The Sunny Side of Diplomatic Life, 1875-1912 Part 30

I was very glad to meet Colonel Picquard at a dinner in a Dreyfusard house. All that I had heard of him made me feel a great admiration for him. I was not disappointed. He is a most charming man, handsome, with such an honest and kind face. I hoped he would talk with me about Dreyfus, and said as much to my hostess, who in her turn must have said "as much" to him, for he came and sat by me. I did not hesitate to broach the tabooed subject. He said: "I do not and have never thought that Dreyfus was guilty. He may have done something else, but he never, in my belief, wrote the _bordereau_. I had not known him before. I was the officer who was sent to his cell to make him write his name; they forced him to write it a hundred times. He was perfectly calm, but it was so cold in his room that his fingers were stiff and his hands trembled. He kept saying, 'Why am I to do this?' I was convinced then and there of his innocence. I could have wept with compa.s.sion when I saw how unconscious the poor fellow was. I was also on duty," he added, "when Dreyfus was conducted to the Ecole Militaire the day he was degraded before the troops: his epaulettes were torn from his shoulders and his sword was broken in two. I never could have imagined that any one could endure so much. My heart bled for him."

Dreyfus was imprisoned _two weeks_ and subjected every day to mysterious questionings, of which he could not divine the purpose.

Neither he nor his counsel knew on what grounds he was arrested.

Forzinetti, who was in charge of Dreyfus's prison, also believed him innocent, and said he had never seen a man suffer as he did. He kept repeating, "My only crime is having been born a Jew." He has been confined ever since on the _Ile du Diable_ under the strictest surveillance. His jailer was not allowed to speak to him. When airing himself in the little inclosure, exposed to the awful heat, there was always a gun pointed at him. Sometimes he was chained to his bed with irons, and a loaded pistol was always placed by his side in case he became weary of life. Colonel Picquard said:

"It can only be the strong desire to prove his innocence that keeps his courage up." Colonel Schwartkopfen (the German military _attache_ in Paris) declares solemnly to any one who will listen that the German Emba.s.sy has never had anything to do with Dreyfus, and the _bordereau_ is unknown there.

We are very anxious about the news we get from Denmark. The dear Queen is very ill, and there is little hope of her recovery.

PARIS, _29th September_.

Dear ----,--The Queen died last night.

Every one in Paris has come to us to express his sympathy. As is the custom in Europe, people write their names in a book placed in the antechamber. There are several hundred signatures. In Denmark there is mourning ordered for six months. As there is no Danish church in Paris, a memorial service for the Queen was celebrated in the Greek chapel. It was most solemn and beautiful. I love to hear the mournful chants of the white-robed, solemn priests.

It was very sad to hear of the a.s.sa.s.sination of the beautiful Empress of Austria. She was in Geneva and about to take the little boat to go up the lake. The a.s.sa.s.sin met her and, apparently running against her accidentally, stabbed her. She did not feel the thrust and continued to walk on. When she stepped on the boat they noticed the blood on her dress, and soon after, on being taken to the hotel, she died.

The French military _attache_ in Copenhagen was in Paris some days and invited us to dinner at his mother's, who has a charming home. We met a great many agreeable people, among whom was the poet Rostand (he is the brother-in-law of the _attache_). Rostand was very talkative, and I enjoyed, more than words can tell, my conversation with him. He was most amusing when he told of his efforts "to be alone with his thoughts." He said that when he was writing _L'Aiglon_ he was almost crazy.

"My head seemed bursting with ideas. I could not sleep, and my days were one prolonged irritation, and I became so nervous _que j'etais devenu impossible_. The slightest interruption sent me into spasms of _delire_. Do you know what I did?" he asked me.

"I suppose," I answered, "you went on writing, all the same."

"No. You could never guess," he laughed. "I sat in a bath-tub all day.

In this way no one could come and disturb me, and I was left alone."

"Tubs," I remarked, "seem to belong to celebrities. Diogenes had one, I remember, where he sat and pondered."

"But it was not a bath-tub. I consider my idea rather original! Do you not think that the Great Sarah is magnificent in '_L'Aiglon_'?"

"Magnificent," I said. "You are fortunate to have such an interpreter."

"Am I not?" He was a delightful man.

He sent me a few lines of the Princess Lointaine, with his autograph.

At Mr. Dannat's, the well-known American portrait-painter, I met the celebrated composer Moskowski. One does not expect to find good looks and a pleasing talker and a _charmeur_ in a modern artist. But he combines all of these. He said:

"I shall die a most miserable and unhappy man."

"Why?" I inquired. I feared he would confide in me the secrets of his heart, which is at present mostly occupied with his handsome and giddy wife. These, however, he kept wisely to himself.

"I am like Rubinstein," he said. "He was wretched because he could not write an opera. I also wish to write an opera, but I cannot."

"Who could, if not you?" I said. "I think your Concerto one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard."

"You flatter me," he said, modestly, "but, alas! you cannot make me a writer of operas. To-morrow afternoon is the _repet.i.tion generale_ at the Cologne Concert of my Concerto. Teresa Careno plays the piano part. Would you allow me to accompany you, if you would like to go?"

Did I accept? Yes!

Teresa Careno surpa.s.sed herself, and the Concerto was enthusiastically received. Siegfried Wagner led the orchestra in a composition of his own. He was very arbitrary and made the artists go over and over again the same phrase without any seeming reason. One poor flutist almost tore his hair out by the roots. Wagner was so dissatisfied with his playing that he stopped him twenty times. At last, as if it were a hopeless task, he shrugged his shoulders and went on.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LINES FROM "LA PRINCESSE LOINTAINE" WITH ROSTAND'S AUTOGRAPH]

Count and Countess Castellane (Miss Gould) gave a great entertainment to inaugurate their hotel-palace in the Bois. The young King of Spain was their guest of honor, and the smiling hostess clung to his arm throughout the entire evening, introducing people as they pa.s.sed. She did not know every one's name nor half of their t.i.tles.

The cotillion was short and the supper long, and both were costly. The King of Spain is not handsome, but he has charming manners and a determined jaw and a very sympathetic smile. We met him again at the Grand Prix in the President's pavilion. It was a most brilliant sight.

Every one in Paris was there, and the toilets of the ladies were of the _dernier cri_.

The King of Sweden kept his word and really did come to Paris. A dinner for him at the Elysees included us (the only persons who were not French except the Swedish Legation). We are, as you know, what they call "_une legation de famille_." I was more than enchanted to see the King again. He promised to come and take tea with me the next day.

"Who would your Majesty care to meet?" I asked him.

"My old lady friends whom I used to know here before," the King answered.

"Your Majesty does not mean all of them--that would be a legion."

"No, no," he laughed. "Not _all_, only ..." and named several.

Every one came, although invited at the eleventh hour. It was a merry meeting, and such _souveniring_!

The King walked to my house accompanied by Herr Ancacronra, and the gentlemen whom the French government attached to his Majesty during his visit. They were surprised that a King should prefer walking through the streets to being driven in a landau from the Elysees.

The King brought several photographs, which he distributed to his friends, and, wishing to write his name on them, desired me to give him "a nice pen with a broad point." Oh dear! Not a "nice" pen could be found in the house! And one with a broad point did not exist. As for the ink, it was thick at the bottom and thin on the top. He had to stir it about each time he put the pen in.

I was more than mortified.

PARIS, _1899_.

Dear L.,--Amba.s.sador Eustis has been replaced by General Porter. It is fortunate for America that we have so clever and tactful a gentleman for our representative, especially in this moment of the Spanish-American War. The French sympathies are (or were) with the Spaniards, and the articles in the newspapers are, to say the least, satirical of the "Yankees."

When the reporters interviewed the Amba.s.sador they got such a clear, straight, and concise view of the situation that they changed entirely their att.i.tude, and _now_ at last the papers tell the truth.

General Porter and his wife have taken the beautiful Spitzer Hotel and are the personifications of hospitality. The marble staircase is draped with the American flag. They receive in the ancestral hall filled with knights in armor, and the guests sit in medieval chairs.

The picture-gallery, which is famous, is lighted at _al giorno_. I fancy that most of the pictures have been taken away; however, there are a few in each of the small rooms, through which the guests wander with their heads at an angle giving an impression of subtle criticism.

General Porter always has a story _a propos_, no matter what you are talking about. I wish I could remember some of the best. This one I _do_ remember. He said: "I never believe but half of what is told me, but," he added, laughing and pointing to a lady, who recently had twins, "this does not apply to _her_." He borrowed from Coquelin the following, "All American women are like pins--they go just as far as their heads allow them." Is this original? I think it good if it is.

Do you remember Countess de Trobriand?

Well, she is still flourishing at the ripe age of eighty, and gives _soirees_ in her apartments in the Champs Elysees. Some one said of these entertainments that they were not _a.s.sez brilliant_ to be called _trop brilliant_, but might be called _de trop_....

Zola is mixing himself up with _l'affaire_ (that is what one calls the Dreyfus tragedy; there is no other "affair" that counts), and is making himself very unpopular. He does not mind what he writes, and his attacks reach far and wide and spare no one. If he stirs up mud at the bottom of the well he does it in order to find the truth. At any rate, he is honest, though he has had to pay dear for the best policy.

I do not read his books, but I have a great admiration for him. The public feeling is so strong against him that crowds of the populace rush about the streets pushing, howling, and screaming at the top of their lungs, "_Conspuez Zola!_" which I cannot translate in other words than, "Spit on Zola!" Mrs. Lawrence and I met a mob while driving through the Place de la Concorde, and a more absurd exhibition of vindictiveness cannot be imagined.

Poor Zola has been condemned to pay a fine of--how much do you think?