In the Courts of Memory 1858 1875. by L. de Hegermann Lindencrone

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The cotillon lasted very late; the Duke of Saxe-Weimar talked a long time
with me, mostly about music. He is very musical, and knows Liszt
intimately, and told me a quantity of anecdotes about him. He was
interested in what I told him about Liszt's going to the Conservatoire
with Auber and me, and about the "Tannhäuser" overture incident. It was
six o'clock when we drove back to London. We saw the milk-carts on their
morning rounds and the street-sweepers at work. One felt ashamed of
oneself at being in ball-dress and jewels at this early hour, galloping
through the streets in a fine carriage, making such a dreadful contrast to
the poor working-people.

I had great fun at Lady Harrington's musical _soirée_, where Arthur
Sullivan's "Prodigal Son" was to be sung.

We had been dining at Lady Londonderry's, and arrived rather late at Lady
Harrington's. The whole staircase was crowded with people, and even down
in the hall it was so full of ladies and gentlemen that there was no
question of moving about. However, I made my way as far as the stairs,
every one wondering at my audacity, and I murmured gently:

"May I pass?" There was a chorus of "Quite impossible!" "Perfectly
useless!" and other such discouraging remarks. I said to a gentleman who
sat stolidly on his step:

"Do you think I could send word to Mr. Sullivan that the Prodigal Son's
mother cannot get to him?"

"What do you mean?" said he. "Are you--"

"Yes, I am; and if you don't let me pass you won't have any music."

You should have seen them jump up and make a pathway for me. I marched
through it like the children of Israel through the Red Sea. I was
enchanted to have my little fun. I joined the other performers, and the
mother of the Prodigal Son was received with open arms. The Prodigal Son's
father was pathos itself, and we rejoiced together over our weak tenor-
boy. The only fatted calves that were to be seen belonged to the fat
flunkeys.

We had a beautiful time at Ascot. Alfred Rothschild was an excellent host.
Among the other guests were the Archibald Campbells, the Hochschilds, Mr.
Osbourne, the Duke and Duchess of Newcastle, Hon. and Mrs. Stoner, one of
the ladies of the Queen, Mr. Mitford, and others. Lady Campbell had only
one dress with her (they must be very poor!); it was a black velvet
(fancy, in the middle of summer!). She wore it high-necked for the races
in the daytime and low-necked in the evening. We drove to Ascot every day
at one o'clock. We had seats in the Queen's stand, and after seeing one
race we went to lunch with Mr. Delane, who had open table for one hundred
people every day. Mr. Delane belongs to the _Times_ newspaper.

Baron Rothschild had _carte-blanche_ to bring any guest, or as many as he
liked. The Prince of Wales always lunched there, and any one that was of
importance was sure to be present. I made many new acquaintances, and you
may imagine how I enjoyed this glimpse of a world so entirely unknown to
me. The races at Longchamps, Auteuil, and Chantilly I had seen many times;
but I never saw anything like this exciting and bewildering scene.

The Prince of Wales gave a ball at Cooper's Hill (the house they had hired
for the Ascot week), which was very charming and _sans façon_. I danced
the cotillon with Baron Rothschild and a waltz with the Prince of Wales.
The supper, which we had in the palm-garden, was an elaborate affair. We
drove home in the early morning, just as the day was breaking.

The next day we lunched first at the barracks, and then afterward went to
Virginia Water, where the Princess of Wales had arranged a picnic. There
was boating on the pretty lake and tents on the lawn; tea was served
during the afternoon, and a military band played the whole time. The great
attraction was the echo. We all had to try our voices, and the gentlemen
made bets as to how many times the echo would be heard. Some loud,
piercing voices were repeated as many as eight times.

Here we bid our kind host good-by and took the train for Twickenham. We
passed the night with Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman at their villa. The next day we
were invited to a croquet-party and dinner by the Count and Countess de
Paris.

We arrived at Twickenham Court at four o'clock, and began playing our game
directly. Mrs. Hoffman had been praising me to the Countess de Paris to
such a degree that she was fired with ambition to play against a
"champion" of the first water, When we appeared on the ground I noticed
that the Countess had a small ivory mallet. "This," I said to myself, "is
a foregone conclusion; any one who plays with a fancy mallet, and that of
ivory, is sure to be beaten." And in my conceit I thought I need not give
myself much trouble about the game. Alas! I never appreciated the saying
that "pride has a fall" until that day. At first I played with utter
indifference, I was so sure of winning, and even when the Countess de
Paris walked triumphantly over the ground, carrying everything before her,
I smiled inwardly, saying to myself, "Just wait." But though I played my
very best I never scored a game, and I could not even make a decent
stroke. I felt so discouraged, and I was beaten all to pieces. The dinner
was solemn and impressive, the whole Orléans family being present.

The Prince de Joinville, the Duke de Chartres, and the Count de Paris,
with their wives; in all, about twenty at table. I was disgusted with
myself, provoked at my silly self-assurance, and mortified that I had been
beaten _à plate couture_, which in English means that all my seams had
been turned down and ironed, and all my feathers were drooping.

We were (at least I was) glad to escape at ten o'clock. I don't think I
ever was so tired. The week at Ascot, the picnic at Virginia Water, the
balls, and the late sitting-up at night, all told on my nerves, and
instead of resting at the Hoffmans', I passed a miserable and restless
night.

The following day we returned to London in time to drive out, at one
o'clock, with the Lionel Rothschilds to their country-place. It is the
most magnificent estate; the cedar-trees are particularly beautiful, and
the broad lawn, which stretches out in front of the house, is the finest I
have ever seen. Baron Rothschild himself drove the coach and four horses,
and we spun along the fine road, passing Richmond and all the pretty
villas and gardens, which were full of roses. It was my birthday, and I
had many splendid presents. From Baroness Rothschild I received a superb
traveling-bag, all the fittings of silver gilt, with my initials. Baron
Alfred Rothschild gave me a smelling-bottle, with the colors of his
racing-stables in enamel. We had a delightful luncheon, and got back to
London in time for dinner at Lady Sherbourne's. On hearing it was my
birthday, she took a diamond-ring from her finger and gave it to me.

More balls, more dinners, luncheons, and garden-parties followed one
another.

We intend to leave London after the ball at Marlborough House. I must go
home, as I have nothing more to wear. We had accepted an invitation to the
garden-party given by the Princess of Wales at Chiswick (their charming
country-place). All the beauty and elegance of London graced the occasion.
The Princess looked exquisite in her dainty summer toilette, and had a
pleasant smile for every one. The Prince circulated among the guests,
speaking to every one in his usual genial manner. The three little
Princesses looked like three fluffy pink pin-cushions covered with white
muslin. On the extensive lawn, which was like a green-velvet carpet, the
ladies strolled about in their pretty, fresh dresses, sometimes sitting at
the little tables which were shaded by large Japanese umbrellas placed
between the terrace and the walk. It was a garden of living flowers.

The Prince of Wales, in his peculiarly abrupt manner, said to me, "What
have you been doing since Ascot?"

"I have been doing a great deal, sir: dining and dancing and enjoying
myself generally."

"I am glad to know that. Been singing?"

"Not much, sir. We dined at Twickenham Court, where I played a disastrous
game of croquet," I answered.

"Do they play croquet at Twickenham Court?"

"Indeed they do, sir. The Countess de Paris plays a very good game."

"What day did you dine there?"

"On the 17th, your Highness," I replied.

"Are you sure it was the 17th you dined there?"

"Yes, I am quite sure. I know it, because it was the day before my
birthday."

"Was it a large dinner?"

"It was rather large. The whole Orléans family was there, and some
others."

"Did you know that they had had a _conseil de famille_ that day?"

"No," I answered; "I heard nothing of it."

The Prince continued: "The whole family signed a petition to the Emperor
Napoleon to be allowed to return to France and serve in the army. Can you
imagine why they want to go back to France when they can live quietly here
and be out of politics?" the Prince said.

"Do you think, sir, that the Emperor will refuse?"

"One never knows," said the Prince. "Qui vivra verra."

The Marlborough ball was very magnificent. The Princess of Wales looked
exquisite. She is very lovely, and has gracious, sweet manners. I don't
wonder that her people adore her; and I think the Prince is just as good
as he can be.

_July, 1870._

On our return from London I remained quietly at delightful Petit Val.

On the 10th of July we received an invitation to a dinner at St. Cloud,
but unfortunately we had promised Baroness Rothschild to spend some days
at Ferrières, and when the invitation came we were obliged to send a
telegram to St. Cloud expressing our regrets. There is such a talk of war,
and so many rumors afloat, that every one is more than excited. Alphonse
Rothschild says that, if there should be a war, it will be a tremendous
one, and that Germany is better prepared than France. "But," said he, "you
ought to know about that, as your brother-in-law Hatzfeldt is in the
secrets of his country."

"That's just it," I answered; "because he is in the secrets of his country
he is the last person to learn anything from, and we (the family) would be
the last to know. But do you think that, if war were really imminent, the
Emperor would think of giving a dinner?" I asked.

"That might be. We don't yet know what the result of Benedetti's interview
with the King of Prussia at Ems will be," the Baron answered.

We stayed at Ferrières until the 14th, and returned to Petit Val, where we
received another invitation to St. Cloud for the 17th, which we accepted.
On the 15th we went to Chamarande, returning to Paris on the following
afternoon. The Duke de Persigny was not at Chamarande, otherwise we should
have been a little more _au courant_ of how desperate things looked in
Paris. The Duchess had a word from the Duke the night before, "and he
seemed," she said, "very despondent." But I remarked, as I did before,
"Things could not be so threatening if they were giving a dinner." "Je n'y
comprends rien," she replied, which was her invariable answer to any doubt
expressed, or when one wanted a direct response.

We got back to town at half-past five, and I soon began dressing for the
dinner. We drove out to St. Cloud, and arrived at the door of the château
just before seven o'clock. What was our astonishment at not seeing any of
the numerous servants who generally were waiting in the vestibule. There
was only one man to be seen.

I began taking off my mantle, still wondering, when Monsieur de Laferrière
came quickly out from one of the salons and said excitedly, "Did you not
receive my letter countermanding the dinner?"

"Countermanding the dinner! What? Then there is no dinner?"

"No," he rejoined; "it has been countermanded."

As our carriage could not yet have got very far off, nothing was easier
than to call it back and return to Paris. And I put on my wrap to depart,
and stood there waiting for the coupé. Then Monsieur de Laferrière came
out again and said, "Her Majesty says that, now that you are here, you had
better stay."

"But," I protested, "it is much better for us to go back."

He looked puzzled and said, "But the Empress desires it; you cannot well
refuse, can you?"

"We will do as you advise."

"Then I advise you to stay," he answered.

And stay we did, and I never regretted anything so much in my life.

When we went into the drawing-room their Majesties were already there. The
Empress came toward me and said kindly, "How do you do?" The Emperor held
out his hand, but did not say a word. He looked so ill and tired. Never
had I seen him look like that! The Prince Imperial seemed preoccupied and
very serious.

Dinner was announced; the Emperor gave his arm to the Empress, and the
Prince gave me his. There was no one beside ourselves and the Household,
perhaps twenty in all, and dinner was served in the small dining-room
looking toward Paris. On the other side of me was Count d'Arjuson, aide-
de-camp to the Emperor.

You may imagine that I wished myself a hundred miles away. The Emperor
never uttered a word; the Empress sat with her eyes fixed on the Emperor,
and did not speak to a single person. No one spoke. The Emperor would
receive telegram upon telegram; the gentleman sitting next to him opened
the telegrams and put them before his Majesty. Every now and again the
Emperor would look across the table to the Empress with such a distressed
look it made me think that something terrible was happening, which was
true. I could not learn much from my surroundings, as dead silence
reigned. The dinner was very simple. How different from the gorgeous
repasts of Compiègne, and how sad every one looked! I was glad when the
signal for leaving the table was given and we re-entered the drawing-room.

The Emperor was immediately surrounded by his gentlemen. The Empress moved
a little way off, but without taking her eyes from her husband. The Prince
Imperial stood by his father, watching him. Then the Empress advanced
toward his Majesty and took his arm to leave the room. Just as she neared
the door she looked at me, turned back, and coming up to where I was
standing held out her hand and said, "Bonsoir." The Emperor stood a moment
irresolutely, then, bowing his head, left the room with the Empress on his
arm, the Prince following.

We bade the _dames d'honneur_ good night and fled, found the coupé before
the entrance, and weren't we glad to get in it and drive away? I never in
my life felt what it was to be _de trop_ and even _deux de trop_. We
reached the Rue de Courcelles at nine o'clock. It was too early to go to
bed, and so I am sitting in my dressing-gown, while Charles has gone to
his club to learn the latest news.

_19th July._

This morning war was declared for sure, and they say that the Emperor is
leaving soon with the Prince. Every one is very confident of the success
of the French Army, and people go about in the streets singing "À Berlin"
to the tune of "Les lampions."

PETIT VAL, _28th July_.

The Emperor, with the Prince, left this morning for Metz, to take the
command of the army. He did not come into Paris, but in order to avoid
demonstrations, noise, etc., had a platform put up on the other side of
the station at St. Cloud, where the Empress and her ladies could say their
adieux without the crowd looking on. The last words the Empress said to
her son were, "Louis, fais ton devoir." She is made the Regent during the
absence of the Emperor.

_30th August_.

It looks now as if there might be war all over France. As it is, the
Prussians are near Paris, and the French are trying to regain the ground
they have lost. The news we get is very contradictory. According to the
French official reports the French Army has been successful all the time.
The English papers probably give the untarnished truth, unfavorable as it
may be to France. Some people say that at the worst there is only a
question of unimportant skirmishes.

We are well out of Paris and safely in Dinard, where Mr. Moulton is
building a new house (we have already two). We left Petit Val rather
precipitately, leaving everything behind us, clothes in wardrobes and
letters in commodes. We shall not be away more than a month.

I can only say that we lead the most peaceful of lives during this time of
war. I will not tell you any news, because it won't be news when you read
it. We are and have been all the time fed on false reports, great placards
pasted up everywhere telling of the French victories, but from our English
papers we know the contrary. It is pitiful to see the poor, half-clad
peasants being drilled on the beach with sticks in their hands instead of
guns. It is the French idea of keeping up the spirits of the army.

I sang in the cathedral last Sunday, and the _quête_ (the money taken),
they said, was a large sum. I doubt it! I know what the _quêtes_ are here.
Anything that can rattle in the bag is good. Buttons are particularly
popular, as no one can see what you put in, and it does not matter.

There was a tremendous storm last night, and many of the slates of the new
villa were blown off. The servants who sleep there thought that the
Germans had come at last, and were frightened out of the few wits they
own.

Madame Gignoux, our neighbor at Petit Val, who is living in her other
château in Brittany, sent a letter to me which I should send to Helen in
Berlin, to be sent to Paul, who is in Versailles, to be sent to Mr.
Washburn, in Paris, who is to give it to Henry at Petit Val. Rather
roundabout way! I can't tell you how much of that sort of thing I am
constantly doing for people who are afraid of doing anything for
themselves; they think every one is a spy or a traitor.

PARIS, _March 14, 1871._

DEAR MAMA,--You will be surprised to see that I am in Paris; but you will
understand why when I tell you that I received a letter from Mrs. Moulton
to this effect: "If you wish to go to Petit Val to look after the things
you left there when you went to Dinard last August, you had better come to
Paris without delay, as the trains are running regularly now." The trains
may have been running regularly (I left Dinard the next day), but they
were certainly not running on time, for we missed all connections, and
only arrived at Rennes after seven o'clock, too late to catch the evening
train for Paris. The fine omnibus at the station made me imagine that it
belonged to an equally fine hotel, but the hotel proved to be anything but
fine. It was dreadfully dirty and shabby, and filled to overflowing. It
was with the greatest difficulty I was able to secure a room for myself.
My grumbling maid had to content herself with the sofa. The _salle à
manger_ was thronged with officers clanking their swords on the brick
floor and all talking at once. I passed a sleepless night, being kept
awake by the loud and incessant conversations in the corridor and the
continual tramping of soldiers under my window. We started for Paris the
next morning at eight o'clock. The train was crowded with people who, like
myself, were eager to return home after so many months of anxious waiting.
In all the stations through which we passed one saw nothing but soldiers,
their ragged uniforms hanging on their emaciated forms; their feet--which
had been frozen in January (poor things!)--were still bandaged, and hardly
any of them possessed shoes. They did look, indeed, the picture of abject
dejection and misery.

At Le Mans, the place where we stopped for luncheon, the soldiers were
lying about on the brick pavement of the station, too tired and worn out
to move, and presenting the saddest sight it has ever fallen to my lot to
witness. They were waiting for the cattle vans to take them away. In these
they would be obliged to stand until they reached Paris and its hospitals.
Every one of the travelers was anxious to alleviate their misery in some
way, by offering them cigars, food, and money. My heart bled for the poor
creatures, and I gave them all I had in my purse, and my luncheon also.
They represented the debris of Faidherbe's army, which of all the troops
had seen the most desperate fighting during the war. All the trains we
passed were packed tight with soldiers, herded together like cattle,
patient misery painted on their pale, tired faces.

Hungry and penniless I arrived at last in Paris, where I was delighted to
see a healthy, normal-looking person in the shape of my brother-in-law,
Henry, who met me at the station. He had plenty to tell me of his
experiences since last September. He had been living at Petit Val
throughout the whole campaign, and was still there looking after our
interests, _faisant la navette_ between Petit Val, Paris, and Versailles
at his will. He had free passes for all these places. On my arrival at the
Rue de Courcelles I found the family well, Mrs. Moulton knitting as usual,
Mademoiselle Wissembourg napping, and Mr. Moulton reading the _Journal des
Débats_ out loud in his peculiar French.

I thought of the "Brook," by Tennyson: "Men may come and men may go, but I
go on for ever." The family had not eaten cats and dogs during the siege
as, according to the newspapers, other people had done.

Mr. Moulton having been in Paris at the time of the Revolution of 1848,
and knowing about revolutions, had had the forethought to lay in a stock
of provisions, such as ham, biscuit, rice, etc., and all sorts of canned
things, which he deemed would be sufficient for all their requirements.
They had even given dinner-parties limited to a very choice few, who
sometimes brought welcome additions in the shape of other canned
delicacies.

When the family moved from Petit Val to Paris last September, the French
Government had given them permission to keep one or two cows. They also
brought a calf, a sheep, and some chickens with them. The cows and the
sheep shared the stables with the horses, while the chickens were let
loose in the conservatory, and were expected to lay enough eggs to pay for
their board. The gardener had cleverly converted the conservatory into a
sort of kitchen garden, and had planted some useful vegetables, such as
radishes, carrots, salad, etc., so you see the family took good care that
it should have enough to eat, and mice and rats only appeared on the table
after the repasts.

PARIS, _March 16, 1871._

DEAR MAMA,--This has been a very fatiguing day for me, so you will only
receive a short letter.

Paul [Footnote: Count Hatzfeldt, my brother-in-law.] invited Mrs. Moulton
and me to come to Versailles, and offered us a cup of tea as an
inducement. You know Paul is Count Bismarck's private secretary, having
been with him and the German sovereign during the entire war. He is still
at Versailles, but expects to leave for Berlin one of these first days. He
came to fetch us at the station with the fat ponies and the basket-wagon
(the ponies had escaped the fate of other fat ponies, and they had not
furnished steaks for famished Parisians, but continued to trot
complacently about, as of old). Fortunately they were not too fat to carry
us through the park at a lively pace, and land us at Paul's palatial
residence. It seemed strange to see German officers, in their tight-
fitting uniforms, strolling leisurely about in the park, where before I
had only seen the rather slovenly _pious-pious_ on holidays, when the
fountains played by day and the fireworks by night.

The park looked enchanting in its spring toilette, and made me think of
the last time I was here. Could it have been only last May? It seems years
ago!

Paul had invited some of his German officer friends to take tea with us.
Paul had been with the King of Prussia and Jules Favre and Bismarck at
Ferrières, where they had met, he said, "with no other result than to see
Jules Favre weep."

Paul had been at Versailles when the King was proclaimed Emperor in the
_salle de glaces_--the greatest emotion he had ever experienced, he said.
He had also been witness of the signing of the armistice. The pen with
which it was signed had been given him as a souvenir, and it was lying on
his table.

Paul thought the Emperor Napoleon more to be pitied than blamed. He had
gone into this war without really knowing the true state of things. He was
made to believe that there were four hundred thousand men ready to take
the field, when in reality there were only half that number, and those
certainly not fit to be pitted against the Germans, who had been provided
with better and newer maps than the French, and knew France and its army
more thoroughly than the French themselves. We could have talked on this
subject for hours had not the fat ponies come to take us to the station,
where we bade farewell to Paul and the officers, and returned to Paris for
the modest repast which we dignified by the name of dinner.

_March 17th._

DEAR MAMA,--Such a funny thing happened to-day.

I don't know whether I told you of some Americans, called the O----s, I
met in Dinard fresh from America (_via_ Southampton). When I bade them
good-by, I said, in an offhand way, "When you come to Paris you must come
and see me."

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