It is to-day the birth-day of Washington, and you are no doubt honouring it with wine and mirth and festivity. I have paid also my tribute to its sacred memory; and who knows but this humble respect, in the “Rue Neuve des Maturins,” is as welcome to his great spirit, which is now above the reach of human vanities, as the pomp of your national festivals.
It is purity of heart that makes devotion acceptable in Heaven, and not the magnificence of the worship. I told my two French convives at table (their glasses being filled) it was Washington’s fête, and they stood up instinctively and drank to his memory, pronouncing his name only, in looking towards Heaven.—To Heaven he has gone by the general consent of mankind. “Not as Mahomet, for he needed not the fiction of a miracle to make him immortal; nor as Elijah, since recorded time has not pointed out the being upon whom his mantle may descend; but (in humble imitation) as the Great Architect from created universe, to contemplate the stupendous monument his wisdom had erected.” After this I may leave the rest of this page blank. I bid you affectionately good night.
LETTER XXI.
Evening Parties at the Duchess d’Abrantes’.—Mode of admission.—The Weather.—Suicides.—Madame le Norman the Sibyl.—Parisian Réunions.—Manners of Frenchwomen.—American Soirées.—Furniture.—Hints on Etiquette.—Manners in Parisian High Life.—Conversation.—Dress.—Qualifications for an Exquisite.—Smoking.—Rules for dinner.
Paris, April 15th, 1836.
What shall I put in this letter? I have not thought of a thing, and here is only a day between me and the mail, and not wit enough in my head to “stop the eye of Helen’s needle.” I will tell you two words of the Duchess d’Abrantes, an old acquaintance of yours, and her evening parties to begin with; and leave the rest to chance.
Parties, here, are not very exclusive. The Romans used to allow an invited guest to bring a friend along, as his “shadow;” so it is in Paris, only that you are allowed sometimes two or three shadows, according to your intimacy or favour. It is usual, if you know a friend going to a party, to sue, through his interest, for the privilege of a ticket. It is usual to say, Mr. S.—if you wish to go to M. Thiers’ to-morrow night I have a ticket for you. In this way without knowing any thing of the hostess, you are admitted to her saloon.
M. Le Baron de B——, whose acquaintance I owe altogether to my own merits, unlocks the doors of this upper story of the world to me as often as I please to accept his politeness, which I do sparingly. The Duchess is the centre of a literary circle which meets regularly at her house, once a week, for conversation. They do not eat themselves into a reputation for polite learning here, as with us. The old lady has come down from the anti-revolutionary times, and is, no doubt, a good sample of the ancient French.
And how do these upper sort of folks conduct a soirée? Suppose yourself a Duchess, and I will tell you.—Your servants in livery will introduce your guests from the ante-chamber, calling out their names; and they, on entering, will make you bows and grimaces by the dozen. You also must go through your exercise. If a Duke, stand up straight, if a Marquis half way up, if a Count a little way up, if a Baron, just bend a little the hinges of your knees; and as for a mere gentleman, why any common week-day inclination of the head will suffice.
Your servants too will be drilled.—Monsieur le Prince de Talleyrand!—This must be pronounced with a loud and distinct voice, banging open both the folding doors; and the buzz for a while must cease through the saloon. (vive sensation!)—And the note of dignity must be observed down through the subordinate visitors; till you hear in a soft soprano, on G flat, just audible, Monsieur Gentigolard! Then you will see squeezing in by the door a little ajar, an individual with his cloak by the tip end, and his knees encouraging each other—blinking something like an owl introduced to the day-light. (Léger mouvement à gauche.)