CHAPTER VIII.
Charles Kemble dined here yesterday, and in the evening read to us his daughter Fanny's Tragedy of Francis the First—a very wonderful production for so young a girl. There is considerable vigour in many parts of this work, and several passages in it reminded me of the old dramatists. The character of "Louisa of Savoy" is forcibly drawn—wonderfully so, indeed, when considered as the production of so youthful a person. The constant association with minds deeply imbued with a love of the old writers, must have greatly influenced the taste of Miss Kemble.
Francis the First bears irrefragable evidence that her reading has lain much among the old poets, and that Shakspeare is one of her most favourite ones. "Triboulet," the king's jester, may be instanced as an example of this; and "Margaret of Valois" furnishes another. "Françoise de Foix" is a more original conception; timid, yet fond, sacrificing her honour to save her brother's life, but rendered wretched by remorse; and not able to endure the presence of her affianced husband, who, believing her pure and sinless as he left her, appeals to her, when "Gonzales" reveals her shame.
This same "Gonzales," urged on by vengeance, and ready to do aught—nay, more than "may become a man,"—to seek its gratification, is a boldly drawn character.
The introduction of the poet "Clément Marot" is no less happy than judicious; and Miss Kemble gives him a very beautiful speech, addressed to his master "Francis the First," in which the charm that reigns about the presence of a pure woman is so eloquently described, as to have reminded me of the exquisite passage in Comus, although there is not any plagiary in Miss Kemble's speech.
A poetess herself, she has rendered justice to the character of Clement Marot, whose honest indignation at being employed to bear a letter from the amorous "Francis" to the sister of "Lautrec," she has very gracefully painted.
The "Constable Bourbon" is well drawn, and has some fine speeches assigned to him; and "Gonzales" gives a spirited description of the difference between encountering death in the battle-field, surrounded by all the spirit-stirring "pomp and circumstance of glorious war," and meeting the grisly tyrant on the scaffold, attended by all the ignominious accessories of a traitor's doom.
This Tragedy, when given to the public, will establish Miss Kemble's claims to distinction in the literary world, and add another laurel to those acquired by her family.
There are certain passages in the speeches of "Gonzales," that, in my opinion, require to be revised, lest they should provoke censures from the fastidious critics of the present time, who are prone to detect evil of which the authors, whose works they analyse, are quite unconscious. Innocence sometimes leads young writers to a freedom of expression from which experienced ones would shrink back in alarm; and the perusal of the old dramatists gives a knowledge of passions, and of sins, known only through their medium, but the skilful developement of which, subjects a female writer, and more particularly a youthful one, to ungenerous animadversion. It is to be hoped, that the friends of this gifted girl will so prune the luxuriance of her pen, as to leave nothing to detract from a work so creditable to her genius.
Charles Kemble rendered ample justice to his daughter's Tragedy by his mode of reading it; and we counted not the hours devoted to the task. How many reminiscences of the olden time were called up by hearing him!
I remembered those pleasant evenings when he used to read to us in London, hour after hour, until the timepiece warned us to give over. I remembered, too, John Kemble—"the great John Kemble," as Lord Guildford used to call him—twice or thrice reading to us with Sir T. Lawrence; and the tones of Charles Kemble's voice, and the expression of his face, forcibly reminded me of our departed friend.
I have scarcely met with a more high-bred man, or a more agreeable companion, than Charles Kemble. Indeed, were I called on to name the professional men I have known most distinguished for good breeding and manners, I should name our four tragedians,—the two Kembles, Young, and Macready.
Sir Francis Burdett dined here yesterday en famille, and we passed two very pleasant hours. He related to us many amusing and interesting anecdotes connected with his political life.
Went to the Opera in the evening, whither he accompanied us. I like my box very much. It is in the centre of the house, is draped with pale blue silk, and has very comfortable chairs. The Parisians are, I find, as addicted to staring as the English; for many were the glasses levelled last night at Sir Francis Burdett who, totally unconscious of the attention he excited, was wholly engrossed by the "Count Ory," some of the choruses in which pleased me very much.
A visit to-day from our excellent and valued friend, Sir A. Barnard, who has promised to dine with us to-morrow. Paris is now filling very fast, which I regret, as I dislike crowds and having my time broken in upon.
I become more convinced every day I live, that quiet and repose are the secrets of happiness, for I never feel so near an approach to this blessing as when in the possession of them. General society is a heavy tax on time and patience, and one that I feel every year less inclination to pay, as I witness the bad effect it produces not only on the habits but on the mind.
Oh! the weariness of listening for hours to the repetition of past gaieties, or the anticipation of future ones, to the commonplace remarks or stupid conversation of persons whose whole thoughts are engrossed by the frivolous amusements of Paris, which are all and every thing to them!
How delicious is it to shut out all this weariness, and with a book, or a few rationally minded friends, indulge in an interchange of ideas! But the too frequent indulgence of this sensible mode of existence exposes one to the sarcasms of the frivolous who are avoided.
One is deemed a pedant—a terrible charge at Paris!—or a bas bleu, which is still worse, however free the individual may be from any pretensions to merit such charges.
Paid a visit to the justly celebrated Mademoiselle Mars yesterday, at her beautiful hôtel in the Rue de la Tour des Dames. I have entertained a wish ever since my return from Italy, to become acquainted with this remarkable woman; and Mr. Young was the medium of accomplishing it.
Mademoiselle Mars is even more attractive off the stage than on; for her countenance beams with intelligence, and her manners are at once so animated, yet gentle; so kind, yet dignified; and there is such an inexpressible charm in the tones of her voice, that no one can approach without being delighted with her.
Her conversation is highly interesting, marked by a good sense and good taste that render her knowledge always available, but never obtrusive. Her features are regular and delicate; her figure, though inclined to embonpoint, is very graceful, and her smile, like the tones of her voice, is irresistibly sweet, and reveals teeth of rare beauty. Mademoiselle Mars, off the stage, owes none of her attractions to the artful aid of ornament; wearing her own dark hair simply arranged, and her clear brown complexion free from any artificial tinge. In her air and manner is the rare and happy mixture of la grande dame et la femme aimable, without the slightest shade of affectation.
Mademoiselle Mars' hôtel is the prettiest imaginable. It stands in a court yard, wholly shut in from the street; and, though not vast, it has all the elegance, if not the splendour, of a fine house. Nothing can evince a purer taste than this dwelling, with its decorations and furniture. It contains all that elegance and comfort can require, without any thing meretricious or gaudy, and is a temple worthy of the goddess to whom it is dedicated.
It has been well observed, that a just notion of the character of a person can always be formed by the style of his or her dwelling. Who can be deceived in the house of a nouveau riche? Every piece of furniture in it vouches, not only for the wealth of its owner, but that he has not yet got sufficiently habituated to the possession of it, to be as indifferent to its attributes as are those to whom custom has rendered splendour no longer a pleasure.
Every thing in the house of Mademoiselle Mars bespeaks its mistress to be a woman of highly cultivated mind and of refined habits.
The boudoir is in the style of Louis XIV, and owes its tasteful decorations to the pencil of Ciceri. The pictures that ornament it are by Gérard, and are highly creditable to his reputation. The library serves also as a picture-gallery; and in it may be seen beautiful specimens of the talents of the most esteemed French artists, offered by them as a homage to this celebrated woman. Gérard, Delacroix, Isabey, Lany, Grévedon, and other distinguished artists, have contributed to this valuable collection. A fine portrait of Madame Pasta, and another of Talma, with two exquisite pictures of the mother of Mademoiselle Mars, not less remarkable for the rare beauty of the subject than for the merit of the artists, complete it.
One book-case in the library contains only the presentation copies of the pieces in which Mademoiselle Mars has performed, magnificently bound by the authors.
On a white marble console in this gallery is placed an interesting memorial of her brilliant theatrical career, presented to her by the most enthusiastic of its numerous admirers. It consists of a laurel crown, executed in pure gold; on the leaves of which are engraved on one side, the name of each piece in which she appeared, and, on the other, the rôle which she acted in it. A very fine statue of Molière is placed in this apartment.
Never did two hours glide more rapidly away than those passed in the society of this fascinating woman, whose presence I left penetrated with the conviction that no one can know without admiring her; and that when she retires from the stage, "we shall not look upon her like again."
Passed a very agreeable evening, at Madame Craufurd's, Met there la Duchesse de la Force, and the usual circle of habitués. Talking of theatres, some of la Vieille Cour, who happened to be present, remarked on the distinction always made between the female performers of the different ones. Those of the Théâtre Français were styled "Les Dames de la Comédie Française"; "those of the Théâtre Italien," "Les Demoiselles du Théâtre Italien;" and the dancers, "Les Filles de l'Opéra." This last mode of naming les danseuses, though in later times considered as a reproach, was, originally, meant as an honourable distinction; the king, on establishing the Académie Royale de Musique, having obtained the privilege that the performers attached to it should be exempt from excommunication. Hence they were named, "Les Filles de l'Opéra," as persons sometimes said "Les Filles de la Reine."
À propos of the Opera, Madame Grassini, once no less celebrated for her beauty than for her voice, was of the party last night. She is, and deservedly, a general favourite in Parisian society, in which her vivacity, good-nature, and amiability, are duly appreciated. Her lively sallies and naïve remarks are very amusing; and the frankness and simplicity she has preserved in a profession and position so calculated to induce the reverse, add to her attractions and give piquancy to her conversation.
There are moments in which Madame Grassini's countenance becomes lighted up with such animation, that it seems to be invested with a considerable portion of the rare beauty for which she was so remarkable.
Her eyes are still glorious, and, like those only of the sunny South, can flash with intelligence, or melt with tenderness. It is when conversing on the grand rôles which she filled as prima donna, that her face lights up as I have noticed,—as the war-horse, when hearing the sound of the trumpet, remembers the scene of his past glory.
When in Italy, some years since, Madame Grassini's carriage was stopped by brigands, who, having compelled her to descend, ransacked it and took possession of her splendid theatrical wardrobe, and her magnificent diamonds.
She witnessed the robbery with calmness, until she saw the brigands seize the portrait of the Emperor Napoleon, presented to her by his own hand, and set round with large brilliants, when she appealed to them with tears streaming down her cheeks to take the settings and all the diamonds, but not to deprive her of the portrait of her "dear, dear Emperor!" When this circumstance was referred to she told me the story, and her eyes glistened with tears while relating it.
Went to Orsay yesterday, and passed a very agreeable day there. It was a fortified chateau, and must have been a very fine place before the Revolution caused, not only its pillage, but nearly total destruction, for only one wing of it now remains.
Built in the reign of Charles VII, it was esteemed one of the best specimens of the feudal château fort of that epoch; and the subterranean portion of it still attests its former strength and magnitude.
It is surrounded by a moat, not of stagnant water, but supplied by the river Ivette, which flows at the base of the hill on which the château stands. The water is clear and brisk and the château looks as if it stood in a pellucid river. The view from the windows is very extensive, commanding a rich and well-wooded country.
The chapel escaped not the ravages of the sacrilegious band, who committed such havoc on the château; for the beautiful altar, and some very interesting monuments, were barbarously mutilated, and the tomb of the Princesse de Croy, the mother of General Count d'Orsay, on which a vast sum had been expended, was nearly razed to the ground.
If aught was required to increase my horror of revolutions, and of the baleful consequences to which they lead, the sight of this once splendid château, and, above all, of its half-ruined chapel, in which even the honoured dead were insulted, would have accomplished it.
An heiress of one of the most ancient houses in the Pays-Bas, the Princesse de Croy brought a noble dowry to her husband, himself a man of princely fortune. Young and beautiful, her munificence soon rendered her an object of almost, adoration to the dependents of her lord; and when soon after having given birth to a son and heir, the present General Comte d'Orsay, she was called to another world, her remains were followed to her untimely grave by a long train of weeping poor, whose hearts her bounty had often cheered, and whose descendants were subsequently horror-struck to see the sanctity of her last earthly resting-place invaded.
We passed through the hamlet of Palaiseau, on our return to Paris; and saw in it the steeple where the magpie concealed the silver spoons he had stolen, and which occasioned the event from which the drama of La Pie Voleuse, known in so many languages, has had its origin.
The real story ended not so happily as the opera, for the poor girl was executed—the spoons not having been discovered until after her death. This tragedy in humble life has attached great interest to the steeple at Palaiseau, and has drawn many persons to the secluded hamlet in which it stands.
The Duc and Duchesse de Quiche returned from Luneville yesterday; and we spent last evening with them. The good Duke de Gramont was there, and was in great joy at their return. They all dine with us to-morrow; and Madame Craufurd comes to meet them.
Never have I seen such children as the Duc de Quiche's. Uniting to the most remarkable personal beauty an intelligence and docility as rare as they are delightful; and never did I witness any thing like the unceasing care and attention bestowed on their education by their parents.
Those who only know the Duc and Duchesse in the gay circles, in which they are universally esteemed among the brightest ornaments, can form little idea of them in the privacy of their domestic one—emulating each other in their devotion to their children, and giving only the most judicious proofs of their attachment to them. No wonder that the worthy Duc de Gramont doats on his grandchildren, and never seems so happy as with his excellent son and daughter-in-law.
Went to the Vaudeville Théâtre last evening, to see the new piece by Scribe, so much talked of, entitled Avant, Pendant, et Aprés. There is a fearful vraisemblance in some of the scenes with all that one has read or pictured to oneself, as daily occurring during the terrible days of the Revolution; and the tendency of the production is not, in my opinion, calculated to produce salutary effects. I only wonder it is permitted to be acted.
The piece is divided, as the title announces, into three different epochs. The first represents the frivolity and vices attributed to the days of l'ancien régime, and the tableau des moeurs, which is vividly coloured, leaves no favourable impression in the minds of the audience of that noblesse whose sufferings subsequently expiated the errors said to have accelerated, if not to have produced, the Revolution.
Nothing is omitted that could cast odium on them, as a preparation for the Reign of Terror that follows. The anarchy and confusion of the second epoch—the fear and horror that prevail when the voices and motions of a sanguinary mob are heard in the streets, and the terrified inmates of the houses are seen crouching in speechless terror, are displayed with wonderful truth.
The lesson is an awful, and I think a dangerous, one, and so seemed to think many of the upper class among the audience, for I saw some fair cheeks turn pale, and some furrowed brows look ominous, as the scene was enacted, while those of the less elevated in rank among the spectators assumed, or seemed to assume, a certain fierté, if not ferocity, of aspect, at beholding this vivid representation of the triumph achieved by their order over the noblesse.
It is not wise to exhibit to a people, and above all to so inflammable a people as the French, what they can effect; and I confess I felt uneasy when I witnessed the deep interest and satisfaction evinced by many in the parterre during the representation.
The Après, the third epoch, is even more calculated to encourage revolutionary principles, for in it was displayed the elevation to the highest grades in the army and in the state of those who in the ancien régime would have remained as the Revolution found them, in the most obscure stations, but who by that event had brilliant opportunities afforded for distinguishing themselves.
Heroic courage, boundless generosity, and devoted patriotism, are liberally bestowed on the actors who figure in this last portion of the drama; and, as these qualities are known to have appertained to many of those who really filled the rôles enacted at the period now represented, the scene had, as might be expected, a powerful effect on a people so impressible as the French, and so liable to be hurried into enthusiasm by aught that appeals to their imaginations.
The applause was deafening; and I venture to say, that those from whom it proceeded left the theatre with a conviction that a revolution was a certain means of achieving glory and fortune to those who, with all the self-imagined qualities to merit both, had not been born to either.
Every Frenchman in the middle or lower class believes himself capable of arriving at the highest honours. This belief sometimes half accomplishes the destiny it imagines; but even when it fails to effect this, it ever operates in rendering Frenchmen peculiarly liable to rush into any change or measure likely to lead to even a chance of distinction.
As during the performance of Avant, Pendant et Après, my eye glanced on the faces of some of the emigrant noblesse, restored to France by the entry of the Bourbons, I marked the changes produced on their countenances by it. Anxiety, mingled with dismay, was visible; for the scenes of the past were vividly recalled, while a vague dread of the future was instilled. Yes, the representation of this piece is a dangerous experiment, and so I fear it will turn out.
I am sometimes amused, but more frequently irritated, by observing the moeurs Parisiennes, particularly in the shop-keepers. The airs of self-complacency, amounting almost to impertinence, practised by this class, cannot fail to surprise persons accustomed to the civility and assiduity of those in London, who, whether the purchases made in their shops be large or small, evince an equal politeness to the buyers.
In Paris, the tradesman assumes the right of dictating to the taste of his customers; in London, he only administers to it. Enter a Parisian shop, and ask to be shewn velvet, silk, or riband, to assort with a pattern you have brought of some particular colour or quality, and the mercer, having glanced at it somewhat contemptuously, places before you six or eight pieces of a different tint and texture.
You tell him that they are not similar to the pattern, and he answers, "That may be; nevertheless, his goods are of the newest fashion, and infinitely superior to your model." You say, "You prefer the colour of your pattern, and must match it." He produces half-a-dozen pieces still more unlike what you require; and to your renewed assertion that no colour but the one similar to your pattern will suit you, he assures you, that his goods are superior to all others, and that what you require is out of fashion, and a very bad article, and, consequently, that you had much better abandon your taste and adopt his. This counsel is given without any attempt at concealing the contempt the giver of it entertains for your opinion, and the perfect satisfaction he indulges for his own.
You once more ask, "If he has got nothing to match the colour you require?" and he shrugs his shoulders and answers, "Pourtant, madame, what I have shewn you is much superior," "Very possible; but no colour will suit me but this one," holding up the pattern; "for I want to replace a breadth of a new dress to which an accident has occurred."
"Pourtant, madame, my colours are precisely the same, but the quality of the materials is infinitely better!" and with this answer, after having lost half an hour—if not double that time—you are compelled to be satisfied, and leave the shop, its owner looking as if he considered you a person of decidedly bad taste, and very troublesome into the bargain.
Similar treatment awaits you in every shop; the owners having, as it appears to me, decided on shewing you only what they approve, and not what you seek. The women of high rank in France seldom, if ever, enter any shop except that of Herbault, who is esteemed the modiste, par excellence, of Paris, and it is to this habit, probably, that the want of bienséance so visible in Parisian boutiquiers, is to be attributed.