My First Years as a Frenchwoman, 1876-1879 | Page 9

and
useful little sketches of all the celebrities. It was he who told me of old
Prince Gortschakoff's famous phrase when he heard of Thiers's
death--(he died at St. Germain in 1877)--"Encore une lumiere eteinte
quand il y en a si peu qui voient clair,"--(still another light extinguished,
when there are so few who see clearly). Many have gone of that
group,--Casimir Perier, Leon Say, Jules Ferry, St. Vallier, Comte Paul
de Segur, Barthelemy St. Hilaire,--but others remain, younger men who
were then beginning their political careers and were eager to drink in
lessons and warnings from the old statesman, who fought gallantly to
the last.
I found the first winter in Paris as the wife of a French deputy rather
trying, so different from the easy, pleasant life in Rome. That has
changed, too, of course, with United Italy and Rome the capital, but it
was a small Rome in our days, most informal. I don't ever remember
having written an invitation all the years we lived in Rome. Everybody
led the same life and we saw each other all day, hunting, riding, driving,
in the villas in the afternoon, generally finishing at the Pincio, where
there was music. All the carriages drew up and the young men came
and talked to the women exactly as if they were at the opera or in a
ballroom. When we had music or danced at our house, we used to tell
some well-known man to say "on danse chez Madame King ce soir."
That was all. Paris society is much stiffer, attaches much more
importance to visits and reception days.
There is very little informal receiving, no more evenings with no
amusement of any kind provided, and a small table at one end of the

room with orangeade and cakes, which I remember when I was first
married (and always in Lent the quartet of the Conservatoire playing
classical symphonies, which of course put a stop to all conversation, as
people listened to the artists of the Conservatoire in a sort of sacred
silence). Now one is invited each time, there is always music or a
comedie, sometimes a conference in Lent, and a buffet in the
dining-room. There is much more luxury, and women wear more
jewels. There were not many tiaras when I first knew Paris society;
now every young woman has one in her corbeille.
[Illustration: The foyer of the Opera.]
One of the first big things I saw in Paris was the opening of the Grand
Opera. It was a pretty sight, the house crowded with women beautifully
dressed and wearing fine jewels which showed very little, the
decoration of the house being very elaborate. There was so much light
and gilding that the diamonds were quite lost. The two great features of
the evening were the young King of Spain (the father of the present
King), a slight, dark, youthful figure, and the Lord Mayor of London,
who really made much more effect than the King. He was dressed in
his official robes, had two sheriffs and a macebearer, and when he
stood at the top of the grand staircase he was an imposing figure and
the public was delighted with him. He was surrounded by an admiring
crowd when he walked in the foyer. Everybody was there and W.
pointed out to me the celebrities of all the coteries. We had a box at the
opera and went very regularly. The opera was never good, never has
been since I have known it, but as it is open all the year round, one
cannot expect to have the stars one hears elsewhere. Still it is always a
pleasant evening, one sees plenty of people to talk to and the music is a
cheerful accompaniment to conversation. It is astounding how they talk
in the boxes and how the public submits. The ballet is always good.
Halanzier was director of the Grand Opera, and we went sometimes to
his box behind the scenes, which was most amusing. He was most
dictatorial, occupied himself with every detail,--was consequently an
excellent director. I remember seeing him inspect the corps de ballet
one night, just before the curtain went up. He passed down the line like
a general reviewing his troops, tapping lightly with a cane various arms

and legs which were not in position. He was perfectly smiling and
good-humoured: "Voyons, voyons, mes petites, ce n'est pas cela,"--but
saw everything.
What W. liked best was the Theatre Francais. We hadn't a box there,
but as so many of our friends had, we went very often. Tuesday was the
fashionable night and the Salle was almost as interesting as the stage,
particularly if it happened to be a premiere, and all the critics and
journalists were there. Sarah Bernhardt and Croizette