CHAPTER XIV.
Count Charles de Mornay dined here yesterday, en famille. How clever and amusing he is! Even in his liveliest sallies there is the evidence of a mind that can reflect deeply, as well as clothe its thoughts in the happiest language. To be witty, yet thoroughly good-natured as he is, never exercising his wit at the expense of others, indicates no less kindness of heart than talent.
I know few things more agreeable than to hear him and his cousin open the armoury of their wit, which, like summer lightning, flashes rapidly and brightly, but never wounds. In England, we are apt to consider wit and satire as nearly synonymous; for we hear of the clever sayings of our reputed wits, in nine cases out of ten, allied to some ill-natured bon mot, or pointed epigram. In France this is not the case, for some of the most witty men, and women too, whom I ever knew, are as remarkable for their good nature as for their cleverness. That wit which needs not the spur of malice is certainly the best, and is most frequently met with at Paris.
Went last evening to see Mademoiselle Marsin Henri III. Her acting was, as usual, inimitable. I was disappointed in the piece, of which I had heard much praise. It is what the French call décousue, but is interesting as a picture of the manners of the times which it represents. There is no want of action or bustle in it; on the contrary, it abounds in incidents: but they are, for the most part, puerile. As in our own Othello, a pocket handkerchief leads to the dénouement, reminding one of the truth of the verse,—
"What great events from trivial causes spring!"
The whole court of Henry the Third are brought on the scene, and with an attention to costume to be found only in a Parisian theatre. The strict attention to costume, and to all the other accessories appertaining to the epoch, mise en scène, is very advantageous to the pieces brought out here; but, even should they fail to give or preserve an illusion, it is always highly interesting as offering a tableau du costume, et des moeurs des siècles passés. The crowd brought on the stage in Henri III, though it adds to the splendour of the scenic effect, produces a confusion in the plot; as does also the vast number of names and titles introduced during the scenes, which fatigue the attention and defy the memory of the spectators.
The fierce "Duc de Guise," the slave at once of two passions, generally considered to be the most incompatible, Love and Ambition, is made to commit strange inconsistencies. "Saïnt-Mégrin" excites less interest than he ought; but the "Duchesse de Guise," whose beautiful arm plays a grand rôle, must, as played by Mademoiselle Mars, have conquered all hearts vi et armis.
Henri III has the most brilliant success, and, in despite of some faults, is full of genius, and the language is vigorous. Perhaps its very faults are to be attributed to an excess, rather than to a want, of power, and to a mind overflowing with a knowledge of the times he wished to represent; which led to a dilution of the strength of his scenes, by crowding into them too much extraneous matter.
A curious incident occurred during the representation. Two ladies—gentlewomen they could not be correctly styled—being seated in the balcon, were brought in closer contact, whether by the crowd, or otherwise, than was agreeable to them. From remonstrances they proceeded to murmurs, not only "loud, but deep," and from murmurs—"tell it not in Ascalon, publish it not in Gath"—to violent pushing, and, at length, to blows. The audience were, as well they might be, shocked; the Gendarmes interfered, and order was soon restored. The extreme propriety of conduct that invariably prevails in a Parisian audience, and more especially in the female portion of it, renders the circumstance I have narrated remarkable.
Met Lady G., Lady H., and the usual circle of habitués last night at Madame C——'s. The first-mentioned lady surprises me every time I meet her, by the exaggeration of her sentiment and the romantic notions she entertains. Love, eternal love, is her favourite topic of conversation; a topic unsuited to discussion at her age and in her position.
To hear a woman, no longer young, talking passionately of love, has something so absurd in it, that I am pained for Lady C., who is really a kind-hearted and amiable woman. Her definitions of the passion, and descriptions of its effects, remind me of the themes furnished by Scudéry, and are as tiresome as the tales of a traveller recounted some fifty years after he has made his voyage. Lady H., who is older than Lady G., opens wide her round eyes, laughs, and exclaims, "Oh, dear!—how very strange!—well, that is so funny!" until Lady C. draws up with all the dignity of a heroine of romance, and asserts that "few, very few, are capable of either feeling or comprehending the passion." A fortunate state for those who are no longer able to inspire it!
To grow old gracefully, proves no ordinary powers of mind, more especially in one who has been (oh, what an odious phrase that same has been is!) a beauty. Well has it been observed by a French writer, that women no longer young and handsome should forget that they ever were so.
I have been reading Wordsworth's poems again, and I verily believe for the fiftieth time. They contain a mine of lofty, beautiful, and natural thoughts. I never peruse them without feeling proud that England has such a poet, and without finding a love for the pure and the noble increased in my mind. Talk of the ideal in poetry? what is it in comparison with the positive and the natural, of which he gives such exquisite delineations, lifting his readers from Nature up to Nature's God? How eloquently does he portray the feelings awakened by fine scenery, and the thoughts to which it gives birth!
Wordsworth is, par excellence, the Poet of Religion, for his productions fill the mind with pure and holy aspirations. Fortunate is the poet who has quaffed inspiration in the purest of all its sources, Nature; and fortunate is the land that claims him for her own.
The influence exercised by courts over the habits of subjects, though carried to a less extent in our days than in past times, is still obvious at Paris in the display of religion assumed by the upper class. Coroneted carriages are to be seen every day at the doors of certain churches, which it is not very uncharitable to suppose might be less frequently beheld there if the King, Madame la Dauphine, and the Dauphin were less religious; and hands that have wielded a sword in many a well-fought battle-field, and hold the bâton de maréchal as a reward, may now be seen bearing a lighted cierge in some pious procession,—the military air of the intrepid warrior lost in the humility of the devotee.
This general assumption of religion on the part of the courtiers reminds me forcibly of a passage in a poetical epistle, written, too, by a sovereign, who, unlike many monarchs, seemed to have had a due appreciation of the proneness of subjects to adopt the opinions of their rulers.
"L'exemple d'un monarque ordonne et se fait suivre:
Quand Auguste buvait, la Pologne était ivre;
Et quand Louis le Grand brûlait d'un tendre amour,
Paris devint Cythère, et tout suivait sa cour;
Lorsqu'il devint dévot, ardent à la prière,
Ses lâches courtisans marmottaient leur bréviaire."
Should the Duc de Bordeaux arrive at the throne while yet in the hey-day of youth, and with the gaiety that generally accompanies that period of life, it will be amusing to witness the metamorphosis that will be effected in these same courtiers. There are doubtless many, and I am acquainted with some persons here, whose religion is as sincere and as fervent as is that of the royal personages of the court they frequent; but I confess that I doubt whether the general mass of the upper class would afficher their piety as much as they now do if their regular attendance at divine worship was less likely to be known at the Tuileries. The influence of a pious sovereign over the religious feelings of his people must be highly beneficial when they feel, instead of affecting to do so, the sanctity they profess.
When those in the possession of supreme power, and all the advantages it is supposed to confer, turn from the enjoyment of them to seek support from Heaven to meet the doom allotted to kings as well as subjects, the example is most salutary; for the piety of the rich and great is even more edifying than that of the poor and lowly, who are supposed to seek consolation which the prosperous are imagined not to require.
The Duchesse de Berri is very popular at Paris, and deservedly so. Her natural gaiety harmonises With that of this lively people; and her love of the fine arts, and the liberal patronage she extends to them, gratify the Parisians.
I heard an anecdote of her to-day from an authority which leaves no doubt of its truth. Having commanded a brilliant fête, a heavy fall of snow drew from one of her courtiers a remark that the extreme cold would impede the pleasure of the guests, who would suffer from it in coming and departing, "True," replied the Duchesse; "but if they in comfortable carriages, and enveloped in furs and cashmeres, can suffer from the severity of the weather, what must the poor endure?" And she instantly ordered a large sum of money to be forthwith distributed, to supply fuel to the indigent, saying—"While I dance, I shall have the pleasure of thinking the poor are not without the means of warmth."
Received a long and delightful letter from Walter Savage Landor. His is one of the most original minds I have ever encountered, and is joined to one of the finest natures. Living in the delightful solitude he has chosen near Florence, his time is passed in reading, reflecting, and writing; a life so blameless and so happy, that the philosophers of old, with whose thoughts his mind is so richly imbued, might, if envy could enter into such hearts, entertain it towards him.
Landor is a happy example of the effect of retirement on a great mind. Free from the interruptions which, if they harass not, at least impede the continuous flow of thought in those who live much in society, his mind has developed itself boldly, and acquired a vigour at which, perhaps, it might never have arrived, had he been compelled to live in a crowded city, chafed by the contact with minds of an inferior calibre.
The Imaginary Conversations could never have been written amid the vexatious interruptions incidental to one mingling much in the scenes of busy life; for the voices of the sages of old with whom, beneath his own vines, Landor loves to commune, would have been inaudible in the turmoil of a populous town, and their secrets would not have been revealed to him. The friction of society may animate the man of talent into its exercise, but I am persuaded that solitude is essential to the perfect developement of genius.
A letter from Sir William Gell, and, like all his letters, very amusing. Yet how different from Landor's! Both written beneath the sunny sky of Italy, both scholars, and nearly of the same age, nevertheless, how widely different are their letters!
Gell's filled with lively and comic details of persons, seldom fail to make me laugh; Landor's, wholly devoted to literary subjects, set me thinking. Cell would die of ennui in the solitude Landor has selected; Landor would be chafed into irritation in the constant routine of visiting and dining-out in which Gell finds amusement. But here am I attempting to draw a parallel where none can be established, for Landor is a man of genius, Gell a man of talent.
Was at the Opera last night, and saw the Duc d'Orléans there with his family. They are a fine-looking flock, male and female, and looked as happy as they are said to be.
I know no position more enviable than that of the Duc d'Orléans. Blessed with health, a princely revenue, an admirable wife, fine children, and many friends, he can have nothing to desire but a continuance of these blessings. Having experienced adversity, and nobly endured the ordeal, he must feel with an increased zest the happiness now accorded to him,—a happiness that seems so full and complete, that I can fancy no addition possible to it.
His vast wealth may enable him to exercise a generosity that even sovereigns can rarely practise; his exalted rank, while it places him near a throne, precludes him from the eating cares that never fail to attend even the most solidly established one, and leaves him free to enjoy the happiness of domestic life in a family circle said to contain every ingredient for creating it.
The fondest husband, father, and brother, he is fortunate beyond most men in his domestic relations, and furnishes to France a bright example of irreproachable conduct and well-merited felicity in them all. In the possession of so many blessings, I should, were I in his position (and he probably does, or he is not the sensible man I take him to be), tremble at the possibility of any event that could call him from the calm enjoyment of them to the giddy height and uneasy seat of a throne.
The present king is in the vale of years, the Dauphin not young, and the Duc de Bordeaux is but a child. Should any thing occur to this child, then would the Duc d'Orléans stand in direct line after the Dauphin. I thought of this contingency last night as I looked on the happy family, and felt assured that were the Duc d'Orléans called to reign in France, these same faces would look less cloudless than they did then, for I am one of those who believe that "uneasy lies the head that wears a crown."
With a good sense that characterises the Duc d'Orléans, he has sent his sons to public schools—a measure well calculated not only to give them a just knowledge of the world, so often denied to princes, but to render them popular. The Duc de Chartres is an exceedingly handsome young man, and his brothers are fine youths. The Princesses are brought up immediately under the eye of their mother, who is allowed by every one to be a faultless model for her sex.
The Duc d'Orléans is said to be wholly engrossed in the future prospects of his children, and in insuring, as far as human foresight can insure, their prosperity.
I have been reading Shelley's works, in which I have found many beautiful thoughts. This man of genius—for decidedly such he was—has not yet been rendered justice to; the errors that shroud his poetry, as vapours rising from too rich a soil spread a mist that obstructs our view of the flowers that also spring from the same bed, have hindered us from appreciating the many beauties that abound in Shelley's writings. Alarmed by the poison that lurks in some of his wild speculations, we have slighted the antidote to be found in many others of them, and heaped obloquy on the fame of a poet whose genius and kindness of heart should have insured our pity for the errors of his creed.
He who was all charity has found none in the judgment pronounced on him by his contemporaries; but posterity will be more just. The wild theories and fanciful opinions of Shelley, on subjects too sacred to be approached lightly, carry with them their own condemnation; and so preclude the evil which pernicious doctrines, more logically reasoned, might produce on weak minds. His theories are vague, dreamy, always erroneous, and often absurd: but the imagination of the poet, and the tenderness of heart of the man, plead for pardon for the false doctrines of the would-be philosopher; and those who most admire his poetry will be the least disposed to tolerate his anti-religious principles. As a proof that his life was far from being in accordance with his false creed, he enjoyed, up to his death, the friendship of some of the most excellent men, who deplored his errors but who loved and valued him.
William Spencer, the poet, dined here yesterday. Alas! he has "fallen into the sere and yellow leaf," for though sometimes uttering brilliant thoughts, they are "like angel visits, few and far between;" and total silence, or half-incoherent rhapsodies, mark the intervals.
This melancholy change is accounted for by the effects of an indulgence in wine, had recourse to in consequence of depression of spirits. Nor is this pernicious indulgence confined to the evening, for at a déjeûner à la fourchette at two o'clock, enough wine is drunk to dull his faculties for the rest of the day. What an unpoetical close to a life once so brilliant!
Alas, alas, for poor human nature! when, even though illumined by the ethereal spark, it can thus sully its higher destiny. I thought of the many fanciful and graceful poems so often perused with pleasure, written by Mr. Spencer amid the brilliant fêtes in which he formerly passed his nights, and where he often found his inspirations. His was ever a courtly Muse, but without the hoop and train—a ball-room belle, with alternate smiles and sentimentality, and witty withal. No out-bursting of passion, or touch of deep pathos, interrupted the equanimity of feeling of those who perused Spencer's verses; yet was their absence unmissed, for the fancy, wit, and sentiment that marked them all, and the graceful ease of the versification, rendered them precisely what they were intended for,—les vers de société, the fitting volume elegantly bound to be placed in the boudoir.
And there sat the pet poet of gilded salons, whose sparkling sallies could once delight the fastidious circles in which he moved. His once bright eyes, glazed and lustreless, his cheeks sunken and pale, seeming only conscious of the presence of those around him when offered champagne, the excitement of which for a few brief moments produced some flashing bon mot à propos de rien passing at the time, after which his spirits subsided even more rapidly than did the bubbles of the wine that had given them their short excitement.
It made me sad to contemplate this wreck; but most of those around him appeared unconscious of there being any thing remarkable in his demeanour. They had not known him in his better days.
I am often amused, and sometimes half-vexed by witnessing the prejudices that still exist in France with regard to the English. These prejudices prevail in all ranks, and are, I am disposed to think, incurable.
They extend to trivial, as well as to more grave matters, and influence the opinions pronounced on all subjects. An example of this prejudice occurred a few weeks ago, when one of our most admired belles from London having arrived at Paris, her personal appearance was much canvassed. One person found her too tall, another discovered that she had too much embonpoint, and a third said her feet were much too large. A Frenchman, when appealed to for his opinion, declared "Elle est très-bien pour une Anglaise." I ought to add, that there was no English person present when he made this ungallant speech, which was repeated to me by a French lady, who laughed heartily at his notion.
If an Englishwoman enters a glover's, or shoemaker's shop, these worthies will only shew her the largest gloves or shoes they have in their magasins, so persuaded are they that she cannot have a small hand or foot; and when they find their wares too large, and are compelled to search for the smallest size, they seem discomposed as well as surprised, and inform the lady that they had no notion "une dame anglaise could want small gloves or shoes."
That an Englishwoman can be witty, or brilliant in conversation, the French either doubt or profess to doubt; but if convinced against their will they exclaim, "C'est drôle, mais madame a l'esprit éminemment français." Now this no Englishwoman has, or, in my opinion, can have; for it is peculiar, half-natural and half-acquired.
Conversation, in France, is an art successfully studied; to excel in which, not only much natural talent is required, but great fluency and a happy choice of words are indispensable. No one in Parisian society speaks ill, and many possess a readiness of wit, and a facility of turning it to account, that I have never seen exemplified in women of other countries.
A Frenchwoman talks well on every subject, from those of the most grave political importance, to the dernière mode. Her talent in this art is daily exercised, and consequently becomes perfected; while an Englishwoman, with more various and solid attainments, rarely if ever, arrives at the ease and self-confidence which would enable her to bring the treasures with which her mind is stored into play. So generally is the art of conversation cultivated in France, that even those with abilities that rise not beyond mediocrity can take their parts in it, not only without exposing the poverty of their intellects, but with even a show of talent that often imposes on strangers.
An Englishwoman, more concentrated in her feelings as well as in her pursuits, seldom devotes the time given by Frenchwomen to the superficial acquisition of a versatility of knowledge, which, though it enables them to converse fluently on various subjects, she would dread entering on, unless well versed in. My fair compatriots have consequently fewer topics, even if they had equal talent, to converse on; so that the esprit styled, par excellence, l'esprit éminemment français, is precisely that to which we can urge the fewest pretensions.
This does not, however, dispose me to depreciate a talent, or art, for art it may be called, that renders society in France not only so brilliant but so agreeable, and which is attended with the salutary effect of banishing the ill-natured observations and personal remarks which too often supply the place of more harmless topics with us.