* * * * *
_Calais, June 21._--What young lady, travelling for the first time on
the Continent, does not write a "Diary?" No sooner have we slept on
the shores of France--no sooner are we seated in the gay salon at
Dessin's, than we call, like Biddy Fudge, for "French pens and French
ink," and forth steps from its case the morocco-bound diary, regularly
ruled and paged, with its patent Bramah lock and key, wherein we are
to record and preserve all the striking, profound, and original
observations--the classical reminiscences--the thread-bare raptures--the
poetical effusions--in short, all the never-sufficiently-to-be-exhausted
topics of sentiment and enthusiasm, which must necessarily suggest
themselves while posting from Paris to Naples.
Verbiage, emptiness, and affectation!
Yes--but what must I do, then, with my volume in green morocco?
Very true, I did not think of that.
We have all read the DIARY OF AN INVALID, the best of all
diaries since old Evelyn's.--
Well, then,--Here beginneth the DIARY OF A BLUE DEVIL.
What inconsistent beings are we!--How strange that in such a moment as
this, I can jest in mockery of myself! but I will write on. Some keep
a diary, because it is the fashion--a reason why _I_ should not; some
because it is _blue_, but I am not _blue_, only a _blue devil_; some
for their amusement,--_amusement_!! alas! alas! and some that they may
remember,--and I that I may forget, O! would it were possible.
When, to-day, for the first time in my life, I saw the shores of
England fade away in the distance--did the conviction that I should
never behold them more, bring with it one additional pang of regret,
or one consoling thought? neither the one nor the other. I leave
behind me the scenes, the objects, so long associated with pain; but
from pain itself I cannot fly: it has become a part of myself. I know
not yet whether I ought to rejoice and be thankful for this
opportunity of travelling, while my mind is thus torn and upset; or
rather regret that I must visit scenes of interest, of splendour, of
novelty--scenes over which, years ago, I used to ponder with many a
sigh, and many a vain longing, now that I am lost to all the pleasure
they could once have excited: for what is all the world to me
now?--But I will not weakly yield: though time and I have not been
long acquainted, do I not know what miracles he, "the all-powerful
healer," can perform? Who knows but this dark cloud may pass away?
Continual motion, continual activity, continual novelty, the absolute
necessity for self-command, may do something for me. I cannot quite
forget; but if I can cease to remember for a few minutes, or even, it
may be, for a few hours? O how idle to talk of "_indulging_ grief:"
talk of indulging the rack, the rheumatism! who ever indulged grief
that truly felt it? to _endure_ is hard enough.
It is o'er! with its pains and its pleasures,
The dream of affection is o'er!
The feelings I lavish'd so fondly
Will never return to me more.
With a faith, O! too blindly believing--
A truth, no unkindness could move;
My prodigal heart hath expended
At once, an existence of love.
And now, like the spendthrift forsaken,
By those whom his bounty had blest,
All empty, and cold, and despairing,
It shrinks in my desolate breast.
But a spirit is burning within me,
Unquench'd, and unquenchable yet;
It shall teach me to bear uncomplaining,
The grief I can never forget.
_Rouen, June 25._--I do not pity Joan of Arc: that heroic woman only
paid the price which all must pay for celebrity in some shape or
other: the sword or the faggot, the scaffold or the field, public
hatred or private heart-break; what matter? The noble Bedford could
not rise above the age in which he lived: but _that_ was the age of
gallantry and chivalry, as well as superstition: and could Charles,
the lover of Agnes Sorel, with all the knights and nobles of France,
look on while their champion, and a woman, was devoted to chains and
death, without one effort to save her?
It has often been said that her fate disgraced the military fame of
the English; it is a far fouler blot on the chivalry of France.
* * * * *
_St. Germains, June 27._--I cannot bear this place, another hour in it
will kill me; this sultry evening--this sickening sunshine--this
quiet, unbroken, boundless landscape--these motionless woods--the
Seine stealing, creeping through the level plains--the dull grandeur
of the old chateau--the languid repose of the whole scene--instead of
soothing, torture me. I am left without resource, a prey to myself
and to my memory--to reflection, which embitters the source of
suffering, and thought, which brings distraction. Horses on to Paris!
Vite! Vite!
_Paris, 28._--What said the witty Frenchwoman?--_Paris est le lieu du
monde où l'on peut le mieux se passer de bonheur;_--in that case it
will suit me admirably.
_29._--We walked and drove about all day: I was amused. I marvel at my
own versatility when I think how soon my quick spirits were excited by
this gay, gaudy, noisy, idle place. The different appearance of the
streets of London and Paris is the first thing to strike a stranger.
In the gayest and most crowded streets of London the people move
steadily and rapidly along, with a grave collected air, as if all had
some business in view; _here_, as a little girl observed the other
day, all the people walk about "like ladies and gentlemen going a
visiting:" the women well-dressed and smiling, and with a certain
jaunty air, trip along with their peculiar mincing step, and appear as
if their sole object was but to show themselves; the men ill-dressed,
slovenly, and in general ill-looking, lounge indolently, and stare as
if they had no other purpose in life but to look about them.[B]
_July 12._--"Quel est à Paris le suprême talent? celui d'amuser: et
quel est le suprême bonheur? l'amusement."
Then _le suprême bonheur_ may be found every evening from nine to ten,
in a walk along the Boulevards, or a ramble through the Champs
Elysées, and from ten to twelve in a salon at Tortoni's.
What an extraordinary scene was that I witnessed to-night! how truly
_French_! Spite of myself and all my melancholy musings, and all my
philosophic allowances for the difference of national character, I was
irresistibly compelled to smile at some of the farcical groups we
encountered. In the most crowded parts of the Champs Elysées this
evening (Sunday), there sat an old lady with a wrinkled yellow face
and sharp features, dressed in flounced gown of dirty white muslin, a
pink sash and a Leghorn hat and feathers. In one hand she held a small
tray for the contribution of amateurs, and in the other an Italian
bravura, which she sung or rather screamed out with a thousand
indescribable shruggings, contortions, and grimaces, and in a voice to
which a cracked tea-kettle, or a "brazen candlestick turned," had
seemed the music of the spheres. A little farther on we found two
elderly gentlemen playing at see-saw; one an immense corpulent man of
fifteen stone at least, the other a thin dwarfish animal with gray
mustachios, who held before him what I thought was a child, but on
approaching, it proved to be a large stone strapped before him, to
render his weight a counterpoise to that of his huge companion. We
passed on, and returning about half an hour afterwards down the same
walk, we found the same venerable pair pursuing their edifying
amusement with as much enthusiasm as before.
* * * * *
Before the revolution, sacrilege became one of the most frequent
crimes. I was told of a man who, having stolen from a church the
silver box containing the consecrated wafers, returned the wafers next
day in a letter to the Curé of the Parish, _having used one of them to
seal his envelop_.
* * * * *
July 27.--A conversation with S** always leaves me sad. Can it then be
possible that he is right? No--O no! my understanding rejects the idea
with indignation, my whole heart recoils from it; yet if it should be
so! what then: have I been till now the dupe and the victim of
factitious feelings? virtue, honour, feeling, generosity, you are then
but words, signifying nothing? Yet if this vain philosophy lead to
happiness, would not S** be happy? it is evident he is _not_. When he
said that the object existed not in this world which could lead him
twenty yards out of his way, did this sound like happiness? I remember
that while he spoke, instead of feeling either persuaded or convinced
by his captivating eloquence, I was perplexed and distressed; I
_suffered_ a painful compassion, and tears were in my eyes. I, who so
often have pitied myself, pitied him at that moment a thousand times
more; I thought, I would not buy tranquillity at such a price as he
has paid for it. Yet _if_ he should be right? that _if_, which every
now and then suggests itself, is terrible; it shakes me in the utmost
recesses of my heart.
S**, in spite of myself, and in spite of all that with most perverted
pains he has made himself (so different from what he once was), can
charm and interest, pain and perplex me:--not so D**, another disciple
of the same school: he inspires me with the strongest antipathy I ever
felt for a human being. Insignificant and disagreeable is his
appearance, he looks as if all the bile under heaven had found its way
into his complexion, and all the infernal irony of a Mephistopheles
into his turned-up nose and insolent curled lip. He is, he _says_ he
is, an atheist, a materialist, a sensualist: the pains he takes to
deprave and degrade his nature, render him so disgusting, that I could
not even speak in his presence; I dreaded lest he should enter into
conversation with me. I might have spared myself the fear. He piques
himself on his utter contempt for, and disregard of, women; and, after
all, is not himself worthy these words I bestow on him.
* * * * *
_Aug. 25._--Here begins, I hope, a new æra. I have had a long and
dangerous illness; the crisis perhaps of what I have been suffering
for months. Contrary to my own wishes, and to the expectations of
others, I _live_: and trusting in God that I have been preserved for
some wise and good purpose, am therefore thankful: even supposing I
should be reserved for new trials, I cannot surely in this world
suffer more than I have suffered: it is not possible that the same
causes can be again combined to afflict me.
How truly can I say, few and evil have my days been! may I not say as
truly, I have not weakly yielded, I have not "gone about to cause my
heart to despair," but have striven, and not in vain? I took the
remedies they gave me, and was grateful; I resigned myself to _live_,
when had I but willed it, I might have died; and when to die and be at
rest, seemed to my sick heart the only covetable boon.
_Sept. 3._--A terrible anniversary at Paris--still ill and very weak.
Edmonde came, _pour me désennuyer_. He has soul enough to bear a good
deal of wearing down; but whether the fine qualities he possesses will
turn to good or evil, is hard to tell: it is evident his character has
not yet settled: it vibrates still as nature inclines him to good, and
all the circumstances around him to evil. We talked as usual of women,
of gallantry, of the French and English character, of national
prejudices, of Shakspeare and Racine (never failing subjects of
discussion), and he read aloud Delille's Catacombes de Rome, with
great feeling, animation, and dramatic effect.
_La mode_ at Paris is a spell of wondrous power: it is most like what
we should call in England a rage, a mania, a torrent sweeping down the
bounds between good and evil, sense and nonsense, upon whose surface
straws and egg-shells float into notoriety, while the gold and the
marble are buried and hidden till its force be spent. The rage for
cashmeres and little dogs has lately given way to a rage for Le
Solitaire, a romance written, I believe, by a certain Vicomte
d'Arlincourt. Le Solitaire rules the imagination, the taste, the dress
of half Paris: if you go to the theatre, it is to see the "Solitaire,"
either as tragedy, opera, or melodrame; the men dress their hair and
throw their cloaks about them _à la Solitaire_; bonnets and caps,
flounces and ribbons, are all _à la Solitaire_; the print shops are
full of scenes from Le Solitaire; it is on every toilette, on every
work-table;--ladies carry it about in their reticules to show each
other that they are _à la mode_; and the men--what can they do but
humble their understandings and be _extasiés_, when beautiful eyes
sparkle in its defence and glisten in its praise, and ruby lips
pronounce it divine, delicious; "quelle sublimité dans les
descriptions, quelle force dans les caractères! quelle âme! feu!
chaleur! verve! originalité! passion!" etc.
"Vous n'avez pas lu le Solitaire?" said Madame M. yesterday. "Eh mon
dieu! il est donc possible! vous? mais, ma chère, vous êtes perdue de
réputation, et pour jamais!"
To retrieve my lost reputation, I sat down to read Le Solitaire, and
as I read my amazement grew, and I did in "gaping wonderment abound,"
to think that fashion, like the insane root of old, had power to drive
a whole city mad with nonsense; for such a tissue of abominable
absurdities, bombast and blasphemy, bad taste and bad language, was
never surely indited by any madman, in or out of Bedlam: not Maturin
himself, that king of fustian,
"----ever wrote or borrowed
Any thing half so horrid!"
and this is the book which has turned the brains of half Paris, which
has gone through fifteen editions in a few weeks, which not to admire
is "_pitoyable_," and not to have read "_quelque chose d'inouie_."
The objects at Paris which have most struck me, have been those least
vaunted.
The view of the city from the Pont des Arts, to-night, enchanted me.
As every body who goes to Rome views the Coliseum by moonlight, so
nobody should leave Paris without seeing the effect from the Pont des
Arts, on a fine moonlight night:--
"Earth hath not any thing to show more fair."
It is singular I should have felt its influence at such a moment: it
appears to me that those who, from feeling too strongly, have learnt
to consider too deeply, become less sensible to the works of art, and
more alive to nature. Are there not times when we turn with
indifference from the finest picture or statue--the most improving
book--the most amusing poem; and when the very commonest, and
every-day beauties of nature, a soft evening, a lovely landscape, the
moon riding in her glory through a clouded sky, without forcing or
asking attention, sink into our hearts? They do not console,--they
sometimes add poignancy to pain; but still they have a power, and do
not speak in vain: they become a part of us; and never are we so
inclined to claim kindred with nature, as when sorrow has lent us her
mournful experience. At the time I felt this (and how many have felt
it as deeply, and expressed it better!) I did not _think_ it, still
less could I have _said it_; but I have pleasure in recording the past
impression. "On rend mieux compte de ce qu'on a senti que de ce qu'on
sent."
_September 8._--Paris is crowded with English; and I do not wonder at
it; it is, on the whole, a pleasant place to live in. I like Paris,
though I shall quit it without regret as soon as I have strength to
travel. Here the social arts are carried to perfection--above all, the
art of conversation: every one talks much and talks well. In this
multiplicity of words it must happen of course that a certain quantum
of ideas is intermixed: and somehow or other, by dint of listening,
talking, and looking about them, people _do_ learn, and information to
a certain point is general. Those who have knowledge are not shy of
imparting it, and those who are ignorant take care not to seem so; but
are sometimes agreeable, often amusing, and seldom _bêtes_. Nowhere
have I seen unformed sheepish boys, nowhere the surliness,
awkwardness, ungraciousness, and uneasy proud bashfulness, I have seen
in the best companies in England. Our French friend Lucien has, at
fifteen, the air and conversation of a finished gentleman; and our
English friend C---- is at eighteen, the veriest log of a lumpish
school-boy that ever entered a room. What I have seen of society, I
like: the delicious climate too, the rich skies, the clear elastic
atmosphere, the _out of doors_ life the people lead, are all (in
summer at least) delightful. There may be less _comfort_ here; but
nobody feels the want of it; and there is certainly more
amusement--and amusement is here truly "le suprême bonheur."
Happiness, according to the French meaning of the word, lies more on
the surface of life: it is a sort of happiness which is cheap and ever
at hand. This is the place to live in for the merry poor man, or the
melancholy rich one: for those who have too much money, and those who
have too little; for those who only wish, like the Irishman "to live
all the days of their life,"--_prendre en légère monnaie la somme des
plaisirs_: but to the thinking, the feeling, the domestic man, who
only exists, enjoys, suffers through his affections--
"Who is retired as noontide dew,
Or fountain in a noonday grove--"
to such a one, Paris must be nothing better than a vast frippery shop,
an ever-varying galantee show, an eternal vanity fair, a vortex of
folly, a pandemonium of vice.
_September 18._--Our imperials are packed, our passports signed, and
we set off to-morrow for Geneva by Dijon and the Jura. I leave nothing
behind me to regret, I see nothing before me to fear, and have no hope
but in change; and now all that remains to be said of Paris, and all
its wonders and all its vanities, all its glories and all its
gaieties, are they not recorded in the ponderous chronicles of most
veracious tourists, and what can I add thereto?
_Geneva, Saturday Night, 11 o'clock._--Can it be the "blue rushing of
the arrowy Rhone" I hear from my window? Shall I hear it to-morrow,
when I wake? Have I seen, have I felt the reality of what I have so
often imagined? and much, _much_ more? How little do I feel the
contretemps and privations which affect others--and feel them _only_
because they affect others! To me they are nothing: I have in a few
hours stored my mind with images of beauty and grandeur which will
last through my whole existence.
* * * * *
Yet I know I am not singular; others have felt the same: others, who,
capable of "drinking in the soul of things," have viewed nature less
with their eyes than their hearts. Now I feel the value of my own
enthusiasm; now am I repaid in part for many pains and sorrows and
errors it has cost me. Though the natural expression of that
enthusiasm be now repressed and restrained, and my spirits subdued by
long illness, what but enthusiasm could elevate my mind to a level
with the sublime objects round me, and excite me to pour out my whole
heart in admiration as I do now! How deeply they have penetrated into
my imagination!--Beautiful nature! If I could but infuse into you a
portion of my own existence as you have become a part of mine--If I
could but bid you reflect back my soul, as it reflects back all your
magnificence, I would make you my only friend, and wish no other;
content "to love earth only for its earthly sake."
I am so tired to-night, I can say nothing of the Jura, nor of the
superb ascent of the mountain, to me so novel, so astonishing a scene;
nor of the cheerful brilliance of the morning sun, illuminating the
high cliffs, and throwing the deep woody vallies into the darkest
shadow; nor of the far distant plains of France seen between the hills,
and melting away into a soft vapoury light; nor of Morey, and its
delicious strawberries and honey-comb; nor of that never-to-be-forgotten
moment, when turning the corner of the road, as it wound round a cliff
near the summit, we beheld the lake and city of Geneva spread at our
feet, with its magnificent back-ground of the Italian Alps, peak beyond
peak, snow-crowned! and Mont Blanc towering over all! No description
had prepared me for this prospect; and the first impression was
rapturous surprise; but by degrees the vastness and the huge gigantic
features of the scene pressed like a weight upon "my amazed sprite,"
and the feeling of its immense extent fatigued my imagination till my
spirits gave way in tears. Then came remembrances of those I ought to
forget, blending with all I saw a deeper power--raising up emotions,
long buried though not dead, to fright me with their resurrection. I
was so glad to arrive here, and shall be _so_ glad to sleep--even the
dull sleep which laudanum brings me.
_Oct. 1._--When next I submit (having the power to avoid it) to be
crammed into a carriage and carried from place to place, whether I
would or not, and be set down at the stated _points de vue_, while a
detestable laquais points out what I am to admire, I shall deserve to
endure again what I endured to-day. As there was no possibility of
relief, I resigned myself to my fate, and was even amused by the
absurdity of my own situation. We went to see the junction of the
Arve and the Rhone: or rather to see the Arve pollute the rich, blue
transparent Rhone, with its turbid waters. The day was heavy, and the
clouds rolled in prodigious masses along the dark sides of the
mountains, frequently hiding them from our view, and substituting for
their graceful outlines and ever-varying contrast of tint and shade,
an impenetrable veil of dark gray vapour.
_3rd._--We took a boat and rowed on the lake for about two hours. Our
boatman, a fine handsome athletic figure, was very talkative and
intelligent. He had been in the service of Lord Byron, and was with
him in that storm between La Meillerie and St. Gingough, which is
described in the third canto of Childe Harold. He pointed out among
the beautiful villas, which adorn the banks on either side, that in
which the empress Josephine had resided for six months, not long
before her death. When he spoke of her, he rested upon his oars to
descant upon her virtues, her generosity, her affability, her goodness
to the poor, and his countenance became quite animated with
enthusiasm. Here, in France, wherever the name of Josephine is
mentioned, there seems to exist but one feeling, one opinion of her
beneficence and _amabilité_ of character. Our boatman had also rowed
Marie Louise across the lake, on her way to Paris: he gave us no very
captivating picture of her. He described her as "_grande, blonde, bien
faite et extrêmement fière_:" and told us how she tormented her ladies
in waiting; "_comme elle tracassait ses dames d'honneur_." The day
being rainy and gloomy, her attendants begged of her to defer the
passage for a short time, till the fogs had cleared away, and
discovered all the beauty of the surrounding shores. She replied
haughtily and angrily, "Je veux faire ce que je veux--allez toujours."
M. le Baron M----n, whom we knew at Paris, told me several delightful
anecdotes of Josephine: he was attached to her household, and high in
her confidence. Napoleon sent him on the very morning of his second
nuptials, with a message and billet to the ex-empress. On hearing that
the ceremony was performed which had passed her sceptre into the hands
of the proud, cold-hearted Austrian, the feelings of the _woman_
overcame every other. She burst into tears, and wringing her hands,
exclaimed "Ah! au moins, qu'il soit heureux!" Napoleon resigned this
estimable and amiable creature to narrow views of selfish policy, and
with her his good genius fled: he deserved it, and verily he hath had
his reward.
We drove after dinner to Copet; and the Duchesse de Broglie being
absent, had an opportunity of seeing the chateau. All things "were
there of her"--of her, whose genuine worth excused, whose
all-commanding talents threw into shade, those failings which belonged
to the weakness of her sex, and her warm feelings and imagination. The
servant girl who showed us the apartments, had been fifteen years in
Madame de Staël's service. All the servants had remained long in the
family, "elle était si bonne et si charmante maîtresse!" A picture of
Madame de Staël when young, gave me the idea of a fine countenance and
figure, though the features were irregular. In the bust, the
expression is not so prepossessing:--_there_ the colour and brilliance
of her splendid dark eyes, the finest feature of her face, are of
course quite lost. The bust of M. Rocca[C] was standing in the Baron
de Staël's dressing-room: I was more struck with it than any thing I
saw, not only as a chef-d'oeuvre, but from the perfect and regular
beauty of the head, and the charm of the expression. It was just such
a mouth as we might suppose to have uttered his well-known reply--"_Je
l'aimerai tellement qu'elle finira par m'aimer._" Madame de Staël had
a son by this marriage, who had just been brought home by his brother,
the Baron, from a school in the neighbourhood. He is about seven years
old. If we may believe the servant, Madame de Staël did not
acknowledge this son till just before her death; and she described the
wonder of the boy on being brought home to the chateau, and desired to
call _Monsieur le Baron_ "Mon frère" and "Auguste." This part of
Madame de Staël's conduct seems incomprehensible; but her death is
recent, the circumstances little known, and it is difficult to judge
her motives. As a _woman_, as a _wife_, she might not have been able
to brave "the world's dread laugh"--but as a _mother_?----
We have also seen Ferney--a place which did not interest me much, for
I have no sympathies with Voltaire:--and some other beautiful scenes
in the neighbourhood.
The Panorama exhibited in London just before I left it, is wonderfully
correct, with one pardonable exception: the artist did not venture to
make the waters of the lake of the intense ultramarine tinged with
violet as I now see them before me;
"So darkly, deeply, beautifully blue;"
it would have shocked English eyes as an exaggeration, or rather
impossibility.