Before his departure, Lucien crowned his popularity by a magnificent fête, the like of which had never been seen in Spain, and which cost nearly four hundred thousand francs. The highest persons about the court, a number of grandees, and the whole royal family honoured it with their presence; and the latter seemed not to know how sufficiently to express their attachment to the ambassador. A few days afterwards, all the members of the legation received splendid presents; the ambassador alone was omitted; and republican familiarity permitted many jokes upon him in the palace of the embassy. Meanwhile the audience of leave was over, Lucien’s departure fixed for the following day, and all hopes of the expected present at an end, when an officer of the Walloon guard came with an escort to the hotel, bringing a large picture in a packing-case, as a present from the King to Napoleon. When Lucien was informed of this, he said, it was doubtless Titian’s Venus, which he had often admired in the King’s presence, and which was certainly a very valuable picture, but that the carriage of it was inconvenient to him, and he must confess he had rather the King had not sent it. However, the officer was most politely thanked, and dismissed; and Lucien, taking out a valuable shirt-pin from his breast, begged him to accept it. The ambassador now ordered the case to be unpacked, the picture taken out of its frame (which could be left behind), and rolled so that it could be carried on the imperial of a carriage. The secretary did as he desired:—scarcely was the wrapping-cloth raised, when, instead of the admired Venus, a face anything but beautiful—that of the King himself smiled upon him. He was just flying off in mischievous delight to inform the ambassador of the comical mistake, when on entirely removing the cloth, a yet greater surprise detained him:—the whole picture was set round like a miniature with large diamonds, which Lucien afterwards sold in Paris for four millions of francs. This was truly a royal surprise, and the ambassador speedily recalled his order for leaving the frame.
The General asserted that Lucien was very intimate with the Queen of Portugal, who gave him a political rendezvous at Badajoz. He thought D—— M—— was the result of this meeting. Certain it is, as you may remember I wrote you from London, that that prince is strikingly like Napoleon.
January 13th.
The turn of the Gaiété came to-day in my inspection of theatres, and I make bold to declare that I was very much amused. These little melodrames and vaudevilles are now—the French may be as grand about it as they please—their real and proper national drama; and perhaps they are not altogether innocent of the striking defection of the public to the romantic banner. People were heartily tired of the meagre fare of the
“————————————— pathos tragique
Qui longtems ennuya en termes magnifiques.”
There was one evening on which I gave you no theatrical intelligence. The cause of this was the horrible ennui I had suffered at the Théatre Français. Mademoiselle Mars did not play, and I found the parts of the great and matchless Talma and Fleury sunk into the most deplorable hands. In full contrast with this classical dulness, was the excellence of the melodrame of the Gaiété; and in spite of all the long litany that may be repeated by classicists as to coarse colouring, ‘coups de théatre,’ improbabilities, and so forth, I am persuaded that no unprejudiced fresh mind could see it without lively interest.—Let us now go back to the Théatre Français.
After a Greco-French tragedy, in which antique dresses vainly strove to convert Frenchmen into Greeks, in which the provincial hero Joanny vainly tried to exhibit a faint copy of the godlike Talma, and Duchesnois, who is now really ‘au delà de la permission’ ugly, with whining, antiquated and stony manner, vainly quivered out the end of every sentence with her hands in the air (also à la Talma,) while all the rest exhibited a truly hopeless picture of mediocrity, the ‘Mercure galant’ was given as a conclusion. The faded embroidered silk clothes, as well as the awkwardness with which they were worn by the modern actors, spoke of the remote date of this piece. The ladies, on the other hand, had dressed according to their own taste, and were in the newest fashion. The comedy is utterly without plot, and the wit flat and coarse.
Setting aside ‘que tous les genres sont bons hors le genre ennuyeux,’ the contents of this latter piece were really better fitted to a booth in a fair. What appears still more extraordinary is, that this stately, classical, national theatre, has itself been driven to give melodrames, (as to their contents at least,) though without music; and that these are the only representations which draw audiences. The only profitable modern piece, L’Espion, is a sufficient proof of this.
Thus does one theatre after another plant the romantic standard with more or less success; and tragedies and plays ‘a la Shakspeare,’ as the French call them, daily make their appearance, in which all the time-honoured unities are thrown over the shoulder without any more qualms of conscience on the part of authors or the public.
The revolution has regenerated France in every respect,—even their poetry is new; and ungrudging, never-envying Germany calls out joyfully to her, “Glück auf.”