A REVOLUTION DIARY

NANCY MITFORD

16 May. We have heard the young leaders on television for three quarters of an hour. It was very tiring. There is a fat boy whose name I didn't hear; the other two are suitably named Sauvageot and Cohn- Bandit. People's names are so often suit- able: Montgomery, Alexander, de Gaulle, Wilson, Brown and so on. Sauvageot apes Robespierre, cold and quiet, hoping to be creepy no doubt and not quite succeeding. Bandit very reminiscent of Esmond Romil- ly — a bounding, energetic little anarchist, giggling from time to time but not making jokes which one might have liked. The fat boy seems the most human of the three.

Having said how much they despised everything in life, especially money, they keenly gave the numbers of their postal accounts so that we could hurry out and send them some. There was a great deal of wailing about their treatment by the police. I despise them for it. They were out for a rough-up and they got it. Nobody was killed and now they are behaving like babies who have been slapped. It's not very dignified.

The postman has made our blood run cold by saying 'tout va changer'. He comes an hour late and dumps the neighbour's

Nancy Mitford was living in France during the events of 1968 that threatened to overthrow the government. She sent de- spatches to The Spectator, now collected in Views from Abroad: The Spectator Book of Travel, published this week.

letters, and I must say mine, in my box. Madame Pines said to Marie, my old servant, 'What is the General waiting for? As soon as he has gone everything will be all right.' I told Marie to remember that this lady is a most fearful idiot. She is the only person I know down here [Nancy Mitford (Mrs Peter Rodd) lived about a mile from Versailles] who is against the General. But then to be quite honest she is the only real have-not that I know. Even so, her little flat is adorable and with her work and her late husband's pension she is absolutely comfortable. . . .

19 May. General strike so, as I haven't got a car, I am stuck here. Very good for work. The wireless has been taken over and the announcers who used to seem such dears have suddenly become extremely frighten- ing. They rattle out bad news like machine guns. The French seem to have turned into Gadarene swine.

I've got a great friend in the town who is a workman at Renault's where the strike began. I have dined with him and his wife and they have dined here. I went along to see them. Both very Gaullist. According to them nobody wants to strike, but what can one do? They say one has got to, and that's that. It seems Renault are having trouble keeping up their pickets because the work- men, who have all got cars, want to go away for the weekend.

20 May. The wireless is terrifying. If the BBC were not always so utterly wrong about French affairs I would listen to it, but what is the good? They understand nothing. The Figaro still appears, scream- ing 'do something' to the government like a hysterical woman whose house is on fire. Marie tells her beads whenever there s nothing else to do. I am afraid that I think like Frederick the Great that God exists but leaves us pretty well alone to make our muddles while we are here. !'To good bothering Him, I'm afraid. 'Mrs Rodd is on the line again, Almighty.' Tell her to get on with her work . .

23 May. The new Archbishop of Paris speaks of much misery. It's so strange where is this misery? One sentence recurs among all my modest friends here: 'La France a ete trop heureuse.' My impression for several years now has been that France is almost entirely bourgeoise. Marie's father was a very poor peasant and his children were brought up almost hungry. But her nephews and nieces are more well off. All with motor-cars and little weekend houses. . .

24 May. More trouble with the students last night. Cohn-Bandit is not being 'allowed back from Germany. A move which seems to me fatal but is wildly applauded by everybody here. I can just imagine the fun he'll have getting in which of course he will. Lovely cloak and dagger stuff, and then how will they ever dig him out of the Sorbonne?

All night a pitched battle raged around Jean de Gaigmeron's house. I hope he's gone away. These battles are a nightmare for those in nearby houses because of the tear gas which seeps in and can't be got out for ages. Marie says all these young people seem very ma! eleve. Tony Gandarillas rang. He says Jean had an awful night and the streets are still full of gas.

Went to the market. Never saw so much food. Bought chicory for Marie who can't find it here and craves it. How can she? Things seem a shade more hopeful, I should say.

25 May. The General was perfect last night. After the flood of words we've been treated to of late, it was a relief to hear something short, sharp and to the point. But I've got a feeling that he is fed up. Though he will do his duty of course for as long as he can.

I've just turned on the wireless. It seems they had another sick night in Paris. Fouchet made a statement. He says the pegres have crept out from under the stones. I remember Bodley once talking to a French friend about the Commune and saying, 'What can have happened to all those savages who, such a little time ago, set fire to everything and skinned live horses in the streets?' They are still there,' he replied. The men of General Leclerc's division have issued a statement to say that they didn't liberate Paris in order to see it destroyed from within and are ready at any time to come and keep order. Mendes- France, gloating over the riots from a balcony, said the police have got an unfair advantage. Thank God. Bertrand says the problem is democratic. There are too many Young people and they are turning against the old everywhere. . . . 26 May. Leon Zitrone reappeared on the television last night smiling and pimpant. But this morning all the RTF journalists are on strike, saying the news they have to give is not objective. That beats me — there has been a running river of communist propaganda for a week. Perhaps they want to keep Pompidou off the air.

The General told the new American ambassador that the future belongs to God, but the Archbishop who broadcast last night never mentioned God. He only spoke of material things like wages. Though at the end he said that Christians could pray. Marie didn't notice the oddity of this and I didn't point it out. Madame Saclay says it's the new style in the Church. The accent is no longer on God but on living conditions. I got her on her own and asked if Suzanne (the daughter) had been surprised by the revolt of her fellow students. She says Suzanne is deeply reli- gious and takes everything calmly but she 4 On my way home from the park two boys on a motor-bike pretended they were trying to kill me has been saying for a long time now that the boys — though not the girls — have been spoiling for a fight. Madame Saclay, like many people here, thinks the unrest comes from a physical desire for violence. Young friends of ours from the Argentine who until recently had been living in the Cite des Arts, an annexe of the university, and who still go about with students, told Bodley that so far from foreseeing events they were astounded by them. They had a horrid frightening time when lunatics surged into their street and set fire to the dustbins. Our faithful dustman still comes, by the way. Marie dreamed all night of the General. She worries about him. I wonder if he knows how much people like her love him.

What a volcano this country is! Of course one knows it may erupt at any moment; but as with real volcanoes the soil is rich and so fertile in every way that having once lived here any alternative seems unthinkable.

27 May.Today I gave the whole thing a rest and only listened to the news at dinner time. The strikers have not accepted the government's protocol. They say if they do, in a few months the country will be ruined and they will be blamed. Good joke — but where do we go from here? The students are upset because they have lost the limelight, reminding one of a little girl I could name who has to be the centre of attention or else. The fat boy has resigned from the students' union to devote himself to politics. We certainly need more like him in public life.

It now seems they think that everybody over 30 ought to be dead. Marie Antoin- ette, when she became Queen, said she didn't know how people over 30 dared show their faces at court. She called them les siecles. Poor dear, she was soon over 30 herself and didn't end too well. The political associates of the Sorbonne geron- tophobes are Waldeck-Rocher, who looks like the father of Yul Brynner, Mendes- France, aged 61, and the taureau de la Nievre [Mitterrand], who at 52 is no lad. Perhaps they count as being in the second childhood.

The chemists in Paris are out of stock but tons of medicaments are said to have been squirrelled away at the Sorbonne. I do hope our future rulers are not a bunch of hypochondriacs.

28 May. The French wireless has asked anybody who knows of a full petrol pump to report it. I am fairly public-spirited but if I knew of a full petrol pump I should tell my friends and not the French wireless in its present mood.

Went to the town and bought a few things to hoard, a practice to which so far I have not lent myself, but I took as much as I could carry and only things abhorred by the French like Quaker Oats . . .

On my way home from the park two boys on a motor-bike pretended they were trying to kill me, following me up on to the wide footpath; but I must say when I laughed so did they, and went away with friendly waves. I do hope the over-thirties are going to be killed mercifully and quickly and not starved to death in camps.

Mitterrand on the tele — Marie kept up a running commentary and I was laughing so much at it that perhaps I didn't get his message correctly, but the impression was that he is claiming a coup d'etat. Then we had Pompidou, whose calm reasonable manner inspires optimism every time that he appears. He asked for a secret ballot in the factories. What a hope! I also heard William Pickles from London, who said that Mendes-France is every Englishman's favourite French prime minister, but not every Frenchman's. This is true.

29 May. I hear that the Embassy Rolls- Royce has been all round Paris delivering cards for the garden party — that's the spirit — up the old land.

At luncheon-time the wireless announced that the General has left for Colombey. Marie and I looked at each other in terror and despair, but is seems he has only gone to ponder and will be back tomorrow. There is now a rush of politi- cians to the microphones — all kindly say they are ready to take over. God preserve us from any of them: even the students might be better than those old hacks. What do the students really want? We know so little about them; when they appeared on the tele their only cry was, 'Down with everything.' Fouchet said rather impatient- ly the other day they've got ideals everybody has at that age, but what ideals! People over 30 must go, nobody need learn anything or pass any exams (as an auto- didact myself I see the point — though as a taxpayer I can't quite see in that case what the schools and universities are for). Peo- ple who don't agree with them must keep their mouths shut. They enjoy lighting fires and desecrating war memorials. They have also said down with concrete — hear hear, but where will everybody live? In tents? None of this constitutes a positive prog- ramme. They now say they will go from house to house and explain their policy. I can't wait. Marie thinks if we let them in they will be laying plans for future burg- lary. Never mind, I must see them.

In the grocer's shop a woman said, 'Is the post office open?' Of course it is, it's occupied.' General laughter.

30 May. I hadn't quite realised what a hermit I am by nature — the days go by and I have no desire to move from my house and garden. I haven't done so for three weeks now. Of course one is virtually kept going by the excitement. We live in a thrilling serial story and the next instal- ment will be the General's statement this afternoon.

(Later). I waited for it feeling quite sick but as soon as he opened his mouth one knew everything would be all right. France is not going to be handed over like a parcel to a regime which she may or may not want without being allowed to say 'Yes' or 'No'.

I went to the market and thought the shoppers in the streets were looking more cheerful already. Then the demonstration in the Champs Elysees, reported in full and with enthusiasm on the wireless, showed that the General has not lost his magic. I'd have given anything to leave my house and garden for that.

The eight o'clock news on television was a real muddle. . . . But we were shown a lovely photograph of Mendes-France and Mitterrand looking like two vampires who had seen a piece of garlic.

31 May. Woke up feeling as though I had come out of a nightmare. People who went to the Etoile yesterday say it was like the Liberation. The General's ADC, hearing

4 There was a letter in one of the papers from a woman whose hedgehog speaks to her — I am jealous y

the noise from the Elysee, said, 'That's all for you, mon General.' To which de Gaulle replied, 'If it were only me.' The Parisians have been bottled up for about a fortnight but it seemed much longer and the sky looked black indeed. Now they have ex- ploded.

Some hours after the demonstration the taureau de la Nievre was caught between two groups of students, Gaullists and anti-Gaullists, in the Boulevard Saint- Germain. They stopped arguing with each other and all rounded on him and a corrida began, from which the poor old bull, puffing and blowing, had to be rescued by those very police about whom he has been so insulting.

The BBC, at it again, says it is evident that the ORTF is back in the hands of the General because no opposition reaction to his speech has been broadcast. Untrue. We have had statements in all the news bulle- tins from every leader except Mendes- France, who has so far refused to com- ment. As a matter of fact, a child of six could have written these statements — they are so predictable and so dull.

I wonder if habitués of the television find the lack of it as much relief as I find the lack of letters? I used to think I lived for the post, now I don't know how I shall bear the sight of it. The joy of letters from various cherished correspondents is out- weighted by all the requests, demands and statements from strangers. Plans to re- member, forms to fill in, and so on, which often occupy my whole morning. I haven't got a secretary and wouldn't care for the physical presence of one. I see that the post office workers are on their way back, so I am doubtless enjoying a last few days of peace . . .

1 June. I took the local bus and went over to Orsay. This little bus, which has been faithfully running all through the troubles, is very symptomatic of the modern world. As every soul in this country except me has got a motor-car it only caters for Arabs and children. I have never seen a fellow- bourgeois in it. The journey is most beauti- ful, through Jouy-en-Josas which, buried in deep woods and composed of 17th-century cottages must look almost exactly as it did when the Duc de Luynes saw Louis XV galloping quite alone down the village street, having lost the hunt. Then one goes through the woods on to a great plain of cornfields and huge farmhouses — the atomic centre in the middle of it is not ugly or out-of-scale and is discreetly hidden by poplar trees. Down again into the valley of the Chevreuse and here the spoiling be- gins. Orsay which used to be such a dear little market town, is now part of the Sorbonne, covered with university build- ings in the modern taste. The inhabitants are furious with the students — they say everything has been done for them — huge swimming pools and sports grounds, free holidays in the mountains and so on, and this is how they show their gratitude.

I got hold of some English papers of the last week or two. My goodness they were alarming — no wonder people rang up from London offering blankets and tea. One felt frightened here, but it was for the future the possible ruin of this beautiful land. The bang on the door and the commissaire telling one to pack up a change of linen and go. There was a letter in one of the papers from a woman whose hedgehog speaks to her — I am jealous. My hedgehogs never address a word to me and I am rather anxious to know their demographic plan.

2 June. Lucy is yearning over the students again. She says they are out in the streets again this morning, beautiful and polite, collecting money for the old — to give a Molotov cocktail party for them, I expect, said I. 'Oh Nancy, you're so cynical.'

Cohn-Bandit's locks are now dyed black — he'll soon look very odd unless he forks out £4 to a hairdresser to have them retinted.

3 June. I went to see my friend from Renault's. He spoke as if everything had already returned to normal, though in fact the strike is still going on: 'Oh la, on a eu chaud.' That's what they always say when France has seemed to be losing a big football match and then wins it. But what will happen to us when Le Grand has gone? I said, 'France explodes like this about once in a generation. Thank God this blow-up happened while the General is still here to cope with it. With any luck at all you and I won't be alive to see the next time.'