An Onlooker in France 1917 to 1919

W >> William Orpen >> An Onlooker in France 1917 to 1919

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I remember when the Peace Terms were handed to the Germans at the
Trianon Palace, I tried my hardest to get a card to enable me to see
it, but failed. This may not seem strange, but it really was,
considering that about half the people who were present were there out
of curiosity alone. They were just friends of the "frocks." This (p. 102)
ceremony took place at 2.30 p.m. on that particular day. I happened to
leave my room and go into the hall of the "Astoria" for something
about 3 p.m. There I met Field-Marshal Sir Henry Wilson. I said: "How
did you get back so soon, sir?" He said: "Back from where?" I said:
"From the handing over of the Peace Terms." "Oh," he said, "I haven't
been there. They wouldn't give me a pass, the little 'frocks' wouldn't
give me one." "I've been trying for days, sir," I said. "They expect
me to paint them, but they won't let me see them." "Look here, little
man," he said. "I've been thinking as I was walking back here, and
I'll give you a little piece of advice: 'Laugh at those who cry, and
cry at those who laugh.' Just go back to your little room and think
that over and you will feel better."

When I painted Sir Henry, he gave me his views on the brains and
merits of many of the delegates, views full of wit and brilliant
criticism, but when I had finished painting him I came under his
kindly lash. He called me "a nasty little wasp," and he kept a "black
book" for any of his lady friends who said the sketch was like him. In
it their names were inscribed, and they were never to be spoken to
again. With all his fun, Sir Henry was a deep thinker, and towered
over the majority of the "frocks" by his personality, big outlook and
clear vision.

General Botha was big, large and great in body and brain--elephantine!
Everything on an immense scale, even to his sense of humour. He had no
sign of pose, like most of the "frocks." He never seemed to try to
impress anyone. One could notice no change in his method or mode of
conversation according to whom he was speaking. The great mind just (p. 103)
went on and uttered what it thought, regardless of whom it uttered it
to. In Mrs. Botha he had the ideal wife. Together they were like two
school-children. "Louis" and "Mother," how well they knew each other,
and how they loved their family and home! They were always talking of
"home" and longing to get back to it. Alas! Louis only got back there
for a very short time, and now "home" will never be the same for
"Mother."

[Illustration: XLIV. _The Rt. Hon. Louis Botha, P.C., LL.D._]

What arguments they used to have--fierce arguments which always ended
the same way! "Louis" would make some remark which would absolutely
pulverise "Mother's" side of the question, and as she was stammering
to reply, he would say very gently: "It's all right, Mother, it's all
right, you've won." And she would flash out with: "Don't you dare to
say that to me, Louis! You always say that when you get the best of
the argument."

She used to complain to me how terrible the General's love for bridge
was, and how she used to be kept up so late. He would laugh and say:
"But, Mother, you didn't get up till nine this morning. I was walking
in the Bois at half-past six."

I remember one afternoon they came to my room and Mrs. Botha said:
"Well, Louis, what kind of a morning had you?" He replied: "Not very
good, Mother, not very good. You see, Mother, Clemenceau got very
irritated with President Wilson, and Lloyd George the same with
Orlando. No, it wasn't a very pleasant morning. Nearly everyone was
irritable." Then "Mother" said: "I think it disgusting, Louis, that
these men, settling the peace of the world, should allow their own
little petty irritabilities to interfere with the great work." And (p. 104)
Botha replied: "Ah! Mother, you must make allowances. Men are only
human." "I don't make allowances," jerked in "Mother," "I think it's
disgusting." "Don't say that, Mother," he replied. "I remember one
time, long ago, when we made our little peace, you used to get very
irritable at times, and I had to make a lot of allowances for you. You
must try and make the same for these poor people now." "Mother" never
even replied to this, but jumped from her chair and left the room, and
the big man's face broadened into a smile. Yes, Botha was big--a giant
among men.

Admiral Lord Wester Wemyss came along. He has a good head for a "Sea
Dog." He brought the sea into the heart of Paris with him. A man of
great charm, with a wonderful smile, which I did not paint.

I wrote and asked President Wilson to sit, and got a reply saying that
as his time was fully occupied with the Peace Conference work, he
regretted that he was unable to give any sittings.

I also wrote to Mr. Lansing and Colonel House, asking them. The
Colonel rang up the same afternoon and said, "Certainly," would I name
my day and hour? Which I did; and along he came, a charming man, very
calm, very sure of himself, yet modest. During the sitting he asked me
if I had painted the President. I replied: "No." He then asked me if I
was going to do so, and I replied: "No," that the President had
refused to sit. He said: "Refused?" I said: "Yes; he hasn't got the
time." "What damned rot!" said the Colonel, "he's got a damned sight
more time than I have. What day would you like him to come to sit?" I
named a day, and the Colonel said: "Right! I'll see that he's here,"
and he did. Mr. Lansing was also very good about giving sittings, (p. 105)
and we had a good time, as he loves paintings, and knows all the Art
Galleries in Europe. He also paints himself in his spare time, and all
through the Conference at the "Quai d'Orsay" he drew caricatures of
the different delegates. President Wilson told me he had a large
collection of these.

[Illustration: XLV. _The Rt. Hon. A. J. Balfour. O.M._]

When Lord Reading sat he had the "'flu," and did not talk, so I got
nothing out of him except that he has a very fine head.

The Emir Feisul sat. He had a nice, calm, thoughtful face. Of course,
his make-up in garments made one think of Ruth, or, rather, Boaz. He
could not let me work for one minute without coming round to see what
I was doing. This made the sittings a bit jerky. I was going to paint
another portrait of him for his home, but we never hit off times when
we were both free.

I asked Mr. Balfour to sit, and he asked me to lunch to arrange it.
The subject was never mentioned, but the lunch in the Rue Nito was
excellent, and it was a joy to listen to Mr. Balfour. One could also
look down into President Wilson's garden, as Mr. Balfour's flat was on
the second floor, and one could see over the armed defences and view
the American Army on guard outside, with steel helmets and bayonets
flashing in the sunlight.

Mr. Balfour did sit in the end. I remember he came to my room about
12.15 p.m. He was sound asleep by 12.35 p.m., but woke up sharp at 1
p.m., and left for lunch. What a head! It put all other heads out of
the running. So refined, so calm, so strong, a fitting head for such a
great personality.

Dr. E. J. Dillon very kindly asked me to dinner to meet Venezelos, and
he arranged for him to sit, which he did at the "Mercedes Hotel." He (p. 106)
had a beautiful head, with far-seeing blue eyes, which had a
distinctly Jewish look. It was difficult to paint him, as he had no
idea of sitting at all. It was a pity, as he had a wonderful head to
paint. His flesh was fresh and rosy like a young boy's.

Da Costa, of Portugal, came along: a bright little man, full of health
and energy; and after him that quiet, thoughtful friendly person, Sir
Robert Borden, of Canada; even then he looked rather tired and
overworked.

General Sykes sat. What a strange head! A sort of mixture between Hall
Caine and Shakespeare.

The day arrived when President Wilson was to sit. He was to come at 2
p.m., so I went back to the "Astoria" about 1.30. When I got to the
door I found a large strange man ordering all the English motors to go
one hundred yards down the Rue Vernet. No British car was allowed to
stop closer. When I entered the "Astoria," one of the Security
Officers told me that an American detective had been inquiring the
direct route the President was to take to my room. I went on into
another little room I had, where I kept my paints and things; and
there I found two large men sitting in the only two chairs. They took
no notice of me, and were quite silent, so I proceeded to get ready.
Taking off my belt and tunic, and putting on my painting coat, I
started to squeeze out colours, when suddenly in marched an enormous
man. He looked all round the room and said in a deep voice: "Is Sir
William Orpen here?" "Yes, I'm here," I said. He walked up to me and,
towering over me, looked down and said in grave doubt: "Are _you_ Sir
William Orpen?" "Yep," I replied, in my best American accent. "Well,"
he said, "be pleased to dress yourself and proceed to the door and
prepare to receive the President of the United States of America." (p. 107)
That finished me--I had been worked up to desperate action. So I
looked up as fully as I could in his face, and uttered one short,
thoroughly English word, but one which has a lot to it. Immediately
the two large men and the enormous one left the room in utter silence.

[Illustration: XLVI. _President Woodrow Wilson._]

Shortly afterwards the President arrived, smiling as usual; but he was
a good sort, and he laughed hard when I told him the story of the
detectives. He was very genial and sat well, but even then he was very
nervous and twitchy. He told endless stories, mostly harmless, and
some witty. I only remember one. A king was informed that all the men
in his State were obeying their wives; so he ordered them all before
him on a certain day and spoke to them, saying he had heard the fact
about their obeying their wives, and he wished to ascertain if it was
so. So he commanded, "All men who obey their wives go to my left!"
They all went to his left except one miserable little man, who
remained where he was, alone. The king turned, and said to him: "Are
you the only man in my State who does not obey his wife?" "No, sire,"
said the little man, "I obey my wife, sire." "Then why do you not go
to my left as I commanded?" "Because, sire," said the little man, "my
wife told me always to avoid a crush." It's a mild story, but it's the
only one I remember. The only other thing I recollect about President
Wilson is that he had a great admiration for Lord Robert Cecil.

General Sackville-West came, and we had some peaceful sittings. A very
calm, very sad man, but he was kindness itself. Many are the acts for
which I have to thank him.

Lord Beatty arrived in Paris. A lunch was given in his honour at the
Embassy, after which he came back with me to the "Astoria," and sat. (p. 108)
A forceful character! I may be wrong, but I imagine he did not love
the "frocks."

George Adam gave a great dinner one night out at some little country
place near Paris. Mr. Massey, of New Zealand, and Admiral Heaton Ellis
were the two chief people present. Massey was a most pleasant big man,
with kind, blue eyes--a simple, honest, straightforward person, large
in body and big enough in brain to laugh at himself. He made me feel I
was back painting the honest people in the war. He had none of the
affectations of the "frocks."

I painted the Marquis Siongi in his flat in the Rue Bassano. There one
worked in the calm of the East. People entered the room, people left,
but I never heard a sound. The Marquis sat--never for one second did
his expression give an inkling of what his brain was thinking about.
He never moved; his eyelids never fluttered, and beside me all the
time I worked, curled up on a sofa, was his daughter--surely one of
the most beautiful women I have ever seen, soft and gentle, with her
lovely little white feet. I loved it all. When I left that flat I
could not help feeling I was going downstairs to a lower and more
common world, a world where passions and desires were thrust upon
one's eyes and ears, leaving no room for imagination or wonder. I
never pass down the Rue Bassano now that I do not think of the Marquis
and those lovely little white feet, the gentle manners and the calm of
the East which pervaded those apartments.

General Smuts sat, a strong personality with great love for his own
country, and a fearless blue eye. I would not like to be up against
him, yet in certain ways he was a dreamer and poet in thought. He
loved the people and hated the "frocks." He and I had a great night
once at the servants' dance down in the ballroom of the "Majestic." (p. 109)
I found him down there during the evening, and he said: "You've got
sense, Orpen. There is life down here, but upstairs it's 'just
death.'"

[Illustration: XLVII. _The Marquis Siongi._]

Mary was, of course, the "Belle of the Ball." No description of the
Peace Conference could be complete without including Mary. One great
man said that the most joyous sight he saw in Paris was Mary. Mary
doled us out tea and cigarettes in the hall of the "Majestic"--doled
them out with a smile of pure health. Mary came from Manchester, yet
she made the Parisian girls look pale, pallid and washed out. Her rosy
cheeks had a smile for everyone, men and women; one and all loved
Mary. She really was the greatest personal success of the Peace
Conference. How the people of Manchester must have missed her, and how
lucky they are to have her back again!

Another delegate with no affectation was Mr. Barnes, a restful,
thoughtful soul. He brought Mrs. Barnes in one afternoon, a charming,
quiet lady. They should be painted together as an ideal English
couple.

Another good Englishman, Lord Derby, our Ambassador, sat to me. Some
day will be known all the good he has done in France. Loved by all,
this joyous, bluff, big-hearted Englishman has done great things in
keeping friendship and goodwill between the two nations through many
anxious moments. One felt better after being at the Embassy and
hearing his great laugh. He was not a bit like a "frock"; whether he
loved them or not, I don't know. He was far too clever to let me know,
but he was too kind-hearted to hurt anybody or anything, and he
certainly loved the fighting man--French, English or American.

Mr. Hughes made a big mark at the Conference. He was as deaf as a (p. 110)
post, but he had a cutting wit. Many are the good stories told about
him, but they are not mine. Clemenceau and he used to have great
jokes. Often I have seen them rocking with laughter together,
Clemenceau's grey-gloved hands on Hughes' shoulders, leaning over him
and shouting into his enormous deaf cars. He came to sit one day with
_The Times_. He said: "Good morning." I asked him to sit in a chair.
He sat, read _The Times_ for about an hour and a half, murmured
something that I did not catch, got up and left. The next day he rang
up and asked if I wished for another sitting. I said: "No, sir," so
that was my only personal meeting with Hughes; but I gather he was
extremely cute and cunning, which is quite possible from the general
make-up of his head.

That warrior, General Carton de Wiart, V.C., came to sit: a man who
loved war. What a happy nature! He told me he never suffered any pain
from all his wounds except once--mental pain--when he temporarily lost
the sight of his other eye, and he thought he might be blind for life.
A joyous man, so quiet, so calm, so utterly unaffected. What a lesson
to the "frocks"!

Another man of great personal charm was Paul Hymans, of Belgium. He
was greatly liked and respected by the British delegates.

[Illustration: XLVIII. _A Polish Messenger._]

CHAPTER XV (p. 111)

PARIS DURING THE PEACE CONFERENCE

Shortly after I arrived in Paris I found one could get "Luxury Tax
Tickets." I had never heard of a Luxury Tax up North, but it was in
force in Paris right enough. So I went to H.Q. Central Area, and
inside the door whom should I meet but my one-time "Colonel" of G.H.Q.
"Hello!" said he. "What are you doing in Paris?" "Painting the Peace
Conference, sir," said I. "Well, what do you want here?" he asked.
"I've come for some Luxury Tax Tickets, sir." "To what are you
attached now?" he asked. "C.P.G.H.Q., sir," said I. "Well," he said,
"if you are attached to G.H.Q. you must go there and get your Luxury
Tax Tickets. You can't get them here." "Right, sir," said I. "Will you
please sign an order for me to proceed to G.H.Q. to obtain Luxury Tax
Tickets and return? and I will start right away, sir." "Well," he
said, "perhaps, after all, I will allow you to have some here, as you
are working in Paris." "Thank you very much indeed, sir," said I,
clicking my heels and saluting. But it was no good, we never could
become friends, as I said before.

One afternoon in the hall at the "Astoria" I saw a strange man--a
paintable person--and I asked the Security Officers to get him to sit
to me. He was a Polish messenger. He came along the next morning, sat
down and smoked his silver pipe. I said: "Can you understand any (p. 112)
English?" "Yes," said he, in a strong Irish accent, "I can a bit."
"But," I said, "you talk it very well. Have you lived in Ireland?"
"No," said he, "but I went to the States for about six months some
fifteen years or more back, and that's where I picked up the wee bit I
have." I began to think he must be de Valera or some other hero in
disguise. Perhaps he was.

Field-Marshal Sir Henry Wilson asked me to dine at the "Majestic" one
night. In the afternoon I got a telephone message that the place for
the dinner had been changed from the "Majestic" to the Embassy. When I
reached there I was received by Sir Henry (Lord and Lady Derby were
also present). He apologised to me for the room being a little cold.
At dinner, which was perfect, he found fault and apologised for the
food, for the wine, for the waiting--nothing was right. It was great
fun. He kept it up all the evening. When saying good-bye to Their
Excellencies, he said: "I can't tell you how sorry I am about
everything being so bad to-night, but I'll ask you out to a restaurant
another night and give you some decent food and drink."

About this time I painted Lord Riddell, who, with George Mair and
others, was looking after the interests of the Press. Meetings were
held twice a day and news was doled out by Riddell, such news as the
P.M. saw fit that the Press should know. Great was the trouble when
George Adam would suddenly burst into print with some news that had
not been received through this particular official channel. Adam,
having worked in Paris for years, knew endless channels for news that
the others had no knowledge of.

Riddell was a great chap, full of energy, full of an immense burning (p. 113)
desire for knowledge on every subject, too, in the world. One always
found him asking questions, often about things that one would think it
was impossible he should take any interest in. He must have a
tremendous amount of knowledge stored up in that fine brain of his,
for he never forgets, not even little things. He was most kind to us
all and was hospitality itself. He personally was a very simple
feeder, and he never drank any wine or spirits, but nothing was too
good for those he entertained. A lovable man, well worthy of all the
honours he has received. He had a great support in his secretary, Mrs.
Read, a charming, gracious lady, who probably worked harder during
those days than anyone else, except, perhaps, Sir Maurice Hankey.

[Illustration: XLIX. _Lord Riddell._]

One night I dined at "Ciro's" with George Adam and some others. I was
late when I came in. Before we went into the dining-room, Adam told me
to take notice of an English lady who was sitting a couple of tables
away from ours. This I did, and I remembered having seen her
constantly at the "Berkeley Hotel," London, years before. She was most
peculiarly dressed in some sort of stuff that looked like curtains,
tall and slim, with a refined, good-looking face, but a somewhat
strange look in her eyes. She was with two men. Presently a lady
joined the group from another table. Dancing began, and she left with
one of the men, danced and came back again. I could not remember her
name, so I asked Philippe, who told me she was an English duchess, but
he could not remember what she duched over.

After dinner we went out and sat and watched the dancing and I forgot
all about her. About eleven o'clock, during a lull between dances, she
appeared before me. The moment she appeared two large waiters seized (p. 114)
her by the back of the neck and ran her up the dance-hall and threw
her out. A strange sight, surely! An English "duchess" being thrown
out of a dance-hall in Paris.

Having been given a most excellent dinner by Adam, my feelings were
roused at this peculiar treatment of the English aristocracy, so I
went over to Philippe and asked him what he meant by this disgraceful
behaviour to an English lady. He replied: "The men she was with left
an hour ago." "But," said I, "I never saw her behave badly. Why didn't
you ask her to leave?" "I did," said he, "but she just patted me on
the back, and said, 'Don't let that worry you, old chap.'" Still, my
feelings--thanks still to the dinner--were roused, so I went out into
the hall to try and find her, as I had noticed she was wearing about
twenty thousand pounds' worth of pearls round her neck. Not that I
meant to take these, but I hated the thought of someone else doing so,
and I wished to see her safely home, but she had gone--vanished! The
only thing I learnt was that she was staying at the "Ritz." But when I
inquired there they informed me that they were housing no English
duchess.

A few days later I was passing the "Hotel Chatham" and I saw her
coming towards me, very well dressed, in white furs this time and the
large globes of pearls still round her neck. She walked straight up to
me: "I want you to do something for me," she said. I don't remember
what I replied, but she said: "Don't be frightened--it's not immoral.
I'm not that sort. I just want you to come along with me to 'The Hole
in the Wall.'" "Where is it?" I asked. "I don't know," she said.
"That's what I want you for. I want you to find 'The Hole in the
Wall.'" "I'm sorry, Madam," I said, "I can't do it. I've got an (p. 115)
engagement." She wiggled her finger in front of my nose, and said:
"Ah, naughty, naughty boy!" and went on her way. I followed at a safe
distance. Every man she met, no matter what class or nationality, she
stopped, all the way down the boulevard, and asked them to find "The
Hole in the Wall" for her.

None did, however, even though she was quite near it all the time, and
the last I saw of her was when she disappeared down the steps of
Olympia alone. Not quite the place for an English "duchess" to go
alone, with twenty thousand pounds' worth of pearls in full view. I
wonder who she was and where she is now? Perhaps in "The Hole in the
Wall."

About this time I introduced Lord Riddell to Mrs. Glyn, and we had
some very amusing out-of-door dinners at Laurent's. During dinner and
afterwards, Mrs. Glyn would teach us many things about life, Nature
and love: why women lost their lovers; why men did not keep their
wives; the correct way to make love; the stupid ordinary methods of
the male; what the female expected; what she ought to expect, and what
she mostly got. It was all very pleasant, the modulated voice of
Elinor under the trees and twinkling stars. Her elocution was
certainly remarkable, and Lord Riddell's dinners excellent.

CHAPTER XVI (p. 116)

THE SIGNING OF THE PEACE

The great day of the signing of the Peace was drawing near, and I
worked hard to get the centre window in the Hall of Mirrors reserved
for the artists. In the end, the French authorities sanctioned this.
They also promised to do a lot more things which would have made the
ceremony much more imposing, but these they did not do. It is a
strange thought, but surely true, that the French as a nation seem to
take, at present, little interest in pomp and ceremony. The meetings
of the delegates at the "Quai d'Orsay," the handing over of the Peace
Terms to our late enemies, were all rather rough-and-tumble affairs,
and, in the end, the great signing of the Treaty had not as much
dignity as a sale at Christie's. How different must the performance
have been in 1870! One man, at least, was there who knew the
difference--Lord Dunraven, who attended both ceremonies.

I drove out in the morning to Versailles with George Mair and Adam,
and we all had lunch at the "Hotel des Reservoirs." When we started to
go to the Palace I found they had yellow Press tickets, by which they
were admitted by the side gate nearest the hotel; but I had a white
ticket, and had to enter by the main front gate. When I went round
towards this gate I found that all the way down the square, and
further along the road as far as the eye could see, the route was (p. 117)
lined with people, about one hundred deep, with two rows of French
cavalry in front. These people had all taken their places, and they
would not let me through. I thought for sure I was going to miss the
show, and the sweat of nerves broke out on me. By great luck I met a
French Captain, to whom I, in my very broken French, explained my
plight. He was most kind, took my card, made a way through the crowd,
explained and showed my card to the military horsemen, and I was let
through. Then the sweat began to run. I found myself about
three-quarters of a mile away from the entrance to the Palace, all by
myself in this human-sided avenue--thousands of people staring at me.
I expected every minute to be arrested. Naturally, no one else entered
on foot. They all drove up in their cars. Guards at the gates scanned
my dripping face, but not a word was uttered to me, no pass was asked
for--nothing!

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