A French revolution diary : part two

PERSONAL COLUMN NANCY MITFORD

Nancy Milford lives about a mile from Ver- sailles. The first part of her revolution diary appeared last week.

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, remind- ing me of a little girl I could name who has to be the centre of all 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 thirty ought to be dead. Marie Antoinette, when she became Queen, said she didn't know how people over thirty dared show their faces at court. She called them les siecles. Poor dear, she was soon over thirty herself and didn't end too well. The political associates of the Sor- bonne gerontophobes are Waldeck-Rocher, who looks like the father of Yul Brynner, Mendes- France, aged sixty-one, and the taureau de la Nievre (Mitterrand), who at fifty-two is no lad. Perhaps they count as being in their 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 hypo- chondriacs.

28 May Lucy rang up—she abandoned the *7 red bonnet when the young Dela- croix of the Sorbonne, so beautiful and so polite, took to incendiarism. She has been back there and I. gather that its denizens are begin- ning to look Jess like Delacroix and more like Van Gogh. She says she can't go on living in a town where the hairdresser takes £4 and the

doctor takes told her not to worry a bit, very soon there will be no hairdressers or doctors. All very well for you, she said, with your wiry hair and perfect health. She's off to London, so my link with the Sorbonne has gone.

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 only took as much as I could carry and only things abhorred by the French like Quaker Oats.

Madame Denis told Marie that she knows somebody who has hoarded £40 worth of food and added darkly, `So if things turn out badly we know where to go'; but on Saturday she touched my heart by saying I mustn't give her her week's wages if it was awkward for me.

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.

K rang up to say she has got some petrol and can she take me anywhere—what an angel she is. I said, 'No, but I would love to see you.' Like Marie, she worries about the General. Evidently the people in Chatou where she lives are thinking and saying the same things as my neighbours. The same words. `France has been too happy,' seem to recur as they do here.

Mitterrand on the tele—Marie kept up a run- ning 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 opti- mism 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 English- man's favourite French prime minister, but not every Frenchman's. This is true. I wish the BBC correspondents here were as well informed as Mr Pickles—but they seem to hate France and to predict a worst for which they long. The worst will probably occur but one can't be certain that it will.

29 May The French architects are demand- ing liberty—in other words. anarchy—in other words, a free hand to pull down Paris and put up New York.

I saw a young man selling L'Action Fran- caise—how typical of Versailles. I had a look at it. It is almost too silly and, readers of this diary will be surprised to hear, even more right wing than I am. De Gaulle and Waldeck- Rocher are put in the same basket and Cohn- Bandit is chiefly reproached for being a German Jew. The only thing I have liked about the students is their slogan—'We are all Ger- man Jews.' If I am a conservative it is because I see so much worth conserving in French society. It seems a pity that all should have to go up in flames for the sake of a few reforms.

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 it seems he has only gone to ponder and will be back tomorrow. There is now a rush of politicians 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 every- thing.' Fouchet said rather impatiently the other day they've got ideals—everybody has at that age, but what ideals! People over thirty must go, nobody need learn anything or pass any exams (as an autodidact myself I see the point—though as a taxpayer I can't quite see in that case what the schools and universities are for). People who don't agree with them must keep their mouths shut. They enjoy light- ing 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 programme. 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 burglary. 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 occu- pied.' 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 instalment 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 411 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 cheer- ful already. Then the demonstration in the Champs Elysees, reported in full and with en- thusiasm 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—perhaps Lady Asquith had got into the building. 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 "J come out of a nightmare. People who went to the ttoile yesterday say it was like the Liberation. The General's ADC, hearing 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 exploded.

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 sac, 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 bulletins from every leader except Mendes-France, who has so far refused to comment. As a matter of fact, a child of six could have written these statements —they are so predictable and so dull.

I wonder if habituds of the television find the lack of it as much a 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 outweighed by all the requests, demands and statements from strangers. Plans to remember, forms to fill in, and so on, which often occupy my whole morn- ing. 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.

The television comes on for the eight o'clock news only, but the news bulletins on the wire- less are as usual. The sale of books has trebled since the strike began. (Later.) Horrors! The beautiful, the brilliant Emmanuel de la Taille, who looks so English and reliable and who reports Common Market and other diplomatic proceedings on the television, is one of the strikers. We have all been anxious over his fate. One thought he was in some dreadful torture chamber of the of re, bravely enduring, like the boy in the Bengal Lancer film without an American mother and a yellow streak; and all the time he was agitating at the Sorbonne. My faith in human nature is not shaken—it is destroyed. It will be most interesting to see what does happen to the ORTF. Reforms have been promised and I suppose much will depend on whether some Lord Reith (Ah oui, Mon- sieur le Baron) can be found to organise it on the lines of the BBC. Some of the striking journalists say they want to run it themselves like a private company or a newspaper. Others say the source of power must be the nation, whatever that means. I hope it won't lose its own special lively character. I feel doubtful about the entertainment value of anything run by the people for the people.

1 June 1 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 beautiful, through Jouy-en-Josas which, buried in deep woods and composed of seventeenth 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 Chev- reuse and here the spoiling begins. Orsay, which used to be such a dear little market town, is now part of the Sorbonne, covered with uni- versity buildings in the modern taste. The in- habitants are furious with the students—they say everything has been done for them—huge swimming pools and sports grounds, free holi- days 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.

I listened to A Word in Edgeways on the sac, as I believe it is supposed to be typical of the conversations people are having at home. I was surprised to find that no distinction seemed to be made between Russian and Chinese forms of communism. It is the latter we are threatened with here, and nothing was said of the demographic aspect of the revolt: the young against the old. A lady speaker said she had met Mendes-France and he is a very democratic sort of chap. He may seem so at a dinner party but his behaviour last week was not democratic at all.

There are many more swallows this year than last. I wonder if this is also true of swifts—I was afraid they were beginning to feel the effects of insecticides.

2 June (Sunday). People are flocking to church. Marie had to wait in a queue for two hours yesterday to confess her saintly sins. Our beautiful Saint Symphorien was overflowing this morning. They collected for the foreigners who have suffered from the strike: not stranded Britons so much as Por- tuguese workmen. 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.' The fact is these students are like a chicken whose head has been cut off—they are running round in circles with nobody pay- ing much attention to them and with nothing to do. They held a demonstration yesterday, but instead of the hundreds of thousands of a week ago they mustered only about 20,000 people.

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 The deepest holiday sleep outside —the streets are far quieter than yesterday, when there was much activity round the church. The public opinion polls show that Mitterrand has lost ground. However, he won't notice that and Frossard said in the Figaro he will probably soon announce his readiness to be Archbishop of Paris. Nothing on the student front except that, fighting having broken out between Jews and Arabs in Belleville, they seized their red flag and sallied forth to join in. Unfortunately they arrived when all was over. They had much better start their lessons again.

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, 'Rance explodes like this about once in a generation. Thank God this blowup 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.'