To make some defence against the extreme cold, which I have always found most insufferable in France and Italy, from the want of all provision against it, I was obliged to-day to have all the chinks in my little lodging stuffed with ‘bourlets.’ When this was done, I sallied forth to take the customary first walk of strangers,—to the Boulevards, the Palais Royal, Tuilleries, &c. for I was curious to see what alterations had taken place in the course of seven years. On the Boulevards I found all just as it was: in the Palais Royal, the Duke of Orleans has begun to substitute new stone buildings and an elegant covered way for the narrow old wooden galleries, and other holes and corners. When it is finished, this palace will certainly be one of the most magnificent, as it has always been one of the most singular and striking, in the world. Perhaps there is no other instance of a royal prince inhabiting the same house with several hundred shopkeepers, and as many inmates of a less reputable description, and deriving from them a revenue much more than sufficient for his ‘mênus plaisirs.’ In England a nobleman would think the existence of such a society under his roof impossible; but could it by any means find admittance, he would at least take care to have it cleaner.
In the palace of the Tuilleries and the Rue Rivoli all the improvements which Napoleon began were in much the same state as he left them. In this point of view Paris has lost much in the Imperial dynasty, which would have rendered it a truly magnificent city, and the luxury of decoration must soon have been followed by that of cleanliness. One is tempted to wish that the Pont de Louis Seize were among the unfinished things; for the ludicrously theatrical statues, at least twice too big in proportion to the bridge, and seeming to crush the pillars they stand upon, have much more the air of bad ‘acteurs de province’ than of the heroes they are meant to represent.
As cooks are to be numbered among the heroes of France, first on account of their unequalled skill, and secondly of their sense of honour, (remember Vatel,) I come naturally in this place to the restaurateurs. Judging by the most eminent whom I visited to-day, I think they have somewhat degenerated. They have, to be sure, exchanged their inconveniently long ‘carte’ for an elegantly bound book; but the quality of the dishes and wines seems to have deteriorated in proportion to the increase of luxury in the announcement of them. After coming to this melancholy conviction, I hastened to the once celebrated ‘Rocher de Cancale.’ But Baleine has launched into the sea of eternity; and the traveller who now trusts to the rock of Cancale, builds upon the sand: ‘Sic transit gloria mundi.’
On the other hand I must give all praise to the Theatre de Madame, where I spent my evening. Léontine Fay is a most delightful actress, and a better ‘ensemble’ it would be difficult to find. Coming directly from England, I was particularly struck with the consummate truth and nature with which Léontine Fay represented the French girl educated in England, yet without suffering this nuance to break in any degree the harmony and keeping of the character. It is impossible to discover in her admirable acting the slightest imitation of Mademoiselle Mars; and yet it presents as true, as tender, as pathetic a copy of nature, in a totally different manner.—The second piece, a farce, was given with that genuine ease and comic expression which make these French ‘Riens’ so delightful and amusing in Paris, while they appear so vapid and absurd in a German translation. The story is this:—A provincial uncle secretly leaves his little country town, in which he has just been chosen a member of a ‘Société de la Vertu,’ in order to reclaim his nephew, of whom he has received the most discouraging accounts, from his wild courses. Instead of which his nephew’s companions get hold of him, and draw him into all sorts of scrapes and excesses.
Mademoiselle Minette brings, by her coquetry, old Martin to give her a kiss, at which moment her lover, the waiter, comes in with a pig’s head, stands speechless with amazement, and at length letting the head slide slowly off the dish, cries out, “N’y a’t-il pas de quoi perdre la tête?” This certainly is a silly jest enough, yet one must be very stoically inclined not to laugh heartily at the admirable drollery of the acting. The rest is as diverting: Martin, alarmed at having been caught in such an adventure, at length consoles himself with the thought that he is not known here; and in the midst of his ‘embarras,’ accepts an invitation to a ‘déjeuner’ from Dorval, who has just come in. The ‘déjeuner’ is given at the theatre. Martin at first is very temperate; but at length the truffles and dainties tempt him, ‘et puis il faut absolument les arroser d’un peu de Champagne.’ After much pressing on the part of his hosts, and much moralizing on his own, he consents to drink one glass ‘à la vertu.’ ‘Hélas, il n’y a que le premier pas qui coute.’ A second glass follows, ‘à la piété;’—a third, ‘à la miséricorde;’ and before the guests depart, we hear Martin, drunk and joyous, join in the toast, ‘Vivent les femmes et le vin!’ Play follows:—at first he will only join in a game of piquet; from piquet he is led on to écarté, and from écarté to hazard; loses a large sum, and at last learns, ‘pour le combler de confusion,’ that he and his plan were betrayed from the first, and that his nephew had put him to the trial instead of being tried by him, and had unfortunately found him very frail. He gladly agrees to all that is required of him, ‘pourvu qu’on lui garde le secret;’ and the piece concludes with the arrival of his old friend, who comes by extra post to announce to him that he (Martin) was yesterday elected by acclamation president of the ‘Société de la Vertu’ in his native town.
Jan. 7th.
In spite of the ‘bourlets’ and a burning pile of wood in my chimney, I continue to be almost frozen in my ‘entresol.’ There prevails moreover a constant ‘clair-obscur,’ so that I see the writing implements before me as if behind a veil. The small windows and high opposite houses render this irremediable; you must forgive me, therefore, if my writing is more unintelligible than usual. You must have remarked that the preposterously high rate of postage in England taught me to write more carefully, and especially smaller; so that a Lavater of handwritings might study my character in the mere aspect of my letters to you. It is in this, as in life; we are often led by good motives to begin to contract in various ways: soon however the lines involuntarily expand; and before we are conscious of it, the unfelt but irresistible power of habit leads us back to our old latitude.
An English officer, whom I found to-day in the Café Anglais, repeatedly asked the astonished ‘garçon’ for ‘la charte,’ concluding I suppose, that in liberal France it formed a part of the furniture of every café. Although the French seldom take any notice of the ‘qui pro quos’ of foreigners, this was too remarkable not to draw forth a smile from several. I thought, however,—how willingly would some reverse the Englishman’s blunder, and give the French people ‘cartes’ instead of ‘chartes.’
I was greatly surprised in the evening at the Opéra Français, which I had left a kind of bedlam, where a few maniacs screamed with agony as if on the rack, and where I now found sweet singing in the best Italian style, united to very good acting. Rossini, who, like a second Orpheus, has tamed even this savage opera, is a real musical benefactor; and natives as well as foreigners have reason to bless him for the salvation of their ears. I prefer this now, though it is not the fashion to do so, to the Italian Opera. It combines nearly all that one can desire in a theatre;—the good singing and acting I have mentioned, with magnificent decorations, and the best ballet in the world. If the text of the operas were fine poetry, I know not what further could be wished; but even as they are, one may be very well content; for instance, with the ‘Muette de Portici,’ which I saw to-day. Mademoiselle Noblet’s acting is full of grace and animation, without the least exaggeration. The elder Nourrit is an admirable Massaniello, though he, and he alone, sometimes screamed too loud. The costumi were models; but Vesuvius did not explode and flame properly, and the clouds of smoke which sunk into the earth instead of ascending from it, were a phenomenon which I had not the good fortune to witness when I ‘assistai’ at a real eruption of that mountain.
Jan. 8th.