LETTER VII.
A thé or evening party.—French remarks on Shakspeare, and Mr. Fox.—Dullness and pedantry of parisian society.
Paris, december 3d, 1801 (3 frimaire.)
MY DEAR SIR,
I have just received your last letter, and as you complain, that I am not sufficiently minute in my descriptions of private society, I will endeavour to satisfy your curiosity, by giving a faithful account of an assembly, or thé, as it is called here, to which I was invited a few evenings since.
The lady, at whose house this entertainment was given, belonged to the old court; but having remained in France during the whole of the revolution, has preserved her property. I drove to her hotel, about eight in the evening, and after passing through a dark and dirty antichamber, in which her servants and those of her guests sat very quietly, while I passed, without moving from their seats, I found my way, not without difficulty, into the “salon,” or drawing room: In this apartment, the walls of which bore the faint semblance of having been painted white, some thirty years before, and on which shattered remnants of tarnished gold might still be discovered, I perceived near the fire, the lady of the mansion. She half rose from her seat, as I approached, and after a short “bon jour monsieur,” continued in a whisper, an earnest conversation, in which she was engaged with an old gentleman, who, as I have since learnt, was a ci-devant duke, lately returned from emigration. As I was left entirely to myself, (for I was introduced to no one) I had ample time to examine every thing around me. The room, sombre in itself, was rendered still more so, by a patent lamp suspended in the middle, which was the only light I perceived, and which simply answered the purpose of making “darkness visible.”
There were about twenty or thirty persons assembled, of different ages, and of different sexes. Having heard so much of french gayety, I was astonished at the melancholy countenances I saw around me, and at the general stupidity of this party. In one corner was placed a whist table, at which, two ci-devant countesses, a member of l’ancienne académie française, and a former financier were disputing for sous. There were round the fire, two rows of fauteuils, or arm chairs, in which the ladies not occupied with cards, were seated in awful state. Two or three young men dressed à l’anglaise, with the preposterous addition of immense neckcloths, ear rings, and half a dozen under waistcoats, lounged about the middle of the room, and now and then caught a glimpse at their favourite persons, in an adjoining glass. The fire was monopolized by a party of zealous disputants, who, turning their backs to the company, and talking all together, formed a separate group, or rather a debating society, round the chimney. From the loudness of their voices, and the violence of their gestures, I supposed they were discussing some great national question, and expecting to gain much useful intelligence, listened with all the painful attention of extreme curiosity. I soon discovered, to my no small astonishment, that it was not the fate of the nation, but the accuracy of an expression, which excited their zeal. The abbé Delille had, it seems, in a poem lately published, used this phrase,
“Je n’entends que silence, je ne vois que la nuit[30].”
Whether it was possible “to hear silence,” and “see night,” was the great subject of dispute: and the metaphysical distinctions, nice definitions, and pedantic remarks, which this question excited, formed a curious specimen of the french character. Some of the ladies joined in the debate; and I know not to what height it might have been carried, had not the arrival of the thé interrupted the orators, and stopped the conversation, with a subject more agreeable to the general taste.
At twelve o’clock, the beverage I have mentioned, which the french think unwholesome at all times, and which even the english fear to take at so late an hour, was placed near the fire, on a large table, surrounded with cakes, creams, custards, a large tureen of soup, and a bowl of punch, the party crowded round the table, and helped themselves to the refreshments it contained. When the ceremony was over, those who did not return to the card tables, entered into conversation; and as literary subjects were still the favourite theme, a young man, with a pompous manner, and a solemn tone of voice, said, addressing himself to me, “Is it true, sir, that there are englishmen, so blinded by national prejudice, as to prefer votre bizarre Shakspeare[31], to our divine Racine?” Endeavouring to avoid a discussion, which I knew the answer I was inclined to give would create, I contented myself with observing, that Shakspeare and Racine were such different authors, that it was absurd to compare them. “As well,” said I, “might you draw a resemblance between the beauties of Switzerland, and those of Versailles.” “The proper simile,” retorted the first speaker, “would be between Versailles and a barren heath, on which some few beautiful plants may have been accidentally scattered, by the capricious hand of nature.” The whole circle joined in the triumph, which my antagonist supposed he had gained, and I in vain attempted to recapitulate, and to translate some of the striking passages of Shakespear. Though all condemned our “heaven-inspired poet,” I soon perceived, that few had ever read, and none understood the sublime work which they presumed to criticise.
“Speaking of english authors,” cried the member of the ci-devant académie française, “makes one think of english orators. I see, by Chateau-Brian’s account of England, that the cause of Mr. Fox’s retirement from parliament, has been at last discovered; and that it arose from his mental powers having been weakened by the effect of excessive drinking. To this I suppose one must attribute his late unwarrantable attack on the house of Bourbon.”
Astonished at this extraordinary assertion, I took the liberty of assuring the gentleman, that Mr. Fox’s talents were as perfect as ever, and that his last speech was one of the finest efforts of human reasoning. “Pardonnez,” cried the academician. “Mr. Fox could never reason. He was indeed once a fine declaimer, but as to the powers of argument, he never possessed them.” I was ridiculous enough to combat this absurd opinion, and to assure him, that there was not an englishman, (whatever his political sentiments might be) who would not willingly bear testimony to the wonderful argumentative talents of the extraordinary man in question.
I talked in vain, the whole company joined with the academician, who pour toute réponse[32], said, “C’est Mr. Pitt, qui sait raisonner, mais pour Mr. Fox il déclame joliment, voilà tout son talent. Vous me permetterez de savoir!” assuming a look of great dignity, “parceque c’est moi qui ai traduit ses discours.” So saying, he turned away, and soon after the company dispersed.
Can I give you a stronger instance of the taste and justice, with which the french pronounce on the merits of our authors, and public characters?
If Shakspeare is not a poet, nor Mr. Fox an orator, where are we to look for examples of perfection?
Thus it is on every subject in this country. The french suppose, that they understand english books, and english politics, much better than we do; and this is not the first lesson which I have received. I have often been contradicted on constitutional, as well as literary questions; and I have always found, that the company supported not the opinion of the native, whose local knowledge deserved some little credit, but the bold assertion of their countryman, who was generally believed and applauded, in proportion to the extravagance and singularity of the doctrine which he laid down.
I forgot to mention, that great offence being taken at Mr. Fox’s remarks on the old government, a gentleman took great pains to persuade me, that l’ancien régime was the freest constitution under the sun. You will not be surprised to hear, that he did not make me a convert to his opinion, and that I assured him, if such was a free government, I hoped it would be long, very long, before England should possess it.
This evening’s entertainment gave me altogether but a very unfavourable opinion, both of french society, french taste, and french gallantry. There was no mirth, no general conversation, and scarcely any intercourse between the men and women. As to Mrs. ⸺, she was left to the uninterrupted enjoyment of her own thoughts, for no person took the trouble of addressing her. Her english dress, however, did not escape the criticism of the ladies; and my pronunciation was equally a source of amusement to the gentlemen. I shall only add, that if this be a specimen of french society, I may obtain much information at Paris; yet I shall certainly receive but little pleasure from my journey.
I am, &c.