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

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Mr. Washburn thought it more prudent to close the carriage, cautioning the
coachman to drive slower. We were stopped at every moment by soldiers and
barricades; then Mr. Washburn would show his card and his _laissez
passer_, after which we were allowed to pass on, until we came to more
soldiers and more barricades. Omnibuses turned over, paving-stones piled
up, barrels, ladders, ropes stretched across the streets, anything to stop
the circulation. Poor Mr. Washburn was tired out popping his head first
out of one window then out of the other, with his card in his hand.

[Illustration: ELIHU WASHBURN
United States Minister to France during the Commune]

The men who accosted us were not discourteous, but spoke quite decidedly,
as if they did not expect to be contradicted. We did not care to
contradict them, either.

"We know you, Monsieur, by reputation, and we know that you are well
disposed toward France. How do you feel toward _la Commune_?" Mr.
Washburn hesitating a moment, the man added, cynically, "Perhaps you would
like to add a stone to our barricades." He made as if he would open the
door of the carriage; but Mr. Washburn answered, holding back the door, "I
take it for granted, Monsieur, that I have your permission to drive on, as
I have something very important to attend to at my Legation," and gave the
man a defiant look, which rather frightened him, and we drove through the
crowd. All along the Rue de Rivoli we saw the soldiers massing together in
groups, _La Garde nationale_ (Mr. Washburn said they so called themselves
since yesterday), a miserable-looking set of men, talking very loud and
flourishing their guns as if they were walking-sticks.

In passing the Rue Castiglione we saw it was full of soldiers, and looking
toward the Place de la Concorde we saw more barricades there.

This was a sight to behold! The space around the Column was filled with
paving-stones and all sorts of débris (strange to say, my eyes saw more
brooms than anything else); and cannon pointing everywhere. A very
impertinent, common-looking _voyou_ said, on looking at Mr. Washburn's
card, "Vous êtes tous très chic... mais vous ne passerez pas, tout de
même."

We shook in our shoes.

But Mr. Washburn, equal to the occasion, said something which had the
desired effect, and we passed on.

All along the Rue de Rivoli the yesterday-fledged soldiers were straggling
about, glad to have a day of leisure. They brandished their bayonets with
a newly acquired grace, pointing them in front of them in such a reckless
way that people made a large circle around them, frightened to death.

As we passed the Hôtel de Ville we saw the red flag of the Communards
waving over the Palace. Barricades and cannon filled the space between
that and the Rue de Rivoli. Here we were stopped again, and tired Mr.
Washburn, annoyed to death, answered more stupid questions, showed his
card and documents, and gave a little biography of himself. I thought we
should never get on.

I could have cried when I saw the Tuileries; it was only last August I had
had a delightful half-hour with the Empress (she asked me to take tea with
her). Then she was full of confidence in the triumph of the Emperor (who
could have doubted it?), pleased that her son should have received _le
baptême du feu_, as the Emperor telegraphed--oh, the pity of it all! and
that was only last August--seven months ago.

As we drove by I thought of the famous ball given at the Tuileries last
May (_Le bal de Plébiscite_), the most splendid thing of its kind one
had ever seen.

And now! The Tuileries deserted, empty, the Emperor a prisoner, the
Empress a fugitive! All France demoralized! All its prestige gone! One
wonders how such things can be.

[Illustration: RUE DE RIVOLI, WHERE THE HÔTEL CONTINENTAL NOW STANDS]

Mr. Washburn said he was not sorry to have remained in Paris (an
experience he would on no account have missed). He thought he had been of
service to his own country and also to France.

Mrs. Moulton remarked, "What would those shut up in Paris have done
without you?"

"Oh! I was only a post-office," he answered.

"The only _poste restante_ in Paris," I said under my breath; but I did
not dare utter anything so frivolous at the moment.

In the Faubourg St.-Honoré things were much quieter, though there were
numbers of soldiers slouching about with their muskets pointing every
which way. When we arrived at last in the Rue de Courcelles (it had taken
us four hours) all was as quiet as Sunday in Boston.

Mr. Moulton had been almost crazy with anxiety; but the thought that we
were sailing under the American colors had calmed him somewhat, and his
past emotions did not prevent him from reading the _Journal des Débats_ to
us. I slipped off to bed tired out, but thankful not to be any longer
"under protection."

_March 20th._

Louis asked permission to go and assist at the proclamation of the
Commune, which was to be read at the Hôtel de Ville.

There was a platform built in front of the façade, which was decorated
with many red flags and covered with a red carpet, and all the new members
of the committee wore the symbolical red sashes over their worthy
shoulders. The statue of Henry II. was duly draped with red flags and
ragged boys. Louis stood first and foremost among many of his old
comrades, the famous and plucky Zouaves. Henri d'Assy read the
proclamation out in a loud voice, and informed the public that the Commune
(this new and charming infant) was baptized in the name of _Liberté_,
_Égalité_, and _Fraternité_. There was great enthusiasm, and a salvo of
artillery underlined the big words, and there arose a mighty shout of
"Vive la Commune!" from thousands of hoarse throats which shook the very
earth. Louis's account was worth hearing; but mine is only the truth with
variations. He was most impressed, and I fancy it would not have taken
much persuasion to have made him a red-hot Communist then and there.

Great excitement prevailed all Sunday. The Communists remained in
possession of all the public buildings. The red flag was hoisted
everywhere, even from the palace of the Princess Mathilde, who, as you
know, lives directly opposite us. The Princess had left Paris last
September. All the world knows how our clever American dentist, Dr. Evans,
helped the Empress safely out of Paris, and of her flight; and after the
catastrophe of Sedan it would have been dangerous for any member of the
Imperial family to have remained here. As I look from my window across to
the Princess's palace, and see all the windows open and the courtyard
filled with shabby soldiers, I realize that we are _en pleine Commune_,
and wonder when we shall come out of all this chaos, and how it will all
end.

To-day there was a great demonstration in the streets.

A young fellow named Henri de Pène thought if he could collect enough
people to follow him he would lead them to the barricades in the Place
Vendôme, in order to beg the Communards, in the name of the people, to
restore order and quiet in the city. He sent word beforehand that they
would come there _unarmed_.

De Pène started at a very early hour from the distant Boulevards, calling
to every one and beckoning to them, in order to make them come from their
balconies and from their work, and shouting to all in the streets, managed
to assemble a large crowd to join in his courageous undertaking.

I happened to go at one o'clock to Worth's, in the Rue de la Paix, and,
finding the street barred, I left my coupé in the Rue des Petits Champs,
telling Louis to wait for me in the Rue St.-Arnaud (just behind the Rue de
la Paix), and I walked to No. 7.

I wondered why there were so few people in the streets. The Place Vendôme
was barricaded with paving-stones, and cannon were pointing down the Rue
de la Paix. I walked quietly along to Worth's, and hardly had I reached
his salon than we heard distant, confused sounds, and then the shouting in
the street below made us all rush to the windows.

What a sight met our eyes!

This handsome young fellow, De Pène, his hat in his outstretched hand,
followed by a crowd of men, women, and children, looked the picture of
life, health, and enthusiasm.

De Pène, seeing people on Worth's balcony, beckoned to them to join him;
but Mr. Worth wisely withdrew inside, and, shaking his Anglo-Saxon head,
said, "Not I." _He_, indeed!

The crowd bore banners on which were written: "_Les Amis du Peuple_,"
"_Amis de l'Ordre_" "_Pour la Paix_" and one with "_Nous ne sommes pas
armés._" This mass of humanity walked down the Rue de la Paix, filling the
whole breadth of it.

One can't imagine the horror we felt when we heard the roar of a cannon,
and looking down saw the street filled with smoke, and frightened screams
and terrified groans reached our ears. Some one dragged me inside the
window, and shut it to drown the horrible noises outside. De Pène was the
first who was killed. The street was filled with dead and wounded. Mr.
Hottingeur (the banker) was shot in the arm. The living members of _Les
Amis_ scampered off as fast as their legs could carry them, while the
wounded were left to the care of the shopkeepers, and the dead were
abandoned where they fell until further aid should come.

It was all too horrible!

I felt terribly agitated, and, moreover, deadly sick. My one thought was
to reach my carriage and get home as quickly as possible. But how was I to
accomplish it? The Rue de la Paix was, of course, impossible. Worth had a
courtyard, but no outlet into the Rue St.-Arnaud. He suggested that I
should go through his _ateliers_, which he had at the top of the house,
and reach an adjoining apartment, from which I might descend to the Rue
St.-Arnaud, where I would find my carriage. He told one of his women to
lead the way, and I followed. We toiled up many flights of wearisome steps
until we arrived at the above-mentioned ateliers. These communicated with
another apartment, of which Worth's woman had the key. On her opening the
door we found ourselves in a small bedroom (not in the tidiest condition),
which appeared to have just been occupied.

We passed through this room and came out to a staircase, where the
demoiselle said, "You have only to go down here." I therefore proceeded to
descend the five flights of waxed steps, holding on to the wobbly iron
railing, my legs trembling, my head swimming, and my heart sick. My only
hope was to reach the carriage and home!

When at last I came to the _porte-cochère_ I found it closed and locked,
and the frightened _concierge_ would not open for me. Fortunately, I had a
gold piece to make her yield to my demand. She reluctantly unfastened the
door and I went out. The street was filled with a terrified mob howling
and flying in every direction. I caught a glimpse of the carriage away up
the street, and I saw a hand gesticulating above the heads of the crowd,
which I recognized as Louis's. It was the only one with a glove on!

I pushed my way through the mass of people, saying, very politely,
"Pardon," as I pushed, and very politely, "Merci," after I had passed.

My horse had been unharnessed, and a man was trying to lead him away in
spite of Louis's remonstrances. The man had hold of one side of the
bridle, while Louis, with a pluck unknown before, kept a firm grip on the
other, the horse being tugged at on both sides; and had he not been the
angel he was, there would have been trouble in that little street.

The man holding the bridle opposite to Louis seemed a most formidable
person to me. Still, I tried to smile with placid calmness, and though I
was shaking all over said, "Pardon, Monsieur, will you permit me to have
my horse harnessed?" I think he was completely taken off his guard, for,
with the intuitive gallantry of a Frenchman, he answered me amiably,
throwing back his coat, and showing me his badge, said, "I am the agent of
the Committee of Public Safety, and it is for the Government that I take
the horse."

I made him observe that it would be very difficult for me to walk to my
home in the Rue de Courcelles, and if his government wanted the horse it
could come there and fetch it. He looked doubtfully at me, as if weighing
the situation, then said, very courteously, "I understand, Madame, and I
give you back your horse." And he even helped Louis to reharness the
horse, who seemed happy to return to his shafts.

When I arrived home I had to go to bed, I was so exhausted. Mademoiselle
W---- administered the infallible camomile tea, her remedy for every ill.
Her mind cannot conceive of any disease which is not cured by camomile
tea, unless _in extremis_, when _fleurs d'oranger_ takes its place.

_24th of March._

The American secretary, Mr. Hoffman, and his wife, who are living in
Versailles, invited Mrs. Moulton and me to luncheon to-day, saying that
Mr. Washburn was also of the party; therefore we need have no fear of
being molested or inconvenienced on our way.

There were only two trains to Versailles now. We took the one at midday
from Paris, and arrived slowly but surely at the dirty, smoky station,
where we found Mr. Hoffman waiting for us with a landau, in which we drove
to his house.

We had an excellent luncheon, to which we all did justice; after which Mr.
Hoffman proposed our going to the _Assemblée_, which has its sittings
in the Palace, and we readily consented. I was particularly glad to have
an opportunity to see the notabilities whose names and actions had been
our daily food these last months.

We sat in Mr. Hoffman's box, who, in his position as secretary of the
American Legation, had been obliged to attend all these _séances_ from the
first. He knew all the celebrities, and most amiably pointed them out to
me. Thiers was in the president's chair; Louis Blanc, Jules Favre, Jules
Grévy, and others were on the platform.

I confess I was rather disappointed; I thought that this pleiades of
brilliant minds would surely overcome me to such a degree that I should
not sleep for weeks. But, strangely enough, they had just the opposite
effect. I think Mr. Washburn must be writing a book on modern history, and
Mr. Hoffman must be writing one on ancient history. I sat between them--a
drowsy victim--feeling as if my brain was making spiral efforts to come
out of the top of my head.

While I was trying with all my might to listen to Thiers's speech, who, I
was sure, was saying something most interesting, Mr. Hoffman, on one side
of me, would say, in a low tone, "Just think of it! Here, in these very
same boxes, the pampered and powdered [or something like that] Court of
Louis XIV. sat and listened to Rameau's operas." I tried to seem
impressed. Then, on the other side, I would hear, "Do you know, Mrs.
Moulton, that the Communists have just taken seven millions of francs from
the Bank of France?" The distant, squeaky voice of Thiers trying to
penetrate space, said, "La force ne fonde rien, parce qu'elle ne résout
rien." And when I was hoping to comprehend why "La force" did not "fonder"
anything I would hear Mr. Hoffman whisper, "When you think that Louis XVI.
and Marie Antoinette passed the last evening they ever spent in Versailles
in this theater!" "Really," I replied vaguely. My other neighbor remarked,
"You know the 'Reds' are concentrating for a sortie to Versailles." "You
don't say so!" I answered, dreadfully confused. There would be a moment's
pause, and I caught the sound of General Billet's deep basso proposing
that the French nation should adopt the family of General Lecomte, who had
been so mercilessly butchered by the mob. Mr. Hoffman, continuing
_his_ train of thought, remembered that Napoleon III. gave that
"magnificent dinner" to Queen Victoria in this theater. Jules Grévy talked
at great length about something I did not hear, and when I asked Mr.
Hoffman what it was, he answered me, something I did not understand. Jules
Favre next spoke about the future glories of _notre glorieux pays_ and the
destiny of France. These remarks were received with tremendous applause.
People stood up, and ladies waved their handkerchiefs, every one seeming
very excited; but my American friends were not greatly impressed. "How
typical!" says Mr. Hoffman. "What rubbish!" says Mr. Washburn.

When we returned to Paris we found Mr. Moulton in a flutter of agitation.
Beaumont (the renowned and popular painter) had been at the house in the
afternoon, and had asked Mr. Moulton's permission to bring Courbet (the
celebrated artist, _now_ a Communard) to see us. Mr. Moulton had no sooner
said yes than he regretted his impulsiveness, but he forgot to call
Beaumont back to tell him so. The result was that we had the visit of
Courbet last evening.

Mr. Moulton put on a bold face and broke the news to us on our arrival;
but, contrary to his fears, Mrs. Moulton and I were enchanted.
Mademoiselle Wissembourg was not so enthusiastic. A live Communard at such
near focus had no attraction for her.

Beaumont's politics are sadly wanting in color, making him supremely
indifferent to other people's politics; and, as he has a great admiration
for Courbet as an artist, he does not care whether he is a Communard or
not.

We waited with impatience for the appointed hour, and lo! Courbet stood
before us. Mademoiselle Wissembourg had once remarked that she had great
sympathy for the people, who must feel themselves oppressed and degraded
by the rich and powerful, and so forth. But I noticed, all the same, that
she retired into a corner, probably thinking Courbet was bristling all
over with pistols, as behoves a Communard.

Courbet is not handsome; he is fat and flabby (of the Falstaff type), with
a long beard, short hair, and small eyes; but he is very clever, as clever
as Beaumont, which is saying a good deal.

Of course they talked of "the situation." Who could help it? Courbet
belongs more to the fraternity part of the motto than he does to the
equality part of the Commune! He is not bloodthirsty, nor does he go about
shooting people in the back. He is not that kind! He really believes (so
he says) in a Commune based on principles of equality and liberty of the
masses. Mr. Moulton pointed out that unlimited liberty in the hands of a
mob might become dangerous; but he admitted that fraternity absolves many
sins.

They talked on till quite late. Beaumont showed him his last picture,
which he (Beaumont) thinks very fine, but all Courbet said was, "What a
pretty frame!" I don't know if Mrs. Moulton and I felt much admiration for
the great artist, but he left us convinced that we were all in love with
him. We told Mr. Moulton we thought it might get us into trouble if
Courbet vibrated between us and the hotbed of Communism. But Mr. Moulton
answered, "What does it matter now?" as if the end of the world had come.

Perhaps it has.

_March 24th._

Since I have been in Paris I have wished every day to go and see my former
singing-master, Delsarte; but something has always prevented me.

To-day, however, having nothing else to do, I decided to make the long-
projected visit; that is, if I could persuade Mademoiselle to accompany
me. After my experience in the Rue St.-Arnaud the other day I did not
venture to drive, so we started off to walk (with Mademoiselle's reluctant
consent) to the Boulevard de Courcelles, where Delsarte moves and has his
being.

Poor Mademoiselle was frightened almost to death, shaking with terror at
every sound, and imagining that the Communards were directly behind us,
dodging our footsteps and spying upon our actions. At the sight of every
ragged soldier we met she expected to be dragged off to prison, and when
they passed us without so much as glancing at us I think she felt rather
disappointed, as if they had not taken advantage of their opportunities.

Finally we reached the house, and mounted the six stories, the stairs of
which are steep, slippery, and tiring. On our upward flight I remarked to
Mademoiselle that I wished Delsarte lived in other climes; but she was far
too much out of breath to notice any such little joke as this. I saw no
change either in him or in any of his surroundings.

He told us that he had suffered many privations and deprivations while the
siege was going on. Probably this is true; but I do not see how he could
have needed very much when he had the piano to fall back on, with all its
resources. How vividly the scenes of my former lessons loomed up before
me when I stood shivering with cold in the never-heated room, my voice
almost frozen in my throat, and was obliged to sing with those awful
diagrams staring me in the face!

Delsarte asked me many questions about my music: whether I had had the
heart to sing _pendant ce débâcle_. I said, "_Débâcle_ or no _débâcle_, I
could never help singing."

My dear old friend Auber came to see me this afternoon. He had not had
much difficulty in driving through the streets, as he had avoided those
that were barricaded. We had a great deal to talk about. He had been in
Paris all through the war and had suffered intensely, both physically and
mentally; he looked wretched, and for the first time since I had known him
seemed depressed and unhappy. He is old and now he looks his age. He is a
true Parisian, adores his Paris, and never leaves it, even during the
summer, when Paris is insufferable. One can easily imagine his grief at
seeing his beloved city as it is now. He was full of uneasy forebodings
and distress. He gave me the most harrowing description of the killing of
General Lecomte! It seems that the mob had seized him in his home and
carried him to the garden of some house, where they told him he was to be
judged by a _conseil de guerre_, and left him to wait an hour in the
most pitiable frame of mind.

The murder of General Clément Thomas was even more dreadful. Auber knew
him well; described him as kind and gentle, and "honest to the tips of his
fingers." They hustled him into the same garden where poor General Lecomte
already was, pushed him against the wall, and shot him, killing him
instantly. Then they rushed upon their other victim, saying, "Now is your
turn." In vain did Lecomte beg to be judged by his equals, and spoke of
his wife and children. But his tormentors would have none of that, and
shot him then and there. Lecomte fell on his knees; they dragged him to
his feet, and continued firing into his still warm body. When the populace
was allowed to come in they danced a saturnalia over his corpse. Auber
said: "My heart bleeds when I gaze on all that is going on about me. Alas!
I have lived too long."

I tried to make him talk of other things, to divert him from his dark
thoughts. We played some duets of Bach, and he accompanied me in some of
his songs. I sang them to please him, though my heart was not "attuned to
music," as the poets say.

_March 25, 1871._

I have not had the time to write for some days, but I am sure you will
forgive me. Mrs. Moulton and I have been going to the ambulances every day
this week.

There are many of these temporary hospitals established all over Paris,
supplied with army surgeons and nurses.

Mrs. Moulton, like many other ladies, had volunteered her services during
the war, and had interested herself in this worthy cause; and as she is
about to leave for Dinard one of these days, she wanted me to take up her
work in the hospital of the Boulevard la Tour-Maubourg. She knows all the
directors and nurses and introduced me to them.

The director asked me if I would like to help in the _section des
étrangers_. I replied that I would do anything they wished, hoping
inwardly that I might develop a talent for nursing, which, until now, had
lain dormant.

It was not with a light heart I entered the ward to which I was aligned,
and saw the long rows of beds filled with sick and wounded.

My first patient was a very young German (he did not look more than
twenty). He had been shot through the eyes, and was so bandaged that I
could hardly see anything but his mouth. Poor little fellow! He was very
blond, with a nicely shaped head and a fine, delicate mouth.

His lips trembled when I laid my hand on his white and thin hand, lying
listlessly on the coverlid. I asked him if I could do anything for him.

He answered me by asking if I could speak German. On my saying that I
could, he said he would like to have me write to his mother.

I asked the director if it was allowed for me to communicate with his
family. He answered that there would be no objection if the contents of
the letter were understood by me.

Therefore, armed with pencil and paper, I returned to my invalid's
bedside, who, on hearing me, whispered: "I thought you had gone and would
not come back."

"You don't think I would be so unkind as that?" I answered.

I felt that we were already friends. I sat down, saying that I was ready
to write if he would dictate.

His lips moved; but I could not hear, and was obliged to put my ear quite
close to his poor bandaged face to hear the words, _Meine liebe Mutter_.
He went on dictating, and I writing as well as I could, until there came a
pause. I waited, and then said, "Und?" He stammered something which I made
out to be, "It hurts me to cry," whereupon I cried, the tears rolling fast
down my cheeks. Fortunately he did not see me!

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