CHAPTER XVI.
The approach of spring is already visible here, and right glad am I to welcome its genial influence; for a Paris winter possesses in my opinion no superiority over a London one,—nay, though it would be deemed by the French little less than a heresy to say so, is even more damp and disagreeable.
The Seine has her fogs, as dense, raw, and chilling, as those of old Father Thames himself; and the river approximating closer to "the gay resorts" of the beau monde, they are more felt. The want of draining, and the vapours that stagnate over the turbid waters of the ruisseaux that intersect the streets at Paris, add to the humidity of the atmosphere; while the sewers in London convey away unseen and unfelt, if not always unsmelt, the rain which purifies, while it deluges, our streets. Heaven defend me, however, from uttering this disadvantageous comparison to Parisian cars, for the French are too fond of Paris not to be proud even of its ruisseaux, and incredulous of its fogs, and any censure on either would be ill received.
The gay butterflies when they first expand their varicoloured wings and float in air, seem not more joyous than the Parisians have been during the last two days of sunshine. The Jardins des Tuileries are crowded with well-dressed groups; the budding leaves have burst forth with that delicate green peculiar to early spring; and the chirping of innumerable birds, as they flit from tree to tree, announces the approach of the vernal season.
Paris is at no time so attractive, in my opinion, as in spring; and the verdure of the foliage during its infancy is so tender, yet bright, that it looks far more beautiful than with us in our London squares or parks, where no sooner do the leaves open into life, than they become stained by the impurity of the atmosphere, which soon deposes its dingy particles on them, "making the green one"—black.
The Boulevards were well stocked with flowers to-day, the bouquetières having resumed their stalls; and many a pedestrian might be seen bargaining for these fair and frail harbingers of rosy spring.
How exhilarating are the effects of this season on the spirits depressed by the long and gloomy winter, and the frame rendered languid by the same cause! The heart begins to beat with more energetic movement, the blood flows more briskly through the veins, and the spirit of hope is revivified in the human heart. This sympathy between awakening nature, on the earth, and on man, renders us more, that at any other period, fond of the country; for this is the season of promise; and we know that each coming day, for a certain time, will bestow some new beauty on all that is now budding forth, until glowing, laughing summer has replaced the fitful smiles and tears of spring.
And there are persons who tell me they experience nought of this elasticity of spirits at the approach of spring! How are such mortals to be pitied! Yet, perhaps, they are less so than we imagine, for the same insensibility that prevents their being exhilarated, may preclude them from the depression so peculiar to all who have lively feelings.
"I see nothing so very delightful in spring," said —— to me, yesterday. "Au contraire, I think it rather disagreeable, for the sunshine cheats one into the belief of warmth, and we go forth less warmly clad in consequence, so return home chilled by the sharp cold air which always prevails at this season, and find, as never fails to be the case, that our stupid servants have let out the fires, because, truly, the sun was shining in the cold blue sky." —— reminds me of the man mentioned in Sterne's works, who, when his friend looking on a beautiful prospect, compared a green field with a flock of snowy-fleeced sheep on it, to a vast emerald studded with pearls, answered that he could see nothing in it but grass and mutton.
Lord B—— set out for London to-day, to vote on the Catholic question, which is to come on immediately. His going at this moment, when he is far from well, is no little sacrifice of personal comfort; but never did he consider self when a duty was to be performed. I wish the question was carried, and he safely back again. What would our political friends say if they knew how strongly I urged him not to go, but to send his proxy to Lord Rosslyn? I would not have consented to his departure, were it not that the Duke of Wellington takes such an interest in the measure.
How times are changed! and how much is due to those statesmen who yield up their own convictions for the general good! There is no action in the whole life of the Duke more glorious than his self-abnegation on this occasion, nor is that of the Tory leader of the House of Commons less praiseworthy; yet how many attacks will both incur by this sacrifice of their opinions to expediency! for when were the actions of public men judged free from the prejudices that discolour and distort all viewed through their medium? That which originates in the purest patriotism, will be termed an unworthy tergiversation; but the reward of these great and good men will be found in their own breasts. I am triste and unsettled, so will try the effect of a drive in the Bois de Boulogne.
I was forcibly reminded yesterday of the truth of an observation of a clever French writer, who says, that to judge the real merit of a cook, one should sit down to table without the least feeling of appetite, as the triumph of the culinary art was not to satisfy hunger but to excite it. Our new cook achieved this triumph yesterday, for he is so inimitable an artist, that the flavour of his plats made even me, albeit unused to the sensation of hunger, feel disposed to render justice to them. Monsieur Louis—for so he is named—has a great reputation in his art; and it is evident, even from the proof furnished of his savoir-faire yesterday, that he merits it.
It is those only who have delicate appetites that can truly appreciate the talent of a cook; for they who devour soon lose the power of tasting. No symptom of that terrible malady, well named by the ingenious Grimod de la Reynière remords d'estomac, but vulgarly called indigestion, follows my unusual indulgence in entrées and entremets, another delightful proof of the admirable skill of Monsieur Louis.
The English are apt to spoil French cooks by neglecting the entrées for the pièce de résistance, and, when the cook discovers this, which he is soon enabled to do by the slight breaches made in the first, and the large one in the second, his amour-propre becomes wounded, and he begins to neglect his entrées. Be warned, then, by me, all ye who wish your cooks to retain their skill, and however your native tastes for that English favourite dish denominated "a plain joint" may prevail, never fail to taste the entrée.
À propos of cooks, an amusing instance of the amour-propre of a Parisian cook was related to me by the gourmand Lord ——, the last time we dined at his house. Wishing to have a particular sauce made which he had tasted in London, and for which he got the receipt, he explained to his cook, an artist of great celebrity, how the component parts were to be amalgamated.
"How, mylord!" exclaimed Monsieur le cuisinier; "an English sauce! Is it possible your lordsip can taste any thing so barbarous? Why, years ago, my lord, a profound French philosopher described the English as a people who had a hundred religions, but only one sauce."
More anxious to get the desired sauce than to defend the taste of his country, or correct the impertinence of his cook, Lord —— immediately said, "On recollection, I find I made a mistake; the sauce I mean is à la Hollandaise, and not à l'Anglaise."
A la bonne heure, my lord, c'est autre chose; and the sauce was forthwith made, and was served at table the day we dined with Lord ——.
An anecdote is told of this same cook, which Lord —— relates with great good humour. The cook of another English nobleman conversing with him, said, "My master is like yours—a great gourmand."
"Pardon me," replied the other; "there is a vast difference between our masters. Yours is simply a gourmand, mine is an epicure as well."
The Duc de Talleyrand, dining with us a few days ago, observed that to give a perfect dinner, the Amphitryon should have a French cook for soups, entrées and entremets; an English rôtisseur, and an Italian confiseur, as without these, a dinner could not be faultless. "But, alas!" said he—and he sighed while he spoke it—"the Revolution has destroyed our means of keeping these artists; and we eat now to support nature, instead of, as formerly, when we ate because it was a pleasure to eat." The good-natured Duc nevertheless seemed to eat his dinner as if he still continued to take a pleasure in the operation, and did ample justice to a certain plat de cailles farcies which he pronounced to be perfect.
Our landlord, le Marquis de L——, has sent to offer us the refusal of our beautiful abode. The Duc de N—— has proposed to take it for fourteen on twenty-one years, at the same rent we pay (an extravagant one, by the bye), and as we only took it for a year, we must eithor leave or hire it for fourteen or twenty-one years, which is out of the question.
Nothing can be more fair or honourable than the conduct of the Marquis de L——, for he laid before us the offer of the Duc de N——; but as we do not intend to remain more than two or three years more in Paris, we must leave this charming house, to our infinite regret, when the year for which we have hired it expires. Gladly would we have engaged it for two, or even three years more, but this is now impossible; and we shall have the trouble of again going the round of house-hunting.
When I look on the suite of rooms in which I have passed such pleasant days, I am filled with regret at the prospect of leaving them, but it cannot be helped, so it is useless to repine. We have two months to look about us, and many friends who are occupied in assisting us in the search.
A letter from Lord B——; better, but still ailing. He presided at the Covent Garden Theatrical Fund Dinner, at the request of the Duke of Clarence. He writes me that he met there Lord F. Leveson Gower[5], who was introduced to him by Mr. Charles Greville, and of whom he has conceived a very high opinion. Lord B—— partakes my belief in physiognomy, but in this instance the impression formed from the countenance is justified by the reputation of the individual, who is universally esteemed and respected.
Went again to see the Hôtel Monaco, which Lord B—— writes me to close for; but its gloomy and uncomfortable bed-rooms discourage me, malgré the splendour of the salons, which are decidedly the finest I have seen at Paris, I will decide on nothing until Lord B——'s return.
Went to the College of Ste.-Barbe to-day, with the Duchesse de Guiche, to see her sons. Great was their delight at the meeting. I thought they would never have done embracing her; and I, too, was warmly welcomed by these dear and affectionate boys, who kissed me again and again. They have already won golden opinions at the college, by their rare aptitude in acquiring all that is taught them, and by their docility and manly characters.
The masters paid the Duchesse the highest compliments on the progress her sons had made previously to their entrance at Ste.-Barbe, and declared that they had never met any children so far advanced for their age. I shared the triumph of this admirable mother, whose fair cheeks glowed, and whose beautiful eyes sparkled, on hearing the eulogiums pronounced on her boys. Her observation to me was, "How pleased their father will be!"
Ste.-Barbe is a little world in itself, and a very different world to any I had previously seen. In it every thing smacks of learning, and every body seems wholly engrossed by study.
The spirit of emulation animates all, and excites the youths into an application so intense as to be often found injurious to health. The ambition of surpassing all competitors in their studies operates so powerfully on the generality of the élèves, that the masters frequently find it more necessary to moderate, than to urge the ardour of the pupils. A boy's reputation for abilities soon gets known, but he must possess no ordinary ones to be able to distinguish himself in a college where every victory in erudition is sure to be achieved by a well-contested battle.
We passed through the quarter of Paris known as the Pays Latin, the aspect of which is singular, and is said to have been little changed during the last century. The houses, chiefly occupied by literary men, look quaint and picturesque. Every man one sees passing has the air of an author, not as authors now are, or at least as popular ones are, well-clothed and prosperous-looking, but as authors were when genius could not always command a good wardrobe, and walked forth in habiliments more derogatory to the age in which it was neglected, than to the individual whose poverty compelled such attire.
Men in rusty threadbare black, with books under the arm, and some with spectacles on nose, reading while they walked along, might be encountered at every step.
The women, too, in the Pays Latin, have a totally different aspect to those of every other part of Paris. The desire to please, inherent in the female breast, seems to have expired in them, for their dress betrays a total neglect, and its fashion is that of some forty years ago. Even the youthful are equally negligent, which indicates their conviction that the men they meet seldom notice them, proving the truth of the old saying, that women dress to please men.
The old, with locks of snow, who had grown into senility in this erudite quarter, still paced the same promenade which they had trodden for many a year, habit having fixed them where hope once led their steps. The middle-aged, too, might be seen with hair beginning to blanch from long hours devoted to the midnight lamp, and faces marked with "the pale cast of thought." Hope, though less sanguine in her promises, still lures them on, and they pass the venerable old, unconscious that they themselves are succeeding them in the same life of study, to be followed by the same results, privation, and solitude, until death closes the scene. And yet a life of study is, perhaps, the one in which the privations compelled by poverty are the least felt to be a hardship.
Study, like virtue, is its own exceeding great reward, for it engrosses as well as elevates the mind above the sense of the wants so acutely felt by those who have no intellectual pursuits; and many a student has forgotten his own privations when reading the history of the great and good who have been exposed to even still more trying ones. Days pass uncounted in such occupations. Youth fleets away, if not happily, at least tranquilly, while thus employed; and maturity glides into age, and age drops into the grave, scarcely conscious of the gradations of each, owing to the mind having been filled with a continuous train of thought, engendered by study.
I have been reading some French poems by Madame Amabel Tastu; and very beautiful they are. A sweet and healthy tone of mind breathes through them, and the pensiveness that characterises many of them, marks a reflecting spirit imbued with tenderness. There is great harmony, too, in the versification, as well as purity and elegance in the diction. How much some works make us wish to know their authors, and vice versâ! I feel, while reading her poems, that I should like Madame Amabel Tastu; while other books, whose cleverness I admit, convince me I should not like the writers.
A book must always resemble, more or less, its author. It is the mind, or at least a portion of it, of the individual; and, however circumstances may operate on it, the natural quality must always prevail and peep forth in spite of every effort to conceal it.
Living much in society seldom fails to deteriorate the force and originality of superior minds; because, though unconsciously, the persons who possess them are prone to fall into the habits of thought of those with whom they pass a considerable portion of their time, and suffer themselves to degenerate into taking an interest in puerilities on which, in the privacy of their study, they would not bestow a single thought. Hence, we are sometimes shocked at observing glaring inconsistencies in the works of writers, and find it difficult to imagine that the grave reflection which pervades some of the pages can emanate from the same mind that dictated the puerilities abounding in others. The author's profound thoughts were his own, the puerilities were the result of the friction of his mind with inferior ones: at least this is my theory, and, as it is a charitable one, I like to indulge it.
A pleasant party at dinner yesterday. Mr. W. Spencer, the poet, was among the guests, He was much more like the William Spencer of former days than when he dined here before, and was occasionally brilliant, though at intervals he relapsed into moodiness. He told some good stories of John Kemble, and told them well; but it seemed an effort to him; and, while the listeners were still smiling at his excellent imitation of the great tragedian, he sank back in his chair with an air of utter abstraction.
I looked at him, and almost shuddered at marking the "change that had come o'er the spirit of his dream;" for whether the story touched a chord that awakened some painful reflection in his memory, or that the telling it had exhausted him, I know not, but his countenance for some minutes assumed a careworn and haggard expression, and he then glanced around at the guests with an air of surprise, like one awakened from slumber.
It is astonishing how little people observe each other in society! This inattention, originating in a good breeding that proscribes personal observation, has degenerated into something that approaches very nearly to total indifference, and I am persuaded that a man might die at table seated between two others without their being aware of it, until he dropped from his chair.
Civilization has its disadvantages as well as its advantages, and I think the consciousness that one might expire between one's neighbours at table without their noticing it, is hardly atoned for by knowing that they will not stare one out of countenance. I often think, as I look around at a large dinner-party, how few present have the slightest knowledge of what is passing in the minds of the others. The smile worn on many a face may be assumed to conceal a sadness which those who feel it are but too well aware would meet with little sympathy, for one of the effects of modern civilization is the disregard for the cares of others, which it engenders.
Madame de —— once said to me, "I never invite Monsieur de ——, because he looks unhappy, and as if he expected to be questioned as to the cause." This naïve confession of Madame de —— is what few would make, but the selfishness that dictated it is what society, en masse, feels and acts up to.
Monsieur de ——, talking of London last evening, told the Count —— to be on his guard not to be too civil to people when he got there. The Count —— looked astonished, and inquired the reason for the advice. "Merely to prevent your being suspected of having designs on the hearts of the women, or the purses of the men," replied Monsieur de ——; "for no one can evince in London society the empressement peculiar to well-bred Frenchmen without being accused of some unworthy motive for it."
I defended my countrymen against the sweeping censure of the cynical Monsieur de ——, who shook his head and declared that he spoke from observation. He added, that persons more than usually polite are always supposed to be poor in London, and that as this supposition was the most injurious to their reception in good society, he always counselled his friends, when about to visit it, to assume a brusquerie of manner, and a stinginess with regard to money, by which means they were sure to escape the suspicion of poverty; as in England a parsimonious expenditure and bluntness are supposed to imply the possession of wealth.
I ventured to say that I could now understand why it was that he passed for being so rich in England—a coup de patte that turned the laugh against him.
Mr. de —— is a perfect cynic, and piques himself on saying what he thinks,—a habit more frequently adopted by those who think disagreeable, than agreeable things.
Dined yesterday at Madame C——'s, and being Friday, had a dîner maigre, than which I know no dinner more luxurious, provided that the cook is a perfect artist, and that the Amphitryon, as was the case in this instance, objects not to expense.
The soupes and entrées left no room to regret the absence of flesh or poultry from their component parts, and the relevés, in the shape of a brochet rôti, and a turbot à la hollandaise supplied the place of the usual pièces de résistance. But not only was the flavour of the entrées quite as good as if they were composed of meat or poultry, but the appearance offered the same variety, and the côtelettes de poisson and fricandeau d'esturgeon might have deceived all but the profoundly learned in gastronomy,—they looked so exactly like lamb and veal.
The second course offered equally delicate substitutes for the usual dainties, and the most fastidious epicure might have been more than satisfied with the entremets.
The bishops in France are said to have had the most luxurious dinners imaginable on what were erroneously styled fast-days; and their cooks had such a reputation for their skill, that the having served à Monseigneur d'Église was a passport to the kitchens of all lovers of good eating. There are people so profane as to insinuate that the excellence at which the cooks arrived in dressing les dîners maigres is one of the causes why Catholicism has continued to flourish; but this, of course, must be looked on as a malicious hint of the enemies to that faith which thus proves itself less addicted to indulgence in the flesh than are its decryers.