Another note from Favancourt, asking me to dine and meet Alfred de
Vigny, whose “Cinque Mars” I praised so highly. Be it so; I am curious
to see a Frenchman who has preferred the high esteem of the best critics
of his country, to the noisy popularity such men as Sue and Dumas write
for.
De Vigny is a French Washington Irving, with more genius, higher taste,
but not that heartfelt appreciation of tranquil, peaceful life, that the
American possesses. As episode, his little’tale, the “Canne de Jonc,” is
one of the most affecting I ever read. From the outset you feel that the
catastrophe must be sad, yet there is nothing harassing or wearying in
the suspense. The cloud of evil, not bigger than a man’s hand at first,
spreads gradually till it spans the heavens from east to west, and night
falls solemn and dark, but without storm or hurricane.
I scarcely anticipate that such a writer can be a brilliant converser.
The best gauge I have ever found of an authors agreeability, is in the
amount of dialogue he throws into his books. Wherever narrative, pure
narrative, predominates, and the reflective tone prevails, the author
will be, perhaps necessarily, more disposed to silence. But he who
writes dialogue well, must be himself a talker. Take Scott, for
instance; the very character of his dialogue scenes was the type of his
own social powers: a strong and nervous common sense; a high chivalry,
that brooked nothing low or mean; a profound veneration for antiquity;
an innate sense of the humorous, ran through his manner in the world, as
they display themselves in his works.
See Sheridan, too, he talked the School for Scandal all his life;
whereas Goldsmith was a dull man in company. Taking this criterion,
Alfred de Vigny will be quiet, reserved, and thoughtful; pointed,
perhaps, but not brilliant. _Apropos_ of this talking talent, what has
become of it? French _causerie_, of which one hears so much, was no more
to be compared to the racy flow of English table-talk, some forty
years back, than a group of artificial flowers is fit to compete with
a bouquet of richly scented dew-spangled buds, freshly plucked from the
garden.
Lord Brougham is our best man now, the readiest--a great quality--and,
strange as it may sound to those who know him not, the best-natured,
with anecdote enough to point a moral, but no storyteller; using his
wit as a skilful cook does lemon-juice--to flavour but not to sour the
_plat_.
Painters and anglers, I have remarked, are always silent, thoughtful
men. Of course I would not include under this judgment such as portrait
and miniature painters, who are about, as a class, the most tiresome and
loquacious twaddlers that our unhappy globe suffers under. Wilkie must
have been a real blessing to any man sentenced to sit for his picture:
he never asked questions, seldom indeed did he answer them; he had
nothing of that vulgar trick of calling up an expression in his sitter;
provided the man staid awake, he was able always to catch the traits of
feature, and, when he needed it, evoke the _prevailing_ character of
the individual’s expression by a chance word or two. Lawrence was really
agreeable--so, at least, I have always heard, for he was before my day;
but I suspect it was that officious agreeability of the artist, the
smartness that lies in wait for a smile or the sparkle of the eye, that
he may transmit it to the panel.
The great miniature painter of our day is really a specimen of a
miniature intelligence--the most incessant little driveller of worse
than nothings: the small gossip that is swept down the back-stairs of a
palace, the flat commonplaces of great people, are his stock-in-trade:
the only value of such contributions to history is, that they must be
true. None but kings could be so tiresome! I remember once sitting to
this gentleman, when only just recovering from an illness, and when
possibly I endured his forced and forty-horse power of small talk with
less than ordinary patience. He had painted nearly every crowned head
in Europe--kings, kaisers, archdukes, and grand-duchesses in every
principality, from the boundless tracts of the Czar’s possessions, to
those states which emulate the small green turf deposited in a bird’s
cage. Dear me! how wearisome it was to hear him recount the ordinary
traits that marked the life of great people, as if the greatest Tory of
us all ever thought Kings and Queens were anything but men and women!
I listened, as though in a long distressing dream, to narratives of how
the Prince de Joinville, so terribly eager to burn our dockyards and
destroy our marine, could be playful as a lamb in his nursery with the
children. How Louis Philippe held the little Count de Paris fast in
his chair till his portrait was taken. (Will he be able to seat him so
securely on the throne of France?) How the Emperor of Austria, with
a simplicity of a great mind and a very large head, always thought he
could sit behind the artist and watch the progress of his own picture!
I listened, I say, till my ears tingled and my head swam, and in that
moment there was not a “bounty man” from Kentucky or Ohio that held
royalty more cheaply than myself. Just at this very nick my servant
came to whisper me, that an agent for Messrs. Lorch, Rath; et Co., the
wine-merchants of Frankfort, had called, by my desire, to take an order
for some hock. Delighted at the interruption, I ordered he should be
admitted, and the next moment a very tall pretentious-looking German,
with a tremendously frogged and Brandenburged coat, and the most
extensive beard and moustaches, entered, and with all the ceremonial of
his native land saluted us both, three times over.
I received him with the most impressive and respectable politeness, and
seemed, at least, only to resume my seat after his expressed permission.
The artist, who understood nothing of German, watched all our
proceedings with a “miniature eye,” and at last whispered gently, “Who
is he?”
“Heavens!” said I, in a low tone, “don’t you know?--he is the Crown
Prince of Hanover!”
The words were not uttered when my little friend let fall his palette
and sprang off his chair, shocked at the very thought of his being
seated in such presence. The German turned towards him one of those
profoundly austere glances that only a foreign bagman or an American
tragedian can compass, and took no further notice of him.
The interview over, I accompanied him to the antechamber, and then took
my leave, to the horror of Sir C-----, who asked me at least twenty
times, “why I did not go down to the door?”
“Oh, we are old friends,” said I; “I knew him at Gottingen a dozen years
ago, and we never stand on any ceremony together.” My fiction, miserable
as it was, served me from further anecdotes of royalty, since what
private history of kings could astonish the man on such terms of
familiarity with the Crown Prince of Hanover?
Talking of Hanover, and _apropos_ of “humbugs,” reminds me of a
circumstance that amused me at the time it occurred. Soon after the
present King of Hanover ascended the throne, the Orangemen of Ireland,
who had long been vain of their princely Grand Master, had sufficient
influence on the old corporation of Dublin to carry a motion that a
deputation should be despatched to Hanover, to convey to the foot of the
throne the sincere and respectful gratulations of the mayor, aldermen,
and livery of Dublin on the auspicious advent of his Majesty to the
crown of that kingdom. The debate was a warm one, but the majority which
carried the measure large; and, now, nothing remained but to name the
happy individuals who should form the deputation, and then ascertain in
what part of the globe Hanover lay, and how it should be come at.
Nothing but the cares of state and the important considerations of duty,
could prevent the mayor himself accepting this proud task: the sheriffs,
however, were free. Their office was a sinecure, and they accordingly
were appointed, with a sufficient suite, fully capable of representing
to advantage, abroad, the wealth, splendour, and intelligence of the
“ancient and loyal corporation.”
One of the sheriffs, and the chief member of the mission, was, if I
remember aright, a Mr. Timothy Brien; the name of the “lesser bear” I
have forgotten. Tim was, however, the spokesman, whenever speaking was
available; and when it was not, it was he that made the most significant
signs.
I was at the period a very young _attaché_ of the mission at Hanover;
our secretary, Melmond, being _chargé d’affaires_ in the absence of our
chief, Melmond was confined to bed by a feverish attack, and the duties
of the mission, limited to signing a passport or two once a-month, or
some such form, were performed by me. Despatches were never sent. The
Foreign Office told us, if we had any thing to say, to wait for the
Russian courier passing through, but not to worry them about anything.
I therefore had an easy post, and enjoyed all the dignities of office
without its cares. If I had only had the pay, I could have asked nothing
better.
It was, then, of a fine morning in May that Count Beulwitz, the Minister
for Foreign Affairs, was announced, and the same moment entered my
apartment. I was, I own it, not a little fluttered and flattered by this
mark of recognition on the part of a minister, and resolved to play my
part as deputy assistant _chargé d’affaires_ to my very utmost.
“I come, Mr. Templeton,” said the minister, in a voice not quite free
from agitation, “to ask your counsel on a question of considerable
nicety; and as Mr. Melmond is still unable to attend to duty, you must
excuse me if I ask you to bestow the very gravest attention upon the
point.”
I assumed the most Talleyrand of looks, and he went on.
“This morning there has arrived here in four carriages, with great
pomp and state, a special mission, sent from Ireland to convey the
congratulations of the government on his Majesty’s accession to the
throne. Now we have always believed and understood that Ireland was a
part of the British empire, living under the same monarchy and the same
laws. If so, how can this mission be accredited? It would be a very
serious thing for us to recognise the partition of the British empire,
or the separation of an integral portion, without due thought and
consideration.
“It would be also a very bold step to refuse the advances of a state that
deputes such a mission as this appears to be. Do your despatches
from England give any clue by which we may guide our steps in this
difficulty? have you heard latterly what are the exact relations
existing between England and Ireland? You are aware that his Majesty is
at Berlin, and Barring and Von der Decken, who know England so well, are
both with him?”
I nodded assent, and, after a second’s silence, a strong temptation to
quiz the Minister crossed my mind; and without even a guess at what
this mysterious deputation might mean, I gravely hinted that our last
accounts from Ireland were of the most serious nature. It was certainly
true that kingdom had been conquered by the English and subjected to the
crown of England, but there were the most well-founded reasons to fear
that the arrangement had not the element of a permanence. The descendant
of the ancient sovereigns of the land was a man of bold and energetic
and adventurous character; he was a prince of the house of O’Connell,
of which, doubtless, his Excellency had heard. There was no saying what
events might have occurred to favour his ambitious views, and whether
England might not have found the advantage of restoring a troublesome
land to its ancient dynasty.
“How does the present mission present itself--how accredited?”
“From the court of Dublin, with the great seal, so far as I can
understand the representation, for none of the embassy speak French.”
“That sounds very formal and regular,” said I, with deep gravity.
“So I think it, too,” said his Excellency, who really was impressed by
the state-coach of Sheriff Timothy and three footmen in bag-wigs.
“At any rate,” said he, “we must decide at once, and there can be no
hesitation about the matter. I suppose we must give them an audience of
the Crown Prince, and then let all rest till his Majesty returns, which
he will do on Friday next.”
Without compromising myself by any assent, I looked as if he had spoken
very wisely, and his Excellency departed.
That same afternoon two state-carriages of the court, with servants
in dress livery, drew up at the Hof von London, the hôtel where the
deputation had taken up their quarters, and a _Maréchal de Cour_
alighted to inform the “Irish ambassador” that his Royal Highness the
Crown Prince would receive their homage in the absence of the King.
The intimation, more conveyed by pantomime than oral intelligence, was
replied to by an equivalent telegraph; but the sheriffs, in all their
gala, soon took their places in the carriage and set out for the palace.
Their reception was most flattering; enough to say, they had the honour
to address and be replied to by one of the most courteous princes of
Europe. An invitation to dinner, the usual civility to a newly arrived
mission, ensued, and the Irish embassy, overwhelmed with the brilliant
success of their journey, returned to the hôtel in a state of exaltation
that bordered on ecstasy.
Their corporation address, formidable by its portentous parchment and
official seal, had puzzled the Foreign Office in no ordinary way, and
was actually under their weighty consideration the following day, when
the King most unexpectedly made his _entreé_ into the capital. King
Ernest heard with some amazement, not unmingled by disbelief, that an
Irish diplomatic body had actually arrived at his court, and immediately
demanded to see their credentials. There is no need to recount the
terrible outbreak of temper which his Majesty displayed on discovering
the mistake of his ministers. The chances are, indeed, that, had he
called himself Pacha instead of King, he would have sentenced the Irish
ambassador and his whole following to be hanged like onions on the one
string. As it was, he could scarcely control his passion; and whatever
the triumphant pleasures of the day before, when a dinner-card for the
palace was conveyed by an aide-de-camp to the hotel, the “second Epistle
to Timothy” was a very awful contrast to its predecessor. The hapless
deputation, however, got leave to return unmolested, and betook
themselves to their homeward journey, the chief of the mission by
no means so well satisfied of his success in the part of the “Irish
Ambassador.”
Now to dress for dinner. I wish I had said “No” to this same invitation.
Nothing is pleasanter when one is in health and spirits than a _petit
diner_; nothing is more distressing when one is weak, low, and dejected.
At a large party there is always a means of lying _perdu_, and neither
taking any share in the cookery or the conversation. At a small table
one must eat, drink, and be merry, though the _plat_ be your doom and
the talk be your destruction. There is no help for it; there is no
playing “supernumerary” in farce with four characters.
Is it yet too late to send an apology?--it still wants a quarter of
six, and six is the hour. I really cannot endure the fatigue and the
exhaustion.
Holland, besides, told me that any excitement would be prejudicial. Here
goes, then, for my excuse.... So! I’m glad I’ve done it. I feel myself
once more free to lie at ease on this ottoman and dream away the hours
undisturbed.
“Holloa! what’s this, Legrelle?” “De la part de Madame la Comtesse, sir.
How provoking!--how monstrously provoking! She writes me, ‘You really
must come. I will not order dinner till I see you.--Yours, &c. B.
de F------.’ What a bore! and what an absurd way to incur an attack of
illness! There’s nothing for it, however, but submission; and to-morrow,
if I’m able, I’ll leave Paris.
“Legrelle, don’t forget to order horses for tomorrow at twelve.”
“What route does monsieur take?”
“Avignon--no, Strasbourg--Couilly, I think, is the first post. I should
like to see Munich once more, or, at least, its gallery. The city is
a poor thing, worthy of its people, and, I was going to say--no matter
what! Germany, in any case, for the summer, as I am sentenced to die
in Italy. I feel I am taking what the Irish call ‘a long day’ in not
crossing the Alps till late in autumn!”
How many places there are which one has been near enough to have visited
and somehow always neglected to see! and what a longing, craving wish to
behold them comes over the heart at such a time as this? What, then, is
“this time,” that I speak it thus?
*****
How late it is! De Vigny was very agreeable, combining in his manner
a great deal of the refinement of a highly cultivated mind, with
the shrewd perception of a keen observer of the world. He is a
_Légitimiste_, I take it, without any hope of his party. This, after
all, is the sad political creed of all who adhere to the “elder branch.”
Their devotion is indeed great, for it wars against conviction. But
where can an honest man find footing in France nowadays? Has not Louis
Philippe violated in succession every pledge by which he had bound
himself? Can such an example of falsehood so highly placed be without
its influence on the nation? Can men cry “Shame!” on the Minister, when
they witness the turpitude of the Monarch?
But what hope does any other party offer?--None. Henri Cinque, a Bourbon
of the _vieille roche_, gentle, soft-hearted, sensual, and selfish, who,
if he returned to France to-morrow, would never believe that the long
interval since the Three Days had been any thing but an accident; and
would not bring himself to credit the possibility that the succession
had been ever endangered.
I believe, after all, one should be as lenient in their judgment of
men’s change of fealty in France as they are indulgent to the capricious
fancies of a spoiled beauty. The nation, like a coquette, had every
thing its own way. The cold austerities of principle had yielded to the
changeful fortunes of success for so many years, that men very naturally
began to feel that instability and uncertainty were the normal state
of things, and that to hold fast one set of opinions was like casting
anchor in a stream when we desired to be carried along by the current.
Who are they who have risen in France since the time of the Great
Revolution? Are they the consistent politicians, the men of one
unvarying, unaltered faith? or are they the expediency makers, the men
of emergencies and crises, yielding, as they would phrase it, to “the
enlightened temper of the times”--the Talleyrands, the Soults, the
Guizots of the day?--not to speak of one higher than them all, but not
more conspicuous for his elevation than for the subserviency that has
placed him there.
Poor Chateaubriand! the man who never varied, the man that was humblest
before his rightful sovereign, and prouder than the proudest Marshal in
presence of the Emperor, how completely forgotten is he--standing like
some ruined sign-post to point the way over a road no longer travelled!
A more complete revolution was never worked in the social condition of
a great kingdom than has taken place in France since the time of the
Emperor. The glorious career of conquering armies had invested the
soldier’s life with a species of chivalry, that brought back the old
days of feudalism again. Now, it is the _bourgeoisie_ are uppermost.
Trade and money-getting, railroads and mines, have seized hold of the
nation’s heart; and where the _bâton_ of a Maréchal was once the most
coveted of all earthly distinctions, a good bargain on the Bourse, or a
successful transaction in scrip, are now the highest triumphs. The very
telegraph, whose giant limbs only swayed to speak of victories, now
beckons to an expectant crowd the rates of exchange from London to
Livorno, and with a far greater certainty of stirring the spirits it
addresses.
I fell into all this moody reflection from thinking of an incident--I
might almost call it story--I remembered hearing from an old cuirassier
officer some years ago. I was passing through the north of France,
and stopped to dine at Sedan, where a French cavalry regiment, three
thousand strong, were quartered. Some repairs that were necessary to
my carriage detained me till the next day; and as I strolled along
the shady boulevards in the evening, I met an old soldier-like person,
beside whom I dined at the table-d’hôte. He was the very type of a
_chef-d’escadron_ of the Empire, and such he really proved to be.
After a short preamble of the ordinary commonplaces, we began to talk
of the service in which he lived, and I confess it was with a feeling of
surprise I heard him say that the old soldiers of the Empire had met but
little favour from the new dynasty; and I could not help observing
that this was not the impression made upon us in England, but that we
inclined to think it was the especial policy of the present reign to
conciliate the affections of the nation by a graceful acknowledgment of
those so instrumental to its glory.
“Is not Soult as high, or rather, is he not far higher, in the favour of
his sovereign, Louis Philippe, than ever he was in that of the Emperor?
Is not Moncey a man nobly pensioned as Captain of the Invalides?”
“All true! But where are the hundreds--I had almost said thousands, but
that death has been so busy in these tranquil times with those it had
spared in more eventful days--where are they, the old soldiers, who
served in inferior grades, the men whose promotions for the hard
fighting at Montereau and Chalons needed but a few days more of
prosperity to have confirmed, but who saw their best hopes decline as
the sun of the Emperor’s glory descended?
“What rewards were given even to many of the more distinguished, but
whose principles were known to be little in accordance with the new
order of things? What of Pajol, who captured a Dutch fleet with his
cavalry squadrons;--ay! charged the three-deckers as they lay ice-locked
in the Scheldt, dismounted half of his force and boarded them, as in a
sea-fight? Poor Pajol! he died the other day, at eighty-three or four,
followed to the grave by the comrades he had fought and marched beside,
but with no honours to his memory from the King or his government. No,
sir, believe me, the present people never liked the Buonapartists; the
sad contrasts presented by all their attempts at military renown with
those glorious spectacles of the Empire were little flattering to them.”
“Then you evidently think Soult and some others owe their present
favour, less to the eminence of their services than to the plasticity of
their principles?”
“Who ever thought Soult a great general?” said he, abruptly answering my
question by this transition. “A great military organizer, certainly--the
best head for the administration of an army, or the Emperor’s staff--but
nothing more. His capacity as a tactician was always third rate.”
I could not help acknowledging that such was the opinion of our own
great captain, who has avowed that he regarded Massena as the most
accomplished and scientific general to whom he was ever opposed.
“And Massena’s daughter,” cried the veteran indignantly, “lives now
in the humblest poverty--the wife of a very poor man, who cultivates a
little garden near Brussels, where _femmes de chambre_ are sent to buy
bouquets for their mistresses! The daughter of a _Maréchal de France_,
a title once that Kings loved to add to their royalty, as men love to
ennoble station by evidences of high personal desert!”
“How little fidelity, however, did these men shew to him who had made
them thus great! how numerous were the desertions!--how rapid too!”
“Yes, there was an epidemic of treason at that time in France, just as
you have seen at different epochs, here, other epidemics prevail: in
the Revolution the passion was for the guillotine; then came the lust of
military glory--that suited us best, and lasted longest; we indulged
in it for twenty years: then succeeded that terrible revulsion, and
men hastened to prove how false-hearted they could be. Then came the
Restoration--and the passion was to be Catholic; and now we have another
order of things, whose worst feature is, that there is no prevailing
creed. Men live for the day and the hour. The King’s health--the state
of Spain--a bad harvest--an awkward dispute between the commander of
our squadron in the Pacific with some of your admirals,--anything may
overturn the balance, and our whole political and social condition may
have to be built up once more.”
“The great remedy against this uncertainty is out of your power,” said
I: “you abolished the claims of Sovereignty on the permanent affection
of the people, and now you begin to feel the want of ‘Loyalty.’”
“Our kings had ceased to merit the respect of the nation when they lost
it.”
“Say, rather, you revenged upon them the faults and vices of their more
depraved, but bolder, ancestors. You made the timid Louis XVI. pay for
the hardy Louis XIV. Had that unhappy monarch but been like the Emperor,
his court might have displayed all the excesses of the regency twice
told, and you had never declared against them.”
“That may be true; but you evidently do not--I doubt, indeed, if any
but a Frenchman and a soldier can--feel the nature of our attachment
to the Emperor. It was something in which personal interest partook a
large part, and the hope of future advancement, _through him_, bore its
share. The army regarded him thus, and never forgave him perfectly,
for preferring to be an Emperor rather than a General. Now, the very
desertions you have lately alluded to, would probably never have
occurred if the leader had not merged into the monarch.
“There was a fascination, a spirit of infatuating ecstasy, in serving
one whose steps had so often led to glory, that filled a man’s
entire heart. One learned to feel, that the rays of his own splendid
achievements shed a lustre on all around him and each had his portion
of undying fame. This feeling, as it became general, grew into a kind
of superstition, and even to a man’s own conscience it served to excuse
many grave errors, and some direct breaches of true faith.”
“Then, probably, you regard Ney’s conduct in this light?” said I.
“I know it was of this nature,” replied he, vehemently. “Ney, like many
others, meant to be faithful to the Bourbons when he took the command.
He had no thought of treachery in his mind; he believed he was marching
against an enemy until he actually saw the Emperor, and then----”
“I find this somewhat difficult to understand,” said I, dubiously.
“Ney’s new allegiance was no hasty step, but one maturely and well
considered. He had weighed in his mind various eventualities, and
doubtless among the number the possibility of the Emperor’s return. That
the mere sight of that low cocked-hat and the _redingote gris_ could
have at once served to overturn a sworn fealty and a plighted word---”
“Have you time to listen to a short story?” interrupted the old dragoon,
with a degree of emotion in his manner that bespoke a deeper interest
than I suspected in the subject of our conversation.
“Willingly,” said I. “Will you come and sup with me at my hôtel, and we
can continue a theme in which I feel much interest?”
“Nay; with your permission, we will sit down here--on the ramparts.
I never sup: like an old campaigner, I only make one meal a-day, and
mention the circumstance to excuse my performance at the table d’hôte:
and here, if you do not dislike it, we will take our places under this
lime-tree.”
I at once acceded to this proposal, and he began thus:--