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

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Our guests' faces beamed with satisfaction at the idea of these
_primeurs_, and evidently anticipated great joy in eating them; but
after they had tasted them they laid down their forks and ... meditated!
The servant removed the plates with their _primeurs_, wondering how
such wanton capriciousness could exist in this _primeur_-less Paris.
Only Mr. Moulton ate them to the last pea. We--the initiated--knew where
the peculiar taste of soap, tooth-wash, perfume, etc., came from! The peas
descended to the kitchen, and ascended again untouched to the hothouse,
where they finished their wild and varied career. If they could have
spoken, what tales they could have told! They had displaced the German
Army, they had aided and abetted the cause of the Commune, and they had
cost their bringer untold sums in _pourboires_, in order to furnish a
few forkfuls for Mr. Moulton and a gala supper for the hens.

We had an excellent dinner: a _potage printanier_ (from cans), canned
lobster, corned beef (canned), and some chickens who had known many sad
months in the conservatory. An ice concocted from different things, and
named on the menu _glace aux fruits_, completed this _festin de
Balthazar_.

Mr. Moulton was obliged to don the obnoxious dress-coat, laid away during
the siege in camphor, and smelling greatly of the same. He held in his
hand _La Gazette Officielle_. The same shudder ran through us all. It
was to be read to us after dinner! Coffee was served in the ballroom,
which was dimly lighted.

Would it not be too trying for an old gentleman's eyes to read the fine
print of the _Gazette_? Alas! no. Mr Moulton's eyes were not the kind
that recoiled from anything so trivial as light or darkness; and hardly
had we finished our coffee than out came the _Gazette_. We all listened,
apparently; some dozed, some kept awake out of politeness or stupefaction;
Mademoiselle Wissembourg, without any compunction, resigned herself to
slumber, as she had done for the last twenty-five years.

Delsarte squirmed with agony as he heard the French language, and murmured
to himself that he had lived in vain. What had served all his art, his
profound diagnosis of voice-inflections, his diagrams on the wall, the art
of enunciation, and so forth? He realized, for the first time, what his
graceful language could become _del bocca Americana_!

Delsarte's idea of evening-dress was worthy of notice. He wore trousers of
the workman type, made in the reign of Louis Philippe, very large about
the hips, tapering down to the ankles; a flowing redingote, dating from
the same reign, shaped in order to fit over the voluminous trousers; a
fancy velvet waistcoat and a huge tie bulging over his shirt-front (if he
had a shirt-front, which I doubt). He asked permission to keep on his
_calotte_, which I fancy had not left his skull since the Revolution
of 1848.

Massenet, who had come in from the country for the day to confer with his
editor, received our invitation just in time to dress and join us. After
the _Gazette_ we awoke to life, and Massenet played some of the "Poème de
Souvenir," which he has dedicated to me (I hope I can do it justice). What
a genius he is! Massenet always calls Auber _le Maître_, and Auber calls
him _le cher enfant_.

Auber also played some of his melodies with his dear, wiry old fingers,
and while he was at one piano Massenet put himself at the other (we have
two in the ballroom), and improvised an enchanting accompaniment. I wished
they could have gone on forever.

Who would have believed that, in the enjoyment of this beautiful music, we
could have forgotten we were in the heart of poor, mutilated Paris--in the
hands of a set of ruffians dressed up like soldiers? Bombs, bloodshed,
Commune, and war were phantoms we did not think of.

Delsarte, in the presence of genius, refused to sing "Il pleut, il pleut,
Bergère," but condescended to declaim "La Cigalle ayant chanté tout
l'été," and did it as he alone can do it. When he came to the end of the
fable, "Eh bien, dansez maintenant," he gave such a tragic shake to his
head that the voluminous folds of his cravat became loosened and hung
limply over his bosom.

I sang the "Caro Nome" of "Rigoletto," with Massenet's accompaniment.
Every one seemed pleased; even Delsarte went as far as to compliment me on
the expression of joy and love depicted on my face and thrown into my
voice, which was probably correct, according to diagram ten on his walls.

He now felt he had not lived in vain.

It being almost midnight, our guests took their departure.

There were only two carriages before the door, Mr. Washburn's and Auber's.
Mr. Washburn took charge of the now very sleepy Delsarte, who declaimed a
sepulchral _bonsoir_ and disappeared, his redingote waving in the air.

The _maître_ took the _cher enfant_, or rather the _cher enfant_ led the
_maître_ out of the salon. The family retired to rest. The _Gazette
Officielle_ had long since vanished with its master, and was no doubt
being perused in the privacy of the boudoir above, the odious dress-coat
and pumps replaced by _robe de chambre_ and slippers. Henry said the next
morning he had had a bad night;... he had dreamt that the whole German
army was waiting outside of Paris, shelling the town with peas.

_April 1, 1871._

Beaumont wished to accompany us to the ambulance to-day, thinking that he
might get an idea for a sketch; but, though he had his album and pencils
with him, he did not accomplish much.

We sat by the bedside of the German officer, and Beaumont made a drawing
of him. The officer said in a low tone to me, "Is that the famous artist
Beaumont?"

I replied that it was.

"I am so glad to have an opportunity to see him, as I have heard so much
of him, and have seen a great many of his pictures in Germany."

This I repeated to Beaumont, and it seemed to please him very much.

When we left, Beaumont said to him, showing him the sketch, "Would you
like this?"

The officer answered in the most perfect French, "I shall always keep it
as a precious souvenir"; and added, "May I not have a sketch of my nurse?"
(meaning me).

Beaumont thought that it was rather presuming on the part of the officer
to ask for it, and seemed annoyed. However, he made a hasty drawing and
gave it to him, saying in his blunt way, "I hope this will please you."
The officer thanked him profusely, and we left. Turning to me he said: "I
have not profited much by this visit. I have given, but not taken anything
away."

"But the experience," I ventured to say.

"Oh yes, the experience; but that I did not need."

In the evening we had one of our drowsy games of whist, made up of
Countess B----, our neighbor opposite, brought across the street in her
sedan-chair (she never walks), Mr. Moulton, myself, and Beaumont making
the sleepy fourth. Neither of our guests speaks English with anything like
facility, but they make frantic efforts to carry on the game in English,
as Mr. Moulton has never learned the game in French and only uses English
terms.

Mr. Moulton always plays with Countess B----, and I always play with
Beaumont; we never change partners.

This is the kind of game we play:

It takes Beaumont a very long time to arrange his cards, which he does in
a unique way, being goaded on by Mr. Moulton's impatient "Well!" He picks
out all the cards of one suit and he lays them downward on the table in a
pile; then he gathers them up and puts them between the third and fourth
fingers of his left hand. With the next suit he does likewise, placing
them between the second and third fingers, and so on, until the grand
_finale,_ when the fingers loosen and the cards amalgamate. During this
process his cards fall every few minutes on the floor, occasioning much
delay, as they have all to be arranged again.

It is my deal; I turn up a heart. The Countess is on my left. We wait with
impatience for her to play, but she seems only to be contemplating her
cards.

"Well!" says Mr. Moulton, impatiently.

We all say in unison, "Your play, Countess!"

The Countess: "Oh, what dreadful cards! I can never play. Oh," with a
sigh, "how dreadful!"

We are all very sorry for her. She has evidently wretched cards.

Long pause. "Your turn, Countess!" we all cry.

"What are trumps?" she asks.

We show her the trump card on the table and say together, "Hearts."

Another long pause.

She arranges her cards deliberately and then shuts them up like a fan.

"Your play, partner," says Mr. Moulton, tired out with waiting.

With a dismal wail, and looking about for sympathy, she plays the ace of
clubs.

Mr. Moulton gathers up the trick.

She has no idea that she has taken anything, but is quietly adjusting her
cards again.

"Your turn, Countess!"

"What, my turn again?" She expresses the greatest surprise.

She: "What dreadful cards! Indeed, I cannot play."

Poor thing! That was probably her only good card, and we expected her next
would be the two of spades. But no. She pulls out, with the air of a
martyr, the ace of spades.

Mr. Moulton: "Well! that's not so bad."

Great astonishment on her part. She can't believe that she has actually
taken a trick. She had hoped some one else would have played.

A long, fidgety silence follows.

All: "Your play, Countess!" She plays the queen of hearts.

This has no success, as I take it with my king.

Mr. Moulton: "Why did you play trumps?"

She: "Oh! was that trumps? I must take it back. Pray, let me take it
back."

We all recover our cards. (My partner takes this occasion to drop some of
his on the floor. He picks them up and arranges them again in order.)

"Your turn, Countess!" we cry, exhausted.

She: "What, again! Why does some one else not play?"

Then out comes the ace of diamonds.

Some one said, "You have all the aces."

She: "Oh! not all; I have not the ace of hearts."

Her partner, aghast, begs her not to tell us what her other cards are, and
so the game proceeds to the bitter end.

There were other moments funny beyond words especially when Mr. Beaumont's
English fails to cope with the situation and he will try to discuss the
points where the Countess has failed. He says, "Did you not see he put his
king on your spade ace-spot?" and, "Madame, you played the third of
spades." And when we count honors, Beaumont will cover the table with his
great elbows and enumerate his: "I had the ass, the knight, and the dame."

I heard a suppressed chuckle from my father-in-law, and seemed to see a
vision of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza pass before me.

_24th of April._

DEAR MAMA,--Auber sent a note early this morning by his coachman to ask me
to lunch with him at ten-thirty o'clock (of course accompanied by
Mademoiselle, my aunt, as he calls her). The coachman says that his master
is not feeling well and longs to see a friend.

I am proud to be the friend he longs to see, and was only too happy to
accept. Mademoiselle W---- was equally happy, ready, as always, for any
excursion where a good repast was in view, and of that we were sure, as
Auber's chef is renowned, and is so clever that, though the market is
limited, he can make something delicious out of nothing.

Louis appeared in a short jacket and a straw hat, looking rather waggish
and very embarrassed to present himself in such a costume.

Driving through the Boulevard Clichy and endless out-of-the-way streets,
we finally reached Auber's hotel, which is in the Rue St. Georges.

Louis was glad to find safety under the _porte-cochère_, and to see his
bosom companion, Auber's butler, into whose arms he fell with joy.

Auber came to the door to welcome us, seeming most grateful that we had
come, and led us into the salon. There is only one way to get into the
salon, and that is either through the dining-room or the bedroom; we went
through the bedroom, as the other was decked for the feast.

I have never seen Auber look so wretched and sad as he did to-day; I could
hardly believe it was the same Auber I have always seen so gay and full of
life and spirits.

I brought a tiny bunch of lilies of the valley, which Louis had gathered
in the all-producing hothouse.

"Merci, merci," he said. "Les fleurs! C'est la vie parfumée." Waiting for
the breakfast to be served, he showed us about in his apartment. In the
salon, rather primly furnished, stood the grand piano. The bookshelves
contained Cherubini's (his master) and his own operas, and his beloved
Bach. A table in the middle of the room, covered with photographs and
engravings, completed son _salon de garçon_.

The bedroom was also very primitive: his wooden bed, with its traditional
covering of _bourre_; a chiffonier containing his curios, royal presents,
and costly souvenirs; his writing-table; and his old piano, born in 1792,
on which he composed all his operas.

The piano certainly looked very old; its keys were yellow as amber, and
Auber touched them with tenderness, his thin, nervous fingers, with their
well-kept nails, rattling on them like dice in a box.

He said: "Le piano est presqu'aussi vieux que moi. Que de tracas nous
avons eu ensemble!"

Breakfast was announced, and we three took our places at the beautifully
arranged table. I wondered where the butler had found flowers and fruit
and _écrevisses_. Mademoiselle and I ate with an astounding appetite;
but Auber, who had not eaten a _déjeuner_ for thirty years, contented
himself with talking.

And talk he did, like a person hungry and thirsty to talk. He told us
about Scribe, for whom he had an unlimited admiration. "I wish you had
known him," he said; "he was the greatest librettist who ever existed. I
only had to put the words on the piano, put on my hat, and go out. When I
came back the music was all written--the words had done it alone." ("Je
n'avais qu'à mettre les paroles sur le pupitre, prendre mon chapeau et
sortir. Quand je revenais la musique était toute écrite, les paroles
l'avaient faite toutes seules.")

He related incidents connected with his youth. His father was a banker
very well off, rich even, and had destined Auber to be a banker, like
himself; but when Auber went to London to commence his clerkship he found
he had no vocation for finance, and began to devote himself to music and
composition. He was thirty-six years old when he wrote his first opera. He
told us that his first ones were so bad that he had given them to the
Conservatoire _pour encourager les commençants_.

Breakfast had long since finished; but dear old Auber rambled on, and
Mademoiselle and I sat listening.

He said he was going to leave all his music to me in his will. I thanked
him, and replied nothing would give me greater pleasure than to have
something which had belonged to him.

"Je ne regarde jamais mes partitions sans être gagné par la tristesse et
sans penser que de morceaux à retoucher! En composant, je n'ai jamais
connu d'autre muse que l'ennui."

"On ne le dirait pas," said Mademoiselle, wanting to join the
conversation. "Votre musique est si gaie, si pleine d'entrain."

"Vous trouvez! Vous êtes bien bonne. Je ne sais comment cela arrive. Il
n'y a pas de motifs parmi ceux qu'on trouve heureux, que je n'ai pas écrit
entre deux baîllements. Je pourrais," he went on, "vous montrer tel
passage où ma plume a fait un long zigzag parce que mes yeux se sont
fermés et ma tête tombait sur la partition. On dirait, n'est ce pas? qu'il
y a des somnambules lucides."

We thought Auber seemed very fatigued, and we soon left him, driving back
the same way we came, and reached home without any adventures.

_7th of May._

I received this morning, by a mysterious messenger, a curious document; it
looks like a series of carriage-wheels, but it is a cipher from Prince
Metternich, who is in Bordeaux, and is dated the 1st of May. It took me a
long time to puzzle it out: "Vous conseille de partir; pire viendra.
Pauline à Vienne; moi triste et tourmenté."

Very good advice, but rather difficult to follow now.

Never has Paris led such a sober life; there is no noise in the almost
empty and dimly lighted streets; there are no drunkards, and, strange to
say, one hears of no thefts. There are, I believe, one or two small
theaters open, most of the small cafés, and a great many wine-shops. The
soldiers slink about, looking ashamed of their shabby uniforms and ragged
appearance.

Thiers has done all in his power to conciliate the different parties, but
has now concluded that Paris must be conquered by the troops of
Versailles. Every day there comes more disturbing news. How will it all
end? When shall we get out of this muddle? _En attendant,_ we live in
a continual fright.

A note came yesterday from Mr. Washburn (I don't know if he is in Paris or
not). He writes: "Nothing could be worse than the present state of
affairs. I wish you were out of Paris; hope you are well," etc.

If we could get a message to him, we would tell him that we are well
enough, and have enough to eat; that Mademoiselle Wissembourg and I
tremble all day; but that Mr. Moulton has not enjoyed himself so much
since the last revolution.

Slippers all day if he likes.

_May 8th._

Though I have so much time on my hands (I never have had so much), I
really have not the heart to write of all the horrors we hear of and the
anxieties of our daily life. Besides, you will probably have heard,
through unprejudiced newspapers, all that is happening here, and know the
true facts before this dismal letter reaches you. And who knows if letters
leave Paris regularly in the chaotic state of disorder and danger we are
now in?

I cannot write history, because I am living in it. I can only tell you the
news which Louis gathers when he does his errands, coming home with the
wildest tales, of which we can only believe the half.

I have read somewhere that some one lived "in a dead white dawn of
thought." I have not the slightest idea what "a dead white dawn of
thought" can be (I have so little imagination); but whatever it is, I feel
as if I was living in it now. I don't remember in all my life to have
stagnated like this.

We are glad Mrs. Moulton left Paris when she did, and is now in a bourne
of safety at Dinard, taking my place with the children while I take hers
in the Rue de Courcelles.

This is no sacrifice on my part; the existence we are leading now
interests me intensely, being so utterly different from anything I have
ever known, and I do not regret having this little glimpse into the
unknown.

I cannot go to the ambulances, as we (Mademoiselle and I) do not dare to
walk, and driving is out of the question.

I have not seen Auber for many days; Beaumont has not been here either,
and we do not know where he is.

They still go on issuing some official newspapers, though whether what
they contain is true, or how far the imaginations of the editors have
lured them into the paths of fiction, we cannot tell. If we live through
this _débâcle_ I count on history to tell us what we really have been
living through. However, truth or fiction, I am thankful that we have the
newspapers, for how would I ever have a moment's sleep if I did not listen
to Mr. Moulton's intoning the _Moniteur_ and the _Journal des Débats_ (the
_Figaro_ has been suppressed) to us, and we did not have our three-handed
drowsy whist to doze over.

_May 9th._

While we were at breakfast this morning the servant came rushing in, pale
and trembling, and announced to us that pillage had commenced in the
Boulevard Haussmann, just around the corner, and that the mob was coming
toward our house. We flew to the window, and, sure enough, there we saw a
mass of soldiers collected on the other side of the street, in front of
the Princess Mathilde's palace, gesticulating and pointing over at us.

We thought our last day had come; certainly it did look like a crisis of
some kind. We gazed blankly at one another. Mademoiselle disappeared, to
seek refuge, I fancy, between the mattresses of her bed, and the smile and
the urbane language with which she was prepared to face this emergency (so
often predicted by her) disappeared with her.

The mob crossed the street, howling and screaming, and on finding the gate
locked began to shake it. The frightened _concierge,_ already barricaded
in his lodge, took care not to show himself, which infuriated the riotous
crowd to such an extent that they yelled at the top of their lungs to have
the gate opened.

Mr. Moulton sent a scared servant to order the still invisible _concierge_
to open not only one gate, but all three. He obeyed, trembling and quaking
with fear. The Communists rushed into the courtyard, and were about to
seize the unhappy _concierge,_ when Mr. Moulton, seeing that no one else
had the courage to come forward, went himself, like the true American he
is,... out on to the _perron_, and I went with him. His first words (in
pure Angle-Saxon), "Qu'est-ce que vous voolly?" made the assembled crowd
giggle.

The leader pushed forward, and, presenting a paper with the official seal
of the _Comité de Transport_, demanded, in the name of the Commune
(_requisitioned_, they call it), everything we had in the way of animals.

Mr. Moulton took the paper, deliberately adjusted his spectacles, and,
having read it very leisurely (I wondered how those fiery creatures had
the forbearance to stay quiet, but they did; I think they were hypnotized
by my father-in-law's coolness), he said, in his weird French, "Vous
voolly nos animaux!" which sounded like _nos animose_. The crowd grinned
with delight. His French saved the situation. I felt that they would not
do us any great harm now.

Mr. Moulton fumbled in his pocket, and, judging from the time he took and
the depths into which he dived, one would have thought he was going to
bring out corruption enough to bribe the whole French nation. But he only
produced a gold piece, which he flourished in front of the spokesman, and
asked if money would be any inducement to leave us _les animose_. But the
not-to-be-bribed Communard put his hand on his heart, and said, in a tone
worthy of Delsarte, "Nous sommes des honnêtes gens, Monsieur," at which my
father-in-law permitted himself to smile. I thought him very brave.

Raising his voice to an unusually high pitch, he cried, "Je ne peux pas
vous refiuser _le_ cheval, mais [the pitch became higher] je refiuse _le_
vache (I cannot refuse to give you the horse; but I refuse the cow)."

The men before us were convulsed with laughter. Then Mr. Moulton gave the
order to bring out the horse, but _not_ the cow. The official turned to
me. "Madame," he said, "you have a cow, and my orders are to take all your
animals. Please send for the cow."

"It is true, Monsieur," I answered, with a gentle smile (like the one
reposing under the mattress), "that we have a cow; but we have the
permission from your Government to keep it."

"Which government?" he asked.

"The French Government. Is that not yours?"

The man could not find anything to answer, and turned away mumbling,
"Comme vous voulez," which applied to nothing at all, and addressed Mr.
Moulton again, "Nous avons des ordres, Monsieur!" But Mr. Moulton
interrupted him, "Ça m'est égal, je refiuse _le_ vache."

Some one in the crowd called out, "Gardez _le_ vache!" This was received
with a burst of applause. I think that these men, rough as they were,
could not but admire the plucky old gentleman who stood there so calmly
looking at them over his spectacles. The servants were all huddled
together behind the glass windows in the _antichambre_, scared out of
their wits, while the terrible Communards were choking with laughter.

It was heart-rending to see poor Louis's grief when he led out the dear,
gentle horse we loved so fondly; the tears rolled down his cheeks, as they
did down mine, and I think a great many of the ruffians around us had a
tear of sympathy for our sorrow, for the merriment of the few moments
before faded suddenly from their pale and haggard faces.

When Louis leaned his kind old face against the nose of his companion of
the stable he sobbed aloud, and when he gave the bridle over to the man
who was to take the horse away he moaned an adieu, saying, "Be good to
her!"

I went down the steps of the _perron_ (the men politely making way for me)
and kissed my poor darling Medjé, and passed my hand over her soft neck
before she left us for her unknown fate. She seemed to understand our
sorrow, for, as she was being led out of the courtyard, she turned her
head toward us with a patient, inquiring look, as if to say, "What does it
all mean?"

I hope she will be returned when "no longer needed," as they promise, and
Louis will have the joy of seeing her again.

The now-subdued mob left us, filing out quietly through the gates; they
had come in like roaring lions, but went out like the meekest of lambs.

We returned sorrowfully to the salon. I was so unstrung that Mademoiselle,
who in the meantime had returned, administered a cup of camomile tea to
restore my nerves.

After the fright caused by this last _réquisitionnement_, two of the
servants thought it expedient to find safer quarters in the center of
Paris, and to live in seclusion, rather than run the risk of being
requisitioned themselves.

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