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

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The forts Mont Valérien, Montrouge, Vanves, and Issy keep up an incessant
firing. We would not be surprised if at any moment a bomb reached us, but
so far we have escaped this calamity. The "Reds" are fighting all around
Paris with more or less success. If one could believe what is written in
the _Le Journal de la Commune_, one would say they were triumphant all
along the line. We have just heard that General Bergeret has been
arrested, no one knows why, except that he did not succeed in his last
sortie, and had then by displeased his colleagues generally. It does not
take more than that to arrest people in these days.

The good Archbishop of Paris (Darboy), the curé of La Madeleine
(Monseigneur Duguerry), also President Bonjean, and the others who were
arrested on the 10th of May, have been kept in Mazas Prison ever since. I
saw a letter of marvelous forbearance and resignation, written by the
Archbishop to the Sisters of the St. Augustine Convent; and the beloved
curé of the Madeleine beseeches people to pray for order to be restored.
Poor martyrs! I hope that their prison will not prove to be the
antechamber of the scaffold; as Rochefort says, "Mazas est l'antichambre
de l'échafaud."

It appears that Félix Pyat really did give his demission as a member of
the Commune, but his colleagues would not accept it.

_10th May_.--While Mr. Moulton was reading this morning's news to us
we were startled by a terrible crash. We were paralyzed with terror, and
for a moment speechless, fearing that all we had dreaded was about to be
realized. After somewhat recovering our equilibrium, we sent for Louis to
find out what dreadful thing had happened.

Louis appeared with the _concierge_, both trembling from head to foot, and
announced that a portion of a bomb which had fallen and exploded near us
had come through the roof, shattering many windows and causing great
havoc. On further examination of the disaster we were greatly relieved to
hear that it was only a question of a damaged roof, windows, and masonry.
No one was killed or even wounded; but all were so completely frightened
that no one dares to sleep on the upper floor. Consequently we have moved
down on the drawing-room floor, and have abandoned the upper stories to
future bombs. Mr. Moulton is located in the salon; Mademoiselle has taken
the _salon jaune_, and I the boudoir. Louis has improvised a bedroom in
the small dining-room, that he may be near us at night if we should need
him. The other servants sleep in the basement.

Our family is now reduced to Mr. Moulton, Mademoiselle, Louis, my maid,
and the cook. Louis has proved himself invaluable. He is the man of all
work. After milking the cow and doing his farming (in the conservatory) in
the early morning, he waits at table, does errands, and gathers whatever
news there is in the neighborhood, helps in the kitchen, and aids Mr.
Moulton in his toilet and into his slippers. He is never tired; is always
ready, early in the morning and late at night, to do anything required of
him. He fills all gaps.

The untiring hens have made their nests in obscure corners in the hothouse
and dream serenely of future posterity, while the one cock scratches for
tired worms to provide for their repasts. I go every morning after
breakfast with a little offering of scraps to add to their meager meals.

It is one of my few occupations.

Louis has succeeded in some of his agricultural schemes, and has raided
mushrooms, radishes, and watercresses, which appear quite a luxury in
contrast to our usual canned things, and almost make us forget other
privations.

This farming of Louis's in the hothouse goes to prove how an unnecessary
palm-garden in time of peace can be transformed into a useful kitchen
garden in time of war. Louis expends the same energy and water that he
used in washing his carriages, much to the detriment of the once fine
greenhouse.

The days are very monotonous. I never imagined a day could have so many
hours. I, who have always been over-busy, and have never found the days
long enough to do all I wanted to do, pass the most forlorn hours
listening and waiting and wondering what will happen next. I wait and wait
all through the sleepless nights. I am so nervous I cannot sleep. I do not
even take off my clothes.

I have my writing-table put in the ball-room, and here I sit and write
these sad letters to you. I play the piano; but I have not the heart to
sing, as you may imagine.

We know that there are many tragedies going on about us, and we hear,
through Louis, awful things; but we only believe the half of what he tells
us.

_May 11th._

The Minister of Finance has spent in a month twenty-six millions for the
war expenses alone.

My two friends, Pascal Grousset and (Rascal) Rigault, spent for their
_menus plaisirs_ nearly half a million, whereas Jourde, who is Minister of
Finance, and could take all the money he liked from the banks, lives in
the same modest apartment, and his wife still continues to take in washing
as of old, showing that he, at least, is honest among thieves.

Grousset's appeal to the large cities of France is very theatrical. He
reproaches them with their lukewarmness and their platonic sympathy, and
calls them _aux armes_, as in the "Marseillaise."

We had a very sad experience yesterday. At seven o'clock the _concierge_
was awakened from his slumbers, which (if one can judge from the repeated
efforts at his bell of persons who come before breakfast) must be of the
sweetest and most profound nature.

On cautiously peeping out, he saw a poor fellow leaning against the gate
in a seemingly exhausted condition; he had been wounded, and begged to be
allowed to come inside our courtyard. The _concierge_, who thinks it
wise to be prudent, consulted with Louis; but neither dared do anything
until Mr. Moulton had given the necessary orders. Louis ran about to wake
up the family, and Mr. Moulton told the porter to take the man directly to
the stables and to go for a doctor. The wounded man begged to see a
priest, and Louis was despatched to bring one. Securing a doctor seemed to
be a great undertaking. The _concierge_ had had cramps in the night
(so he said), which would necessitate his remaining at home, and made so
many excuses that Mr. Moulton lost patience and declared he would go
himself; but this I would not hear of his doing alone, and insisted upon
going with him. Mademoiselle, issuing from her room, appeared in her lilac
dressing-gown, holding a pocket-handkerchief in one hand and a smelling-
bottle to her nose with the other. She was told to keep watch over the
invalid while we were absent. Mr. Moulton and I walked to the Faubourg St.
Honoré, to our apothecary, who gave us the name of the nearest doctor. It
was not pleasant, to say the least, to be in the streets. We were in the
habit of hearing bombs and shells, so that was no novelty; but to see them
whizzing over our heads was a new sensation, and not an agreeable one. We
found a doctor, a most amiable gentleman, who, although he had been up all
night, was quite ready to follow us, and we hurried back to the Rue de
Courcelles, where we found Mademoiselle seated on a water-pail outside the
stables and looking the picture of woe. Her idea of keeping vigil!

The doctor made a hasty examination, and was preparing the bandages when
Louis arrived with the priest. I left them and went into the house to make
some tea, which I thought might be needed; but my father-in-law came in
and said that the man had gone to sleep.

Later, about two o'clock, Louis told us that all was over; the poor fellow
had received the last sacraments, had turned over on his side, and had
breathed his last. We sent for the ambulance; but it was five o'clock
before they took him away.

It made us very sad all day to think that death had entered our gates.

_15th May._--Thiers's house in the Rue St. Georges was pillaged to-day by
the mob, who howled like madmen and hurled all sorts of curses and
maledictions on luckless Thiers, who has done nothing wrong, and certainly
tried to do good.

Auber, who lives in the same street, must have seen and heard all that was
going on. How he must have suffered!

[Illustration: PLACE VENDÔME AFTER THE FALL OF THE COLUMN]

_16th May._--The Column Vendôme fell to-day; they have been working
some days to undermine it at the base of the socle. Every one thought it
would make a tremendous crash, but it did not; it fell just where they
intended it to fall, toward the Rue de la Paix, on some fagots placed to
receive it. They were a long time pulling at it; three or four pulleys,
and as many ropes, and twenty men tugging with all their might--_et
voilà_. The figure that replaced the Little Corporal (which is safe
somewhere in Neuilly) came to earth in a cloud of dust, and the famous
column lay broken in three huge pieces.

I inclose a ticket which Mr. Lemaire obtained somehow, and which, as you
see, permitted him to circulate _librement_ in the Place Vendôme:

[Illustration]

I think it is strange that Auber does not let us hear from him. I fear his
heart is broken, like the column.

The weather is heavenly. The two chestnut-trees in our front courtyard are
in full flower; the few plants in the greenhouse are all putting out buds.
Where shall we be when the buds become flowers?

Last year at this time it was the height of the giddiest of giddy seasons.
One can hardly believe it is the same Paris.

My father-in-law feels very bad that I did not leave when I still had the
chance. So do I,... but now it is too late. I must stay till the bitter
end, and no doubt the end will be bitter: battle, murder, and sudden
death, and all the things we pray against in the Litany.

Dombrowski has failed in his sortie to St. Cloud.

_18th May._--It seems that the Communards wish all France to adopt their
gentle methods, and they believe and hope that Communism will reign
supreme over the country.

Rigault, to prove what an admirable government France has, yesterday
issued the decree to arrest a mass of people. No one knows exactly why,
except that he wishes to show how great his power is. He wants the Commune
to finish in fire and flame as a funeral pile. I hope he will be on the
top of it, like Sardanapalus, and suffer the most. Horrible man!

I received a letter from Mr. Mallet this morning, inclosing an invitation
to assist at a concert given by all the _musiques militaires à Paris_
on the Place de la Concorde, and offering a ticket for two places on the
terrace of the Tuileries. The idea of these creatures on the brink of
annihilation, death, and destruction giving a concert! If it were not so
tragic it would really be laughable.

DEAR LADY,--I wish I could bring you this extraordinary document _de
viva persona_; but I do not like to leave the embassy, even for a
short time. Lascelles and I are well, but very anxious. You will
notice that this invitation is for the 21st. Our friends evidently
think we will be pleasantly attuned to music on that day. They are as
mad as March hares; they will be asking us to dance at Mazas next....
Hoping you are not as depressed as we are, Yours, E. MALLET.

Just as I had finished reading the above we heard a tremendous explosion.
Louis said it was _l'École Militaire_, which was to be blown up to-day.
What are we coming to?

Louis and I ventured to go up to the third story, and we put our heads out
of one of the small windows. We saw the bombs flying over our heads like
sea-gulls. All the sky was dimmed with black smoke, but we could not see
if anything was burning, though we hear that the Tuileries is on fire and
all the public buildings are being set fire to.

An organized mob of _pétroleurs_ and _pétroleuses_ receive two francs a
day for pouring petroleum about and then setting fire. How awful!

Louis assures us that they will not come near us, as their only idea is to
destroy public property. My father-in-law says the fever of destruction
may seize them, and they might pillage the fine houses and set fire to
them. He is having everything of value, like jewels, silver, and his
precious bric-à-brac, carried down to the cellar, where there is an iron
vault, and has showed us all how to open it in case of a disaster.

_May 21st._ (Sunday evening)--The Versaillais entered Paris by the Point
du Jour, led by gallant Gallifet.

_May 22d._--Rigault gave the order that all the hostages (_otages_) were
to be shot. Rigault wrote the order himself. It does not bear any of the
fantastic seals they are so fond of, and of which they have an incredible
quantity. It has been written on a paper (_une déclaration d'expédition du
chemin de fer d'Orléans_). Probably he was trying to get away. It was the
last order he gave, and the last fuse to be used to set fire to the
funeral pile.

This proclamation, of which I give an exact copy, will give you a little
idea of what this horrible brute is capable of:

Floréal, an 79 [the way they date things in republics]. Fusillez
l'Archevêque et les otages; incendiez les Tuileries et le Palais
Royal, et repliez-vous sur la rue Germain-des-Prés.

Procureur de la Commune,

Ici tout va bien. RAOUL RIGAULT.

In the evening of the 22d the victims--forty of them--the good Darboy,
Duguerry, Bonjean, and others--were piled into a transport-wagon with only
a board placed across, where they could sit, and were taken to the place
of execution.

The Archbishop seemed suffering; probably the privations he had endured
had weakened him. Bonjean said to him, "Lean on my arm, it is that of a
good friend and a Christian," and added, "La religion d'abord, la justice
ensuite." As soon as one name was called a door opened and a prisoner
passed out--the Archbishop went first; they descended the dark and narrow
steps one by one. When they were placed against the wall Bonjean said,
"Let us show them how a priest and a magistrate can die."

Rigault ordered their execution two hours after they were taken; and when
some one ventured a remonstrance he curtly replied, "Nous ne faisons pas
de la légalité, nous faisons de la révolution." Some ruffian in the mob
cried out the word "liberté," which reached Darboy's ears, and he said,
"Do not profane the word of liberty; it belongs to us alone, because we
die for it and for our faith." This sainted man was the first to be shot.
He died instantly; but President Bonjean crossed his arms and, standing
erect, stared full in the faces of his assassins with his brave eyes
fastened on theirs. This seemed to have troubled them, for of the nineteen
balls they fired not one touched his head--they fired too low--but all his
bones were broken. The defiant look stayed on his face until the _coup
de grâce_ (a bullet behind his ear) ended this brave man's life. These
details are too dreadful. I will spare you, though I know many more and
worse.

Dombrowski had a slight advantage over l'Amiraut the other day, which
puffed them all up with hope; but how foolish to think that anything can
help now!

_May 23d._--Now they have all lost their heads, and are at their wits'
end. There are thirty thousand artillery and more cannon than they know
what to do with.

Everything is in a muddle; you can imagine in what a fearful state of
anxiety we live. The only thing we ask ourselves now is, When will the
volcano begin to pour out its flames?

If the troops should come in by the Arc de Triomphe and fight their way
through Paris by the Champs-Élysées and the Boulevard there would not be
much hope for us, as we would be just between the two fires.

_May 25th._--The Arc de Triomphe and the Champ de Mars were captured
to-day, and the fighting in the streets has commenced. They are fighting
like mad in the Faubourg St. Honoré. When I open the door of the vestibule
I can hear the yelling and screaming of the rushing mob; it is dreadful,
the spluttering of the fusillades and the guns overpower all other noises.
We hope deliverance is near at hand; but who knows how long before we have
peace and quiet again?

_May 28th._--MacMahon has stormed the barricades and has entered Paris,
taking fifty thousand prisoners. Gallifet has ordered thousands to be
shot.

We are rescued from more horrors. Thank God! these days of trembling and
fear are over.

Pascal Grousset was killed on the barricades. I am thankful to say that
Raoul Rigault has also departed this world. Courbet, Regnaud, a promising
young painter, and how many shall we know of afterward, have been shot.

We hear that Auber became quite crazy and wandered out on the ramparts,
and was killed with the soldiers. He deserved a better fate, my dear old
friend! I am sure his heart was broken, and that that day we breakfasted
with him was not his first but his last _jour de bonheur_.

Seventy-two days of Communism has cost France 850,000,000 francs.

DINARD, _June 18, 1871._

DEAR MOTHER,--Our peaceful life here is a great contrast to the bombs of
poor dilapidated Paris. I have still the screams and bursting shells of
the Faubourg St. Honoré in my ears.

When I wrote of Strakosch's persisting in his idea of my singing in
concerts, I did not dream that I should be telling you that I have
succumbed to his tempting and stupendous proposition. It is true that I
have said _yes_, and _vogue la galère!_

And the most curious thing is that the whole family sitting in council
have urged me to do it.

"Why not?" said Mr. Moulton, making mental calculations. "I would, if I
were you," said Mrs. Moulton, overflowing with enthusiasm.

"I agree," said Charles, only seeing the fun of a new experience.

"But," I urged, "I doubt if I can stand on my own merits. Singing in
public as an amateur is one thing, and singing as an artist is another."
This wise saying was scorned by the council.

I have ordered some fine dresses from Worth, and if my public don't like
me they can console themselves with the thought that a look at my clothes
is worth a ticket.

Well, the fatal word has gone forth; I shall probably regret it, but it is
too late now.

Therefore, dear mother, please break the news gently to the family and the
genealogical tree, whose bark, I hope, is worse than its bite.

We leave for America in September. Strakosch goes before, "to work it up,"
he says.

NEW YORK, _October._

MY DEAR MOTHER-IN-LAW,--Don't send any more letters to the Barlows'. We
thought that it was better not to stay with them (pleasant as it was) any
longer. There was such a commotion in that quiet house, such ringing of
bells and running about. The servants were worn out attending to me and my
visitors.

I don't know where to begin to tell you about this wonderful escapade of
ours. I call it my "bravura act." It is too exciting! I copy a letter just
received from Strakosch, in answer to a letter of mine, to show you what
the process of "working up" is. He writes: "You wonder at your big
audiences. The reason is very simple. In the first place, people know that
you are thought to be the best amateur singer in Paris--'La Diva du
Monde'--besides being a favorite in Parisian society, and that you have
not only a beautiful voice, but also that you have beautiful toilettes.
This is a great _attraction_. In the second place, I allow (_as a great
privilege_) the tickets to be subscribed for; the remaining ones are
bought at auction. You see, in this way the bids go _'way up_.... I am
glad I secured Sarasate to supplement," etc.

We have taken a suite of rooms in the Clarendon Hotel, so as to be near
the opera-house, where I go to practise with the orchestra. You cannot
imagine how intense the whole thing is.

To feel that I can hold a great audience, like the one that greeted me the
first night, in my hand, and to know that I can make them laugh or cry
whenever I please--to see the mass of upturned faces--is an inspiring
sensation. The applause bewildered me at first, and I was fearfully
excited; but one gets used to all things in the end. My songs, "Bel
raggio" (Rossini), "Voi che sapete" (Mozart), and "La Valse de Pardon de
Ploërmel" (Meyerbeer), were all encored and re-encored.

I said to Strakosch, "I can't go on forever, tripping on and off the stage
like that!" He answered, laconically, "Well, you see people have paid
much for their tickets, and they want their money's worth."

I said, "I wish the tickets cost less."

The flowers (you should have seen them!) were mostly what they call here
"floral tributes" (what you would call _des pièces montées_), and were
brought in by a procession of ushers and placed on the stage. I do not
mention the quantities of bouquets handed up to me!

One "floral tribute" received an ovation as it was borne up the aisle by
four men, and hauled up on to the stage by a man who came from the side
scenes. It was a harp made entirely of flowers, about six feet high. It
made quite a screen for me as I went in and out. The card of the harp was
brought to me, and I read, "H. P. Stalton, 'Asleep in Jesus,' North
Conway." I had no idea what it meant, but mama remembered that some years
ago, when she and I were traveling in the White Mountains, we stopped
overnight at the little town of North Conway. At the hotel we heard that a
lady had died, and her son was terribly grieved. There was to be a funeral
service the next morning in the parlor of the inn. I asked, "Do you think
that I might sing something?" "Of course, _any_ music would be welcome,"
was the answer. So I chose the hymn, "Asleep in Jesus," which I sang when
the time came. As there was nothing but an old piano, I preferred to sing
without accompaniment. I was very much affected, and I suppose my voice
showed my emotion, because other people were equally affected. As for the
young man, he knelt on the floor and put his hands over his face and
sobbed out loud. Poor fellow, my heart bled for him!

I sang the hymn through with difficulty. The last verse I sang
_pianissimo_ and very slowly. The silence was painful; you could have
heard a pin drop. The whole scene was very emotional, and I remember
feeling that I never wanted to go through such a thing again. The young
man had not forgotten, after all these years, either the song or the
singer. Hence the beautiful harp of flowers to thank me. I should have
liked to have seen him, to thank _him_.

There is a very sad, pathetic, and patriotic song called "Tender and True"
by a composer, Alfred Pease, which I sing. Strakosch said, "You must have
in your _répertoire_ something American." This song is about a young
soldier who takes "a knot of ribbon blue" from his ladylove, and who dies
on the battle-field with the knot of ribbon on his breast. When I sing
"the flag draped over the coffin lid" the whole audience is dissolved in
tears. The women weep openly; the men hide behind their opera-glasses and
try to blow their noses noiselessly between the verses.

I always finish with "Beware!" and Charles always accompanies me, which
pleases him very much. He thinks that American audiences are very
appreciative, because they stand up and clap and the women wave their
handkerchiefs.

I tell him they stand up because the next thing they are going to do is to
go out.

WORCESTER, _December, 1871._

DEAR MOTHER,--Thanks for your letter. I had hoped to have received better
news of Charles.

When he left Thursday he did not look well, but I thought it was owing to
the excitement and late hours and the irregular life we have been leading.
He wanted to go to Cambridge, where he thought that he could take better
care of himself. I would have gone with him, but I felt that I could not
leave Strakosch and Worcester in the lurch.

If I don't receive a reassuring telegram from you, I shall start off
without delay.

I was dreadfully nervous and unstrung, as you will see, when I tell you
how I blundered. I do not like singing in oratorio. Getting up and sitting
down all the time, holding and singing from a book, losing my place and
having to find it in a hurry, is not what I like. However, I got on very
well at first, but there is a place in the score where three angels come
forward and sing a trio without accompaniment. Then the soprano (me) steps
in front and sings, without a helping note: "Hail, Hail, O Lord God of
Hosts!" The orchestra and chorus take up the same phrase after me.

I sang boldly enough, "Hail, Hail, O Lord God of Hosts!" but suddenly felt
cold shivers down my back when Zerrahn tapped his baton on his stand,
thereby stopping all further proceedings, and turning to me said, in a low
whisper, "A half-tone lower."

Good gracious, how could I find the right note! First I had to remember
the last tone I had sung, then I had to transpose it in my head, all in an
instant. It was a critical moment.

Suppose I did not hit the right note! The whole orchestra and the two-
hundred-man-strong chorus would come thundering after me--the _orchestra
on the right key_ and _the chorus following in my footsteps_.

I turned cold and hot, and my knees trembled under me. You may imagine
what a relief it was when I heard things going on as if nothing had
happened. _I had struck the right note!_ And I finished the oratorio
without further disaster. I do not think that any one in the audience
remarked anything wrong.

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