that no one desiresmore ardently than I do that these might prove beneficial for both nations, and also for the whole of Europe.
“Any excesses of zeal connected with such a noble cause find most certainly their excuse in that cause itself. It is only to be regretted that they also might harm it. It is for that very reason, I do not doubt, that by thinking the thing over you have already convinced yourself that the ancient precept of ‘Ne quid nimis,’ especially when such important interests are at stake, is an excellent safeguard.
“As concerns myself, I put it into practice to-day. You are our honoured guest, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur; allow me not to forget it, and to beg of you to accept the assurance of my most respectful feelings.
“(Signed)Georges Clemenceau.”
This letter considerably embarrassed Baron Mohrenheim, the more so because he did not reply to it immediately: after it had been published by the Agence Havas, the papers took it up, and different reporters called upon the Russian Ambassador to ask him for explanations. He gave them but lamely, thus making himself more ridiculous. For instance, he declared that he had been away from Paris when it had been brought to his secretary, Baron Korff, and that the latter had forgotten to deliver it to him immediately upon his return, so that he had only learned its contents through the press. In fact, he made many groundless excuses and only added to the embarrassment of the position. At last on the 12th of September the Agence Havas published the following reply from the Russian Ambassador to the leader of the Radical party in the Chamber:
“Paris, September 12th, 1892.“Monsieur le Député,—The Agence Havas publishes a letter which you have been kind enough to address to meon the seventh of the present month. On that day I was at Aix-les-Bains, which I left on the next day, Thursday, to return to Paris only yesterday, Sunday.“I hasten to inform you that your letter has not yet reached me to-day, otherwise you may rest assured that I would have eagerly taken this opportunity to express to you my most sincere thanks for it.“Nothing could have afforded me greater satisfaction than to be able to convince myself thus of the real and frank feelings of sympathy which you express to me for my country, and to read about the good wishes which you add in it towards the prosperity of a cause common to us both and dear to us both, thus doing away with misunderstandings, and making them henceforward impossible. As you express yourself, Monsieur le Député, ‘Ne quid nimis’ ought to be the motto of us both, and as you may well believe, I have had more than one opportunity to remember it in many circumstances which I have witnessed during the long years of my public life, a life that has always been devoted to the different tasks I have been entrusted with.“Will you kindly receive, Monsieur le Député, the assurance of my distinguished and devoted consideration.“(Signed)Baron de Mohrenheim.”
“Paris, September 12th, 1892.
“Monsieur le Député,—The Agence Havas publishes a letter which you have been kind enough to address to meon the seventh of the present month. On that day I was at Aix-les-Bains, which I left on the next day, Thursday, to return to Paris only yesterday, Sunday.
“I hasten to inform you that your letter has not yet reached me to-day, otherwise you may rest assured that I would have eagerly taken this opportunity to express to you my most sincere thanks for it.
“Nothing could have afforded me greater satisfaction than to be able to convince myself thus of the real and frank feelings of sympathy which you express to me for my country, and to read about the good wishes which you add in it towards the prosperity of a cause common to us both and dear to us both, thus doing away with misunderstandings, and making them henceforward impossible. As you express yourself, Monsieur le Député, ‘Ne quid nimis’ ought to be the motto of us both, and as you may well believe, I have had more than one opportunity to remember it in many circumstances which I have witnessed during the long years of my public life, a life that has always been devoted to the different tasks I have been entrusted with.
“Will you kindly receive, Monsieur le Député, the assurance of my distinguished and devoted consideration.
“(Signed)Baron de Mohrenheim.”
In publishing this reply of the Russian Ambassador, the Agence Havas added that M. Clemenceau had hastened to inform it that his letter had been handed over to the secretary of the Baron, M. de Korff, on September 8th, who had given an undertaking that he should deliver it personally to the Ambassador immediately upon the latter’s return to Paris. In spite of the frantic efforts made by the Russian and French Governments to minimise the impression produced by this correspondence, the prestige of M. de Mohrenheim sufferedconsiderably from its publication, and he had perforce to become more careful in the future.
But he was not removed from his post. Indeed, it very rarely happens that a Russian official is obliged to retire into private life by reason of his public mistakes. The Russians are an enduring people. The Baron was to witness many other triumphs, especially that of being able to welcome Nicholas II. and his consort in Paris, which event considerably added to his personal prestige, and also to his personal advantages.
To return to M. Félix Faure, he went on quietly pursuing the course he had embarked upon, and preparing the ground for the great things which he felt himself called upon to perform in the near future. He was so sure of the ultimate success of his plans that he began to make ready the Elysée for the glories that awaited it. He drew largely on the credits put at his disposal for the upkeep of the palace, he tried to give to his household the appearance of a real Court in miniature, to train not only the officers and civilians attached to his person to perform their duties according to the old etiquette that had prevailed during the Monarchy, but also to put his servants, his stables, his kitchens, and the maintenance of the state with which he liked to surround himself on the footing he considered to be necessary to the Chief Magistrate of the Republic. He also—and this effort is perhaps the most meritorious of all those he made at the time—did his best to assimilate the habits and customs prevailing in the higher classes of society, and he succeeded admirably in doing so, helped as he was by the numerous fair ladies at whose shrine he worshipped.
But where he showed the greatest tact was in avoiding incidents like the one which we have just related concerning M. de Mohrenheim. Had he been President of the Republicat the time it occurred, he would certainly have been made aware of the possibility, or rather the likelihood of its happening, and taken measures to avoid its reaching public knowledge. The alliance with Russia, which was in the air when he was elected to the Presidency, and which during the term of M. Carnot had been started in a preliminary manner by certain influential people, was in part his personal work. I have said that it was he who had first thought of sending the French fleet to Cronstadt. He was at that time only a minister, and did not dream of ever becoming Head of the State, but he saw already looming in the distance the great things which were bound to follow for France in the event of the public recognition of its Republican Government by the most powerful Monarch of Europe, and he felt that something of the glory of such an event was bound to cling to his own humble person, which might, thanks to this circumstance, come forward more brilliantly than he could have hoped for when he first entered public life.
He was to reap his reward, and he must have realised it on that lovely autumn day when he went to receive Nicholas II. and his Consort at the railway station of the Bois de Boulogne in Paris. As he drove along, sitting opposite to them in the Daumont with outriders, in which they made their State entry into the French capital, he may well be pardoned if he forgot the beginnings of his political career, and the modest villa where his early days had been spent at Havre. Can one wonder if he lost his head a little, in the presence of that unhoped for success, and that, having such an opportunity to be on equal footing with a real Sovereign, he forgot sometimes that he was not one himself?
M. Félix Faurehad been but a short time President when the Emperor Alexander III. died in such an unexpected manner. This untoward event interfered with the advances France had in contemplation; indeed, already in Paris there had been talk of Russia asla nation amie et alliée. But, on the other hand, the obsequies of the Emperor gave the French Government an opportunity of manifesting its sympathies with Russia. A special military mission, headed by General Boisdeffre, at that time head of the General Staff, was sent to St. Petersburg, where it remained until the marriage of the new Tsar. It was not only made much of by those who favoured arapprochementwith France, of whom there were a considerable number in Russian society, but thanks to the ability of the French Ambassador, Comte de Montebello, was also brought into contact with leading Russian politicians.
It was then that the conditions of a defensive alliance between both countries came under serious discussion. The new Emperor showed himself unusually gracious to all the members of the mission, and when General Boisdeffre timidly remarked that the President of the Republic would be envious of the honour he had experienced of being brought into personal contact with His Majesty, Nicholas replied, half jokingly and half earnestly, that perhaps he would pay a visit to the President in Paris, which city he had a great desire to see.
These words raised roseate anticipations at the time, and later on were seized upon by the French Government and construed into a promise made by the Emperor Nicholas II. to visit M. Félix Faure, then President of France. Nor was the Emperor allowed to forget. General Boisdeffre returned to Russia some sixteen months later for the Coronation of the Tsar, and there, together with Comte de Montebello, had many serious conversations with Prince Lobanoff, the Russian Minister for Foreign Affairs, and with General Obroutscheff, then head of the Russian General Staff, who, being married to a Frenchwoman, was one of the staunchest supporters of an alliance with France. At a direct result of these interviews, Nicholas II. was induced to promise that his visits to European Courts on the occasion of his accession to the throne would include one to Paris.
When the news became official, the enthusiasm it excited among all classes in France was absolutely indescribable. I remember that one morning, as I was walking down the Champs Elysées, I saw two workmen, who were mending one of the lanterns of the Avenue, eagerly scanning a newspaper with a portrait of the Tsar, and heard one say to the other, “C’est celui-là qui va nous débarrasser des Prussiens” (“He is the man who will rid us of the Prussians”). The whole nation saw itself once more in possession of Alsace and Lorraine, and never thought about the impending Imperial visit as anything else than the first step towards that consummation.
In Russia, however, we did not care for it at all. It seemed humiliating to our national pride that our Sovereign should make the first advances to a country the government of which represented everything that was antipathetic to an autocracy like ours. When I say “we,” I am talking of the saner elements of our country. In Russia, as well as in France, the anti-German elements hailed the situation with joy, and hoped great things from a closer union of the two nations.
The Emperor on his side could not but feel flattered at the shower of praise and compliments that fell from the French nation and the French press. It tickled his fancy to be received in triumph in the capital of a Republican country, and to find prostrate at his feet its most rabid Radicals. He did not see, or did not care to see, the undercurrents that actuated this enthusiasm; besides, Russia wanted a loan, and wanted it under favourable conditions. The presence of the Tsar in Paris ensured the success of such an operation, and, as Henri IV. said, “Paris vaut bien une messe.”
It is to be questioned which of the two countries indulged most in platitudes on this memorable occasion. France, at least, was actuated by the legitimate desire to recover her lost provinces, and she may well be forgiven if she allowed herself to be carried away beyond the limits of that courtesy which a great nation is bound to show to any foreign Sovereign who honours it with a visit. But Russia—— Was it worthy of her, was it dignified on the part of the Monarch so to stoop in order to get the money she wanted without the least intention to hold to the other side of the bargain, or to run into a war with Germany in order to gratify the feelings of revenge which animated the French nation?
Paris had turned outen masseto see the royal entry. It was a little after ten o’clock when the report of the guns of Mont Valérien announced the arrival of the Imperial train at the Ranelagh station. Immediately the crowd began to cheer, long before they caught sight of the troops which escorted the carriage in which the Emperor and Empress, with the President, were driving. The French Government had chosen these troops with great care, and given the preference to the Spahis and Arabs from Algeria, whose picturesquecostumes and white burnouses added to the general splendour of the brilliant scene.
It was an event without precedent, this recognition by the only autocratic Monarch left in Europe, of a Republic from which hitherto foreign Sovereigns had more or less held aloof. It was bound to create a deep sensation, not only in France, but throughout the world; and its consequences promised at that moment to become stupendous. In reality they were absolutely insignificant, and France certainly played the part of the dupe in this queer comedy.
But it was not of this that Paris was thinking as it welcomed its Russian ally. When the mob saw the Empress, pale and lovely, in her white dress, with an immense bouquet of flowers reposing in her lap, as she sat beside her Consort, who wore the dark green tunic of the Preobragensky Regiment, with the red ribbon of the Legion of Honour across his breast, its joy overstepped all bounds; it was more like a delirium of mad enthusiasm than anything else. But it was in the Place de la Concorde that the manifestations became quite grandiose. And I must say that of all the popular demonstrations I have ever witnessed it was the most imposing. Row upon row of human beings were massed like shots in a cartridge, which seemed suddenly on the passage of the Imperial carriage to explode into one single shout, whilst opposite, under the waving flags and banners on the terrace of the Tuileries, long lines of officers in uniform stood looking on the scene over the heads of the crowd. The statues were covered with human beings, boys and men who had climbed upon them to have a better view of the procession.
Only one, that of the town of Strasburg, was undecorated, and its bareness seemed more than suggestive to the impartial spectator. When M. Félix Faure pointed it out to the Emperor the acclamations of the mob became deafening. Itwas a triumph indeed, and if you had asked any one of these people why they were howling away their enthusiasm and joy, they would each and all have replied that it meant “Une Alsace Française,” and that by his visit to Paris Nicholas II. was tacitly promising it to the French people.
The only one who appeared unconscious of the significance attributed to his visit was the Emperor himself. Perhaps he knew that whatever people might think, he was not going to risk the life of even one of his soldiers in order to gratify the wild hatred of France against his German neighbours; perhaps, also, he was merely amused by the bright scene that stretched itself before his eyes; or, maybe, he was thinking that it would have been a good thing had his own subjects showed such demonstrative joy whenever he showed himself in the streets of his own capital. It was something new to him to see the whole population of a great city let loose without police surveillance—at least, none that was apparent; a vast multitude who seemed only eager to catch one of his smiles.
Later on, however, a few discordant notes were heard, even before the Tsar had left Paris. For one thing, the most rabid Radicals reproached Nicholas with having called personally on M. Loubet, President of the Senate, and M. Brisson, President of the Chamber of Deputies. These visits were not in the programme of the journey, and people said that by making them the Emperor was identifying himself with the political opinions of these personages, which were held in suspicion by the Socialists, who had already become very powerful at that time.
On the other hand, the Conservatives were quite indignant to hear that at the reception given in his honour at the Hotel de Ville, Nicholas II. had cordially shaken by the hand a municipal councillor, who in long bygone days had madehimself conspicuous by sending an address of congratulation to Hartmann, one of the assassins of Alexander II.
Then, to crown all, the leaders of French society and of the Faubourg St. Germain, who had been invited to meet the Russian Sovereigns at a lunch given by Baron and Baroness de Mohrenheim, felt sadly chagrined that neither the Emperor nor the Empress had thought fit to address a single word to any of them, though there were present such great ladies as the Duchesse d’Uzès, the Duchesse de Luynes, and Madame Aimery de la Rochefoucauld.
But all these criticisms proceeded from the few. The many and the masses felt more than gratified at the unexpected honour which had fallen upon France. The enthusiasm was especially great after the toasts exchanged at Chalons between the Tsar and the French President, and to give an idea of the illusions which at that particular moment seized the whole French nation, with but very few exceptions, I will reproduce here a letter which I received one or two days after the departure of the Russian visitors from a political man who, by virtue of his official position, ought to have been able to judge of the consequences which this effervescence of the French public mind might have in the future, and which proves under what strange misconceptions some people were labouring:
“I am not at all of your opinion when you tell me that you deplore the facility with which the French nation has prostrated itself at the feet of the Cossack. What wind coming from the perfidious shores of Albion could have made you say such a thing? First of all, he is not a Cossack, this young Emperor of yours. On the contrary, he produces, together with his fair Egeria, an immense impression of greatness, seen, as he has been here, in the full sunlight of our intensive French civilisation, with his little girl in the background. As for the French crowds, they haven’t, believe me,prostrated themselves before him; they have only exchanged a long and passionate embrace with Russia; that is, with a Europe independent of the Prussian Empire. In this triumphal march of an Imperator towards our pseudo-Republican capital, the oldest and most experienced crowned foxes the world has ever seen have found their Tarpeian rock. Your young Imperial ephebe has emerged out of it admirably. Nothing that he has done has been out of place; he has shown simplicity, cordiality, good taste, tact, and everything, in short, that he ought to have done, without one single false note to mar the concert. In his place, William II. would only have shown the weight of his sword and invited us to test it. Nicholas II. is above all this, and has proved himself of stronger stuff. It is because, in the present case, the comedians, who generally act in presence of Her Majesty Humanity, are put to shame by another and newer spectacle, which is far more powerful than the old scene upon which they had been used to play since time immemorial.
“In spite of everything, real life will overthrow the false limits into which one has tried to confine it, and the Treaty of Frankfurt will share the fate of those of Paris in 1815 and of Westphalia. It was only real life that could have been strong enough to accomplish this superb effort, and to set itself up on the ruins of that old mischievous diplomacy which has produced that snake with three heads called the Triple Alliance.
“Only two nations could possibly have performed this miracle, and could have risen against the slavery in which, until now, Europe has been held in the bondage of the infernal policy of Prince Bismarck. He is the only real Cossack in the sense we generally attribute to that word, the Cossack before whom France, even when he vanquished her, has refused to prostrate herself, and against whom she has risenwith sufficient courage and sufficient strength to deliver from his yoke both Russia and the dynasty of Romanoff, and to snatch it from the sphere of Prussian influence. Our two nations have married each other without the help of any notary, and without the need for any written treaty, and their union means peace, real peace, against general war which Bismarck wanted to transform into astatus quo. This is civilisation in the highest sense, and Europe owes it not to the fact that France has prostrated herself before Russia, but to the energetic manner in which the former has tried and succeeded in establishing its military strength, and redeeming its lost military prestige.”
I have transcribed this curious letter in its entirety, as it can give, better than anything else, an idea as to the state of feeling which was prevailing in Paris in the autumn of the year 1896, when, for the first time since the fall of the Empire of the Napoleons, a foreign monarch was officially received with enthusiastic welcome within the doors of the capital. The enthusiasm was as false as the visit itself, but it cannot be denied that it gave greater stability to the Republic and considerably discouraged its enemies.
Nevertheless, nearly a whole year passed before M. Faure returned this memorable visit, and accomplished his passionate desire by being welcomed on Russian shores in his capacity of head of the French Republic. He arrived at Peterhof on a French man-of-war, escorted by a numerous and powerful squadron, and was received with a cordiality that must have considerably increased any illusions he may have had concerning the sincerity of the Russian alliance. St. Petersburg showed unusual enthusiasm, and the Imperial family treated him with a familiarity that must have ravished his parvenu heart. As he wrote to one of his friends in Paris, he held on his knees the little Grand Duchess Olga, to whom he had brought themost splendid present of dolls any Imperial child ever received, and the fact of having thus nursed in his arms the youngest member of the Romanoff family evidently appealed to his feelings. He began to think himself equal to all these crowned heads with whom he found himself so unexpectedly thrown into contact, and to believe himself the real Sovereign of France.
It was dating from this famous visit that M. Faure assumed the semi-royal manners which considerably displeased many of his former friends, and caused him to be ridiculed more than he deserved in the popular cafés chantants of Paris. And, strange though it may appear, the real popularity which M. Faure had enjoyed until the period of his return from Russia began to wane. The public reproached him for not having made the most of his opportunities and for having forgotten, in his childish joy at the grandeur and magnificence of the reception awarded to him, the real object of his visit. Disappointment at the failure to convince Nicholas II. of the necessity of immediately declaring war on Germany began to make itself felt among the French nation, and, little by little, both the influence of M. Faure and the sympathy for Russia began to disappear among the public, which realised that all the fuss proceeded from the simple desire on the part of Russia to get the money she wanted at a cheap rate.
I had been away on leave for a few months when I returned to France, and on the very day I reached Paris I happened to meet the person from whom I had received a year before the letter which I have reproduced. I could not help asking him whether he still was of the opinion which he had professed when he had written to me that enthusiastic anticipation of the establishment of a solid alliance between France and Russia for the special purpose of a joint attack against Germany.
I found him furious against M. Faure, to whom he attributed the delay. Another President, he asserted, would have laid down positive conditions before he had consented to pay a visit to Peterhof, and made it subservient to a promise of immediately beginning hostilities against Germany. When I objected that, in common courtesy, M. Faure could not have excused himself from accepting the invitation that he had received personally from the Russian Emperor, my friend replied in those characteristic words: “Je ne vois pas la nécessité de cela, au contraire, M. Faure aurait souligné la dignité de la France, en prouvant qu’elle ne se dérange pas pour rien” (“I do not see the necessity for it; on the contrary, M. Faure would have given a proof of the dignity which prevails in France if he had shown that she does not put herself out for nothing”).
This phrase, coming as it did from a man who was at the period playing an important part in French politics, will give an idea as to the opinions which began to prevail against M. Faure.
The Dreyfus affair, which began at that period, intensified it. He did not, however, live to realise this. He seriously believed himself to be the right man in the right place, which, in a certain sense, he was, because of all the Presidents who have held office during the forty odd years of the existence of the Third Republic in France, he was, perhaps, the only one that contrived to give it the illusion of a monarchy.
A great deal has been written concerning the sudden death of M. Félix Faure. It is unfortunately certain that it took place under much to be deplored circumstances. It is also certain that the manner of his death has thrown upon his memory an unpleasant shade.
Alas! alas! poor Yorick. In a Republican country the abuses of monarchy can but too often be met with, and in the case of M. Félix Faure these came very prominently tothe front. He played at being a small King, even so far as to allow, in a Republican country, the establishment of the old custom of there being always “une favorite de roi” at his side.
But I must say once I am touching on that subject that I do not believe for a moment the assertions of the lady in question, that M. Faure used to consult her in political matters, and that she had great influence over him in that respect. M. Faure was an exceedingly shrewd politician, and knew perfectly well what he was about. He was also perfectly aware that he had numerous enemies who, if they had been able once to prove that he was confiding gravest matters of State to the discretion of another, would not have hesitated to make use of this fact to overthrow him, or at least to put him in such a position that he would have been obliged to send in his resignation. And M. Faure cared for his position as President of the French Republic, and would not have jeopardised it for anything in the world, least of all for a woman.
Perhaps it was as well for his own sake that death removed him from the political scene, before the curtain fell on the final act in the Dreyfus drama. What he would have done had he seen all that ensued after the discovery of the forgery of Colonel Henry, the knowledge of which made him so unhappy, and after the second condemnation of Captain Dreyfus at Rennes, it is difficult to say. Those who have known him well, told me that he had been very much troubled at the development this miserable business took so unexpectedly, and that he often regretted that he had not interfered and pardoned Dreyfus at the time of this first condemnation.
It seems that he had been very much tempted to do so, having always had some doubts in his own mind as to the Captain’s culpability, but the President was also aware thathis own popularity was on the wane, and that voices had already accused him of trying to make up to the German Emperor.
This last fact deserves a few words of explanation. Some enemies of M. Faure had spread the gossip that his St. Petersburg laurels had not been sufficient for his inordinate vanity, and that as, in spite of all his conversations with Nicholas II. he had not succeeded in inducing the latter to consent to the adoption by Russia of an aggressive policy against Germany, he had tried to bring about some kind of arrangement with the German Emperor, and to persuade him to grant autonomy to Alsace and Lorraine. He knew that such a measure would have largely satisfied a certain section of public opinion in France. Serious politicians, however, knew very well that it was useless to hope that Germany would return without another war, and perhaps not even then, the provinces she had conquered at the cost of such stupendous sacrifices.
Whether M. Félix Faure ever nursed such a dream, it is difficult to say, but it was attributed to him, and for an excitable people like the French such a rumour was sufficient to set the tide against the President. Had he at that juncture pardoned Captain Dreyfus the outcry would have been immense, and the word traitor would undoubtedly have been applied to him. He knew it well, and perhaps this made him keep more aloof than he ought to have done from the net of intrigues which surrounded the tragedy of the Hebrew officer who was to draw on his person the attention of the whole world. But it is also to be regretted, perhaps, that the President found himself with his hands tied on this memorable occasion, and that in his dread of losing his position he forgot his constitutional prerogatives.
Inthe visit of Nicholas II. to Paris the press played a considerable part. Indeed in no country of the world do newspapers wield such an influence as they do in France, where the bourgeois, the workman, and the peasant believe implicitly in what the papers say, especially if his particular news-sheet has the chauvinistic opinions which he himself espouses. It would hardly have been possible to organise the magnificent reception which was awarded to the Emperor of Russia, if newspapers of all shades had not contributed to it their long articles written in praise of the future visitor and in general of the Russian nation and the Russian army. These were material factors in securing the popular demonstration that took place. Thanks to them the Russian loans were covered several times over, and Russian policy, be it in the East or elsewhere, was warmly supported by the powers that ruled at the Quai d’Orsay.
The Minister for Foreign Affairs at that time was M. Gabriel Hanotaux, himself a writer of no mean talent, and a journalist in his spare moments. A few years later he was to be elected to the Academy for his fine work on the life of Cardinal Richelieu. M. Hanotaux was an excessively shrewd man, and moreover one who had a vast knowledge of the world; he understood better than anyone else the use to which the press, and especially the daily press, can be put. He organised a special service which kept the whole of Franceinformed as to the doings and sayings of the Russian Sovereigns, and was clever enough to give a spontaneous character to the vast manifestation of sympathy which threw France into the arms of Russia.
I don’t remember now who said, very wittily one must admit, that “each country and each epoch has the press which it deserves.” That phrase is far from being the paradox it seems, because it is an undeniable fact, and particularly so in France, that though the press leads public opinion, yet it is public opinion which leads the press into the road where its instincts—political or financial—tell it to go. And in the last twenty-five years the French, and especially the Parisian, press has undergone a total transformation. It is no longer what it was in the time of the Second Empire, when the restraining hand of the government was always more or less over its head. At present independence reigns among the papers that rule the boulevards, though this does not prevent the principal among them from accepting the inspirations which come either from the Quai d’Orsay or from the Place Beauveau. In the latter place, journalists had a good time of it during the few months when M. Clemenceau, the most brilliant among them, reigned as its master, and did not disdain to communicate to the press his views and his opinions on one or other of the questions of the day. TheMatin, theJournal, theDébats, and especially theTemps, like to entertain their readers in an atmosphere favourable to the ministry which happens to be in power. The last-named paper has upon its staff men of the rarest literary merit, among others M. Tardieu, who writes the leaders on foreign affairs and of whom Prince von Bülow once said jokingly that there “existed in Europe three great Powers and—M. Tardieu.”
That opinion had been endorsed long before it was utteredby M. Adrien Hébrard, the greatest journalist that France can boast, and of whom she can justly be proud. M. Hébrard, if he had only wished it, might have become an important political personage, a minister, a member of the French Academy, but to all these glories he preferred the editorship of theTemps.
The paper is Republican in its opinions, with sometimes a leaning towards Radicalism, and stronger leanings still towards anti-Clericalism. At the same time, it has constantly displayed coolness in its judgments, and has always abstained from exaggerations either in one sense or the other. It has never failed in courtesy towards its antagonists, and has made itself respected, even when it has caused itself to be disliked. Everyone in political or social circles reads it with interest, and very often the news which it givesen dernière heure, as it is called, has a European importance, and is cabled all over the world. Its chronicles also are something more than those of other papers, and its dramatic weekly letter decides the success or failure of every new theatrical piece which sees the footlights of the principal Paris theatres.
Another serious paper, whose importance is almost as great as that of theTemps, is the oldJournal des Débats, which is considered the organ of the Academy, and which certainly has always the last word to say concerning its elections.
In theDébatscorrect polished French is always to be found. It is grave, pompous, essentially bourgeois in its opinions, and is not read by the multitude.
The three great organs that have acquired front-rank importance are certainly theMatin, theJournal, its rival in everything, even in impudence, and thePetit Parisien. You will find many people in Paris who do not know theTemps, except that they have seen it in the newspaper kiosks, you will find a great many more who do not know even that much about theDébats, but you will never come across any man or woman, to begin with your concierge, and to end with the foremost politician in the Chamber, who does not know theMatinand its chief editor and proprietor, M. Alfred Edwards, of Lanthelme fame. In the opinion of many theMatinis not a credit to French journalism.
More popular even than theMatinare theJournaland thePetit Parisien, whose proprietor, M. Jean Dupuy, has already been several times entrusted with a ministerial portfolio, and is a member of the Senate, where his opinion is always listened to with attention. ThePetit Parisienhas many editions, and is extensively read in the provinces. It instils into millions of people the Radical opinions which it professes.
One of the reasons why everybody who can wield a pen in France turns to journalism nowadays lies in this knowledge that it leads to anything one likes—and principally to politics, after which every Frenchman craves. In olden times every young man wanted to become a member of the Bar, persuaded that the Bar alone could lead him to the Chamber and thence to become a member of the government. At present journalists have it all their own way. I won’t pretend to say that the change is by any means to advantage.
The general tone of the press lacks sadly of sympathy. Journalists like M. Hébrard become rarer and rarer every day. The press is no longer a tribune, it is something like the servants’ hall of political life, and though its successes are greater than they have ever been they are not lasting, and they are forgotten the very next hour after they have reached their culminating height.
Politics, thanks to this degeneration, have become a hurried, feverish occupation, are more talked about than discussed, more felt than acted upon. Ministries, too, change far too often for France to work out her regeneration with anything like stability, and at present she is obliged to lean upon Russia, because only in so doing can she have any hope of remaining a Great Power.
There are, however, a few great journalists left on the banks of the Seine, and I am sure that no one will contradict me when I say that one of the first places among the few is occupied by that remarkable man, Arthur Meyer, the son of a Jewish tailor and the grandson of a rabbi, who by a strange freak of destiny has become the most fervent supporter of both Monarchy and Catholicism. He was associated with Boulanger and also with that most ardent of anti-Semites, Edouard Drumont, and, after having become the friend, adviser, and counsellor of the Comte de Paris, who had replaced Napoleon III. in his affections, succeeded in being admitted into the intimacy of the Duchesse d’Uzès and the noblest great ladies of the noble Faubourg, where at last he found himself a wife in the person of the charming but dowerless daughter of the Comte and Comtesse de Turenne.
Such a career is one of the most curious products of our times, and stranger still than its success is the fact that no one, save a few bad tempered people whose opinions do not count and to whom no one listens, has ever expressed the least astonishment at its development. Paris has accepted M. Arthur Meyer just as it accepted the Republic and the institution of the Concours Hippique; and Parisian society has acquired the habit of turning to him not only for news but also for the manner in which it ought to be received. He has become an oracle among certain circles, and his whiskers, his ties, and the shape and cut of his clothesare copied not only by fashionable men but also by fashionable tailors. The morning coat of M. Meyer has replaced the frock coat of the Prince de Sagan, and the dinner-jacket of King Edward VII.
I quoted at the beginning the remark that every country has the press which it deserves. I can complete it by saying that every society has the leader that it merits. And Parisian fashionable circles can boast of having kept M. Arthur Meyer, though circumstances compelled it to lose Count Boni de Castellane.
I have mentioned the marriage of this favourite of the gods. People wondered at it excessively, but it would be extremely unfair to M. Meyer not to maintain that he decided to ask for the hand of Mademoiselle de Turenne under circumstances that were entirely to his honour. The young girl belonged to a family just as illustrious as it was poor, and though she had very rich relations, none of them attempted to do anything in her favour nor even to try to marry her in her own sphere. Arthur Meyer was a frequent visitor at the house of her parents, and had many opportunities of watching the revolts of a youthful mind disgusted at what it perceived of the injustices of the world. One day she told him that she did not know what she could do to escape the misery of her existence, adding that she knew that only two roads were open to her, either a convent or the free life of a woman who had put aside all prejudices and the principles in which she had been reared. “And,” she added, “I don’t want to become a nun, I have not got the courage to leave the society to which I belong, and I would never commit suicide. I have often wondered what I could do.”
Meyer was above all chivalrous, and the despair of that young and lovely woman touched him deeply. He did notlove her, and he knew very well that she could feel no love for him, but he asked her to become his wife, and, after some hesitation, she accepted his offer. Of course society rose up in arms when it heard about it, but nevertheless neither her uncle, Count Louis de Turenne, nor her aunt, the Marquise de Nicolai, whose wealth could be counted by millions, ever tried by making her a small dowry to give her the chance of marrying within her own sphere.
And so, one fine autumn day, the son of a little Jewish tailor became the husband of a girl whose ancestry had helped in the making of some of the most glorious pages in the history of France. Verily, life holds strange surprises in reserve for those who care to watch it.
Arthur Meyer is altogether a curious type both as a man and as a journalist. One cannot help liking him even when one does not sympathise with his opinions, or with his person. He is an anomaly in everything, and no one would ever feel surprised at anything he might do or say. He has certainly forsaken his race and his creed, yet so thoroughly has he succeeded in impressing those who know him with his good qualities that he has never been repulsed for the light-heartedness with which he has burned the boats of his faith.
M. Arthur Meyer is the proprietor of theGaulois, the fashionable organ of fashionable Paris, of the upper ten thousand who constitute Parisian society, that motley crowd in which unfortunately money is the only passport needed to ensure an entrance. It has one rival, theFigaro. TheFigarois extremely well informed, has contributors of great talent, and is as eminently respectable as that kind of paper can be which devotes a large part to gossip more or less good-natured. But it is no longer what that king among journalists, Villemessant, had made it.
Of papers in which popular passions are constantly appealedto, and in which one only seeks the criticism of the existing government, only one, thePresse, deserves more than a passing mention, and that only because its editor was M. Henri Rochefort, who up to his death in 1913 always wrote the leading article which figures at the head of the paper. M. Rochefort was one of the most extraordinary productions of modern journalism, to which he gave a direction that had been unknown until he initiated it. His talent, which was essentially critical, bordering on satire when it did not frankly take that tinge, procured for him a celebrity which spread far and wide beyond the frontiers of France.
No one ever succeeded as he did in finding words that appealed to the mob, and which in a few words expressed so much. HisLanternecontributed more than anything else to the fall of the Empire, and Napoleon III., who knew humanity perhaps better than anyone else, did not despise him as an adversary, although his importance was denied by Napoleon’s ministers and entourage, who advised him to pay no notice to the weekly attacks of theLanterneagainst his person and his government. One day M. Rouher tried to minimise the influence of that sheet, saying that though people read it, its attacks were despised. The Emperor replied that he knew it, but, he added, “I am also aware that there exist women whom we despise but to whom, nevertheless, we pay attention.”
There was a deep meaning in this simple phrase. Certain it was that all reasonable and well-thinking people despised the attacks against everything that others held sacred in which the Marquis de Rochefort Luçay continually indulged, but nevertheless the seeds blossomed in time; indeed, no one more than himself contributed to discredit authority. By this Rochefort became the idol of the Parisian masses, and remained its favourite until his death.
I was very fond of M. Rochefort, and used to find great pleasure in spending a few hours in his company whenever I found an opportunity. Nothing could be more amusing than his conversation; the mixture of cynicism and irony that now and then came out in brilliant paradoxes full of wit if devoid of common sense, constituted something quite unique, which was bound to appeal to the imagination of his listeners, and make them smile even when they felt a sense of distaste.
He believed in nothing, not even in himself; respected nothing, loved nothing, but liked many things—his collections, his pictures, his work, the influence which he imagined that he wielded around him, and which in reality was not so considerable as he thought. And he never hesitated before uttering one of his bon mots, or writing one of his bitter scathing articles, even when he was perfectly aware that by doing so he was hurting innocent people—people who had done no wrong, and who had only incurred his displeasure by being either related or connected with those who had become the subject of his criticism.
The best description that one can make of M. Rochefort would be that he was “perfectly unscrupulous,” and if he were still living I do not think he would deny that this was so. Rather, he would glory in it, because, as he once told me, “Dans ce monde il faut toujours mordre, ne fut ce que pour ôter aux autres la possibilité d’en faire autant avec vous” (“In this world one must always bite, if only to prevent others doing the same to you”). One could have replied to this remark that there are some mortal and some insignificant bites, and that it was not always the latter that he indulged in.
A curious peculiarity of M. Rochefort was that, fierce Republican though he pretended to be, yet he was inordinatelyfond of his name and of his title, and a servant who would forget to call him Monsieur le Marquis would be dismissed instantly. Bereft of his parents, and so without experience of the affection of home life, his earliest days were most difficult.
Until he attempted journalism he had been a subordinate clerk at the Hotel de Ville, earning barely enough to keep body and soul together. He never forgot this period of his existence, and, whenever he allowed himself to speak about it, a bitterness showed itself which he could not keep within bounds.
One day, alluding to those dark and hopeless times, when he had spent many hours scribbling at some wearisome task, he said to me: “It is impossible for anyone who has not undergone it to imagine what it feels like to see the spring and not be able to get out of doors.” The remark appeared to me almost too poetic to be the expression of a real feeling, but when I told him so, he replied quite earnestly: “Evidently you have never experienced what it is to know that you are a drudge, although possessing the inner feeling that you are born to better things.” I could not help then inquiring what his feelings had been when he was in prison, to which he exclaimed: “Oh, that was very different, one always comes out of prison, but sometimes one never escapes from the necessity of earning one’s bread and butter by copying the stupidities which other people have written.”
Before he died in July, 1913, the Marquis de Rochefort Luçay was a quasi-millionaire, the owner of one of the handsomest houses in all Paris, received everywhere that he cared to go, a desired guest, and an envied journalist. Even in his later days his pen was as sharp as ever, though perhaps it was no longer appreciated as was the case in the later days of the Empire.
He was often to be seen at the Hotel Drouot, attending the principal art sales of the year, where his knowledge of pictures and bibelots was highly appreciated. His life was like a fairy tale in many things, and in others like a dark nightmare. He made many foes, and kept few friends. Appearing to be everlastingly dissatisfied, he was yet one of the happiest men in the world—perhaps because he was one of the most selfish.
Thedeath of M. Félix Faure took France greatly by surprise; the appointment of his successor astonished it even more. M. Loubet was President of the Senate, it is true, but his name had figured among those who had been mentioned in connection with the Panama scandal. This last fact was put forward by some people when the question arose of the candidature of M. Rouvier for the Presidency of the Republic, and caused it to be rejected. No one imagined, therefore, that it would be disregarded in the case of M. Loubet. He had many rivals, among them M. Brisson, M. de Freycinet, whose name came forward regularly whenever a Presidential election was about to take place, and the above-mentioned M. Rouvier. This candidate possessed a powerful personality and wielded an immense influence; his experience had been varied, and his intelligence was certainly one of the foremost in France. Had he been elected to the Presidency his appointment would have been received with great favour in Europe. On the other hand, M. Loubet was more or less an unknown person, supposed to be inoffensive and retiring, but possessed of a most violent anti-Clericalism, of which he had given every possible proof, in the hope that by these means he would make himself apersona gratawith the Radical party, through whom he had secured the Presidency of the Senate, an office which hitherto had constituted thesummum bonumof his ambitions.
He had no wish to become President of the Republic, and it was with great reluctance he allowed his name to be put forward as a candidate. But he was under the influence of, or, what is even truer, dependent upon, M. Clemenceau. M. Clemenceau had lately come forward with considerable energy, especially since the Dreyfus affair once more was in the public mind, and he was such a considerable personage among the Radical party that they could not afford to disregard his orders or even his personal wishes.
M. Clemenceau was the Henri Rochefort of political life, with far more intelligence and almost as much wit as the director of theLanterne, with an extraordinary force of character, very determined ideas, and about as few convictions as were indispensable to a man who had risen to the leadership of a powerful party. Moreover, he had real statesmanlike qualities.
He had no great sympathy for the Russian alliance, which his ever-ready wit had quickly discerned, when all was said and done, to be a very one-sided affair.
His sympathies were entirely English, and as such it was but natural he should not look with enchanted eyes upon a policy that was bound, by its close association with the diplomacy pursued on the banks of the Neva, to become antagonistic to that of the Court of St. James’s. Perhaps it was for this very reason that he pushed forward the candidature of M. Loubet.
He felt, or rather he knew, that M. Loubet had had nothing to do with the visit of the Tsar to Paris beyond receiving him when he called at the Luxembourg in defiance of etiquette and precedent.
With a friend of his at the Elysée, the position of M. Clemenceau was perhaps even stronger than if he himself had been established within its walls. He had always admiredthe personality of Père Joseph, so well known in the history of France as the adviser and counsellor of Richelieu. He intended playing the same part; to govern under M. Loubet’s name as far as the constitution allowed him, to govern the Republic which he secretly despised, but to which he clung, because he knew that it was the only government under which he could do absolutely what he liked.
M. Clemenceau had taken a sincere liking to a very attractive and very beautiful lady. He is still on terms of great friendship with her, notwithstanding the fact that she is no longer young, and that white locks have taken the place of her golden curls. She is an American, the daughter of that Colonel Burdan who invented the rifle which still bears his name. She had married a French diplomat, the Comte d’Aunay, and was noted in her youth for her extraordinary loveliness. Mme. d’Aunay was ambitious above everything, and her great dream was to see her husband become an Ambassador. She imagined that M. Clemenceau could help her to realise her one ambition, and she then set herself to win his friendship for herself and for her husband. The task was easy enough for a woman gifted with such beauty and such remarkable intelligence, and though the world chatted not a little—as so often it does without foundation—concerning this friendship, yet secretly it envied her for her cleverness in having won him as a well-wisher. Then one day came the crash and the blighting of the fair Countess’s hopes. The French Ministry for Foreign Affairs became alarmed at the marvellous way in which M. Clemenceau was kept informed of what was going on in diplomatic circles at Copenhagen, where Count d’Aunay was accredited as French Minister, and wondered how he could be in possession of the most secret information before even it became known at the Quai d’Orsay. Inquiries