Part 1 (1/2)
Diary of the Besieged Resident in Paris.
by Henry Labouchere.
PREFACE.
The publishers of these letters have requested me to write a preface. In vain I have told them, that if prefaces have not gone out of date, the sooner they do, the better it will be for the public; in vain I have despairingly suggested that there must be something which would serve their purpose, kept in type at their printers, commencing, ”At the request of--perhaps too partial--friends, I have been induced, against my own judgment, to publish, &c., &c., &c.;” they say that they have advertised the book with a preface, and a preface from me they must and will have. Unfortunately I have, from my earliest childhood, religiously skipped all introductions, prefaces, and other such obstructions, so that I really do not precisely know how one ought to be written; I can only, therefore, say that--
These letters are published for the very excellent reason that a confiding publisher has offered me a sum of money for them, which I was not such a fool as to refuse. They were written in Paris to the _Daily News_ during the siege. I was residing there when the war broke out; after a short absence, I returned just before the capitulation of Sedan--intending only to remain one night. The situation, however, was so interesting that I stayed on from day to day, until I found the German armies drawing their lines of investment round the city. Had I supposed that I should have been their prisoner for nearly five months, I confess I should have made an effort to escape, but I shared the general illusion that--one way or the other--the siege would not last a month.
Although I forwarded my letters by balloon, or sent them by messengers who promised to ”run the blockade,” I had no notion, until the armistice restored us to communications with the outer world, that one in twenty had reached its destination. This mode of writing, as Dr. William Russell wittily observed to me the other day at Versailles, was much like smoking in the dark--and it must be my excuse for any inaccuracies or repet.i.tions.
Many of my letters have been lost _en route_--some of them, which reached the _Daily News_ Office too late for insertion, are now published for the first time. The reader will perceive that I pretend to no technical knowledge of military matters; I have only sought to convey a general notion of how the warlike operations round Paris appeared to a civilian spectator, and to give a fair and impartial account of the inner life of Paris, during its isolation from the rest of Europe. My bias--if I had any--was in favour of the Parisians, and I should have been heartily glad had they been successful in their resistance. There is, however, no getting over facts, and I could not long close my eyes to the most palpable fact--however I might wish it otherwise--that their leaders were men of little energy and small resource, and that they themselves seemed rather to depend for deliverance upon extraneous succour, than upon their own exertions. The women and the children undoubtedly suffered great hards.h.i.+ps, which they bore with praiseworthy resignation. The sailors, the soldiers of the line, and levies of peasants which formed the Mobiles, fought with decent courage. But the male population of Paris, although they boasted greatly of their ”sublimity,” their ”endurance,” and their ”valour,” hardly appeared to me to come up to their own estimation of themselves, while many of them seemed to consider that heroism was a necessary consequence of the enunciation of advanced political opinions. My object in writing was to present a practical rather than a sentimental view of events, and to recount things as they were, not as I wished them to be, or as the Parisians, with perhaps excusable patriotism, wished them to appear.
For the sake of my publishers, I trust that the book will find favour with the public. For the last three hours I have been correcting the proofs of my prose, and it struck me that letters written to be inserted in separate numbers of a daily paper, when published in a collected form, are somewhat heavy reading. I feel, indeed, just at present, much like a person who has obtained money under false pretences, but whose remorse is not sufficiently strong to induce him to return it.
DIARY OF THE BESIEGED RESIDENT IN PARIS.
CHAPTER I.
PARIS, _September 18th._
No one walking on the Champs Elysees or on the Boulevards to-day would suppose that 300,000 Prussians are within a few miles of the city, and intend to besiege it. Happy, said Laurence Sterne, in his ”Sentimental Journey,” the nation which can once a week forget its cares. The French have not changed since then. To-day is a fete day, and as a fete day it must be kept. Every one seems to have forgotten the existence of the Prussians. The Cafes are crowded by a gay crowd. On the Boulevard, Monsieur and Madame walk quietly along with their children. In the Champs Elysees honest mechanics and bourgeois are basking in the sun, and nurserymaids are flirting with soldiers. There is even a lull in the universal drilling. The regiments of Nationaux and Mobiles carry large branches of trees stuck into the ends of their muskets. Round the statue of Strasburg there is the usual crowd, and speculators are driving a brisk trade in portraits of General Uhrich. ”Here, citizens,” cries one, ”is the portrait of the heroic defender of Strasburg, only one sou--it cost me two--I only wish that I were rich enough to give it away.”
”Listen, citizens,” cries another, ”whilst I declaim the poem of a lady who has escaped from Strasburg. To those who, after hearing it, may wish to read it to their families, I will give it as a favour for two sous.”
I only saw one disturbance. As I pa.s.sed by the Rond Point, a very tall woman was mobbed, because it was thought that she might be a Uhlan in disguise. But it was regarded more as a joke than anything serious. So bent on being happy was every one that I really believe that a Uhlan in the midst of them would not have disturbed their equanimity. ”Come what may, to-day we will be merry,” seemed to be the feeling; ”let us leave care to the morrow, and make the most of what may be our last fete day.”
Mr. Malet, the English secretary, who returned yesterday from Meaux, had no small difficulty in getting through the Prussian lines. He started on Thursday evening for Creil in a train with a French officer. When they got to Creil, they knocked up the Mayor, and begged him to procure them a horse. He gave them an order for the only one in the town. Its proprietor was in bed, and when they knocked at his door his wife cried out from the window, ”My husband is a coward and won't open.” A voice from within was heard saying, ”I go out at night for no one.” So they laid hands on the horse and harnessed it to a gig. All night long they drove in what they supposed was the direction of the Prussian outposts, trumpeting occasionally like elephants in a jungle. In the morning they found themselves in a desert, not a living soul to be seen, so they turned back towards Paris, got close in to the forts, and started in another direction. Occasionally they discerned a distant Uhlan, who rode off when he saw them. On Friday night they slept among the Francs-tireurs, and on the following morning they pushed forward again with an escort. Soon they saw a Prussian outpost, and after waving for some time a white flag, an officer came forward. After a parley Mr.
Malet and his friend were allowed to pa.s.s. At three o'clock they arrived at Meaux. Count Bismarck was just driving into the town; he at once recognised Mr. Malet, whom he had known in Germany, and begged him to call upon him at nine o'clock. From Mr. Malet I know nothing more. I tried to ”interview” him with respect to his conversation with Count Bismarck, but it takes two to make a bargain, and in this bargain he declined to be the number two. About half an hour afterwards, however, I met a foreign diplomatist of my acquaintance who had just come from the British Emba.s.sy. He had heard Mr. Malet's story, which, of course, had been communicated to the Corps Diplomatique, and being slightly demoralised, without well thinking what he was doing, he confided it to my sympathising ear.
Mr. Malet, at nine o'clock, found Count Bismarck seated before a table with wine and cigars. He was in high spirits and very sociable. This I can well believe, for I used to know him, and, to give the devil his due, he is one of the few Prussians of a sociable disposition. The interview lasted for more than two hours. Count Bismarck told Mr. Malet that the Prussians meant to have Metz and Strasburg, and should remain in France until they were obtained. The Prussians did not intend to dismantle them, but to make them stronger than they at present are. ”The French,” he said, ”will hate us with an undying hate, and we must take care to render this hate powerless.” As for Paris, the German armies would surround it, and with their several corps d'armee, and their 70,000 cavalry, would isolate it from the rest of the world, and leave its inhabitants to ”seethe in their own milk.” If the Parisians continued after this to hold out, Paris would be bombarded, and, if necessary, burned. My own impression is that Count Bismarck was not such a fool as to say precisely what he intended to do, and that he will attack at once; but the event will prove. He added that Germany was not in want of money, and therefore did not ask for a heavy pecuniary indemnity. Speaking of the French, Count Bismarck observed that there were 200,000 men round Metz, and he believed that Bazaine would have to capitulate within a week. He rendered full justice to the courage with which the army under Bazaine had fought, but he did not seem to have a very high opinion of the French army of Sedan. He questioned Mr. Malet about the state of Paris, and did not seem gratified to hear that there had been no tumults. The declaration of the Republic and its peaceful recognition by Paris and the whole of France appeared by no means to please him. He admitted that if it proved to be a moderate and virtuous Government, it might prove a source of danger to the monarchical principle in Germany.
I do trust that Englishmen will well weigh these utterances. Surely they will at last be of opinion that the English Government should use all its moral influence to prevent a city containing nearly two million inhabitants being burnt to the ground in order that one million Frenchmen should against their will be converted into Germans. It is our policy to make an effort to prevent the dismemberment of France, but the question is not now so much one of policy as of common humanity. No one asks England to go to war for France; all that is asked is that she should recognise the _de facto_ Government of the country, and should urge Prussia to make peace on terms which a French nation can honourably accept.
General Vinoy, out reconnoitering with 15,000 men, came to-day upon a Prussian force of 40,000 near Vincennes. After an artillery combat, he withdrew within the lines of the forts. There have been unimportant skirmishes with the enemy at several points. The American, the Belgian, the Swiss, and the Danish Ministers are still here. Mr. Wodehouse has remained to look after our interests. All the secretaries were anxious to stay. I should be glad to know why Mr. Falconer Atlee, the British Consul at Paris, is not like other consuls, at his post. He withdrew to Dieppe about three weeks ago. His place is here. Neither a consul, nor a soldier, should leave his post as soon as it becomes dangerous.
Victor Hugo has published an address to the nation. You may judge of its essentially practical spirit by the following specimen:--”Rouen, draw thy sword! Lille, take up thy musket! Bordeaux, take up thy gun!
Ma.r.s.eilles, sing thy song and be terrible!” I suspect Ma.r.s.eilles may sing her song a long time before the effect of her vocal efforts will in any way prevent the Prussians from carrying out their plans. ”A child,”
say the evening papers, ”deposited her doll this afternoon in the arms of the statue of Strasburg. All who saw the youthful patriot perform this touching act were deeply affected.”
_September 19th._
I don't know whether my letter of yesterday went off or not. As my messenger to the post-office could get no authentic intelligence about what was pa.s.sing, I went there myself. Everybody was in military uniform, everybody was shrugging his shoulders, and everybody was in the condition of a London policeman were he to see himself marched off to the station by a street-sweeper. That the Prussian should have taken the Emperor prisoner, and have vanquished the French armies, had, of course, astonished these worthy bureaucrats, but that they should have ventured to interfere with postmen had perfectly dumbfounded them. ”Put your letter in that box,” said a venerable employe on a high stool. ”Will it ever be taken out?” I asked. ”Qui sait?” he replied. ”Shall you send off a train to-morrow morning?” I asked. There was a chorus of ”Qui sait?”
and the heads disappeared still further with the respective shoulders to which they belonged. ”What do you think of a man on horseback?” I suggested. An indignant ”Impossible” was the answer. ”Why not?” I asked.
The look of contempt with which the clerks gazed on me was expressive.
It meant, ”Do you really imagine that a functionary--a postman--is going to forward your letters in an irregular manner?” At this moment a sort of young French Jefferson Brick came in. Evidently he was a Republican recently set in authority. To him I turned. ”Citizen, I want my letter to go to London. It is a press letter. These bureaucrats say that they dare not send it by a horse express; I appeal to you, as I am sure you are a man of expedients.” ”These people,” he replied, scowling at the clerks, ”are demoralised. They are the ancient valets of a corrupt Court; give me your letter; if possible it shall go, 'foi de citoyen.'”
I handed my letter to Jefferson, but whether it is on its way to England, or still in his patriotic hands, I do not know. As I pa.s.sed out through the courtyard I saw postmen seated on the boxes of carts, with no horses before them. It was their hour to carry out the letters, and thus mechanically they fulfilled their duty. English Government officials have before now been jeered at as men of routine, but the most ancient clerk in Somerset House is a man of wild impulse and boundless expedient compared with the average of functionaries great and small here. The want of ”s.h.i.+ftiness” is a national characteristic. The French are like a flock of sheep without shepherds or sheep-dogs. Soldiers and civilians have no idea of anything except doing what they are ordered to do by some functionary. Let one wheel in an administration get out of order, and everything goes wrong. After my visit to the post-office I went to the central telegraph office, and sent you a telegram. The clerk was very surly at first, but he said that he thought a press telegram would pa.s.s the wires. When I paid him he became friendly. My own impression is that my twelve francs, whoever they may benefit, will not benefit the British public.