A rough sketch of modern Paris

by J. G. Lemaistre

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.