PARIS.
_June_, 1828.--A fatiguing journey, over dusty roads, and in intensely
hot weather, has brought us to Paris, with no accident save the failure
of one of the wheels of our large landau--a circumstance that caused
the last day's travelling to be any thing but agreeable; for though our
courier declared the temporary repair it received rendered it perfectly
safe, I was by no means satisfied on the point.
We have taken up our abode in the Hôtel de la Terrasse, Rue de Rivoli,
are well-lodged, but somewhat incommoded by the loud reverberation of
the pavement, as the various vehicles roll rapidly over it. We were
told that "it would be nothing when we got used to it"--an assertion,
the truth of which, I trust, we shall not remain sufficiently long to
test; for I have a peculiar objection to noise of every kind, and a
long residence in Italy has not conquered it.
So here we are, once more, at Paris, after six years' absence from it;
and I find all that has hitherto met my eyes in it _in statu quo_. How
many places have I seen during that period; how many associations
formed; how many and what various impressions received; and here is
every thing around looking so precisely as I left them, that I can
hardly bring myself to believe that I have indeed been so many years
absent!
When we bring back with us the objects most dear, and find those we
left unchanged, we are tempted to doubt the lapse of time; but one link
in the chain of affection broken, and every thing seems altered.
On entering Paris, I felt my impatience to see our dear friends there
redouble; and, before we had despatched the dinner awaiting our
arrival, the Duc and Duchesse de Guiche, came to us. How warm was our
greeting; how many questions to be asked and answered; how many
congratulations and pleasant plans for the future to be formed; how
many reminiscences of our mutual _séjour_ in dear Italy to be talked
over!
The Duchesse was radiant in health and beauty, and the Duc looking, as
he always does, more _distingué_, than any one else--the perfect _beau
idéal_ of a nobleman.
We soon quitted the _salle à manger_; for who could eat during the joy
of a first meeting with those so valued?--Not I, certainly; and all the
rest of our party were as little disposed to do honour to the repast
commanded for us.
It was a happy evening. Seated in the _salon_, and looking out on the
pleasant gardens of the Tuileries, the perfume of whose orange-trees
was wafted to us by the air as we talked over old times, and indulged
in cheerful anticipations of new ones, and the tones of voices familiar
to the ears thus again restored, were heard with emotion.
Yes, the meeting of dear friends atones for the regret of separation;
and like it so much enhances affection, that after absence one wonders
how one has been able to stay away from them so long.
Too excited to sleep, although fatigued, I am writing down my
impressions; yet how tame and colourless they seem on paper when
compared with the emotions that dictate them! How often have I
experienced the impossibility of painting strong feelings during their
reign!
[_Mem_.--We should be cautious in giving implicit credit to
descriptions written with great power, as I am persuaded they indicate
a too perfect command of the faculties of the head to admit the
possibility of those of the heart having been much excited when they
were written.
This belief of mine controverts the assertion of the poet--
"He best can paint them who has felt them most."
Except that the poet says who _has_ felt; yes, it is after, and not
when most felt that sentiments can be most powerfully expressed. But to
bed! to bed!]
I have had a busy day; engaged during the greater portion of it in the
momentous occupation of shopping. Every thing belonging to my toilette
is to be changed, for I have discovered--"tell it not in Gath"--that my
hats, bonnets, robes, mantles, and pelisses, are totally _passée de
mode_, and what the _modistes_ of Italy declared to be _la dernière
mode de Paris_ is so old as to be forgotten here.
The woman who wishes to be a philosopher must avoid Paris! Yesterday I
entered it, caring or thinking as little of _la mode_ as if there were
no such tyrant; and lo! to-day, I found myself ashamed, as I looked
from the Duchess de Guiche, attired in her becoming and pretty
_peignoir à la neige_ and _chapeau du dernier goût_, to my own dress
and bonnet, which previously I had considered very wearable, if not
very tasteful.
Our first visit was to Herbault's, the high-priest of the Temple of
Fashion at Paris; and I confess, the look of astonishment which he
bestowed on my bonnet did not help to reassure my confidence as to my
appearance.
The Duchesse, too quick-sighted not to observe his surprise, explained
that I had been six years absent from Paris, and only arrived the night
before from Italy. I saw the words _à la bonne heure_ hovering on the
lips of Herbault, he was too well-bred to give utterance to them, and
immediately ordered to be brought forth the choicest of his hats, caps,
and turbans.
Oh, the misery of trying on a new _mode_ for the first time, and before
a stranger! The eye accustomed to see the face to which it appertains
enveloped in a _chapeau_ more or less large or small, is shocked at the
first attempt to wear one of a different size; and turns from the
contemplation of the image presented in the glass with any thing but
self-complacency, listening incredulously to the flattering encomiums
of the not disinterested _marchand de modes_, who avers that "_Ce
chapeau sied parfaitement à Madame la Comtesse, et ce bonnet lui va à
ravir_."
I must, however, render M. Herbault the justice to say, that he evinced
no ordinary tact in suggesting certain alterations in his _chapeaux_
and caps, in order to suit my face; and, aided by the inimitable good
taste of the Duchesse, who passes for an oracle in _affaires de modes à
Paris_, a selection was made that enabled me to leave M. Herbault's,
looking a little more like other people.
From his Temple of Fashion we proceeded to the _lingère à la mode_,
Mdlle. La Touche, where _canezous_ and _robes de matin_ were to be
chosen and ordered; and we returned to the Hôtel de la Terrasse, my
head filled with notions of the importance of dressing _à la mode_, to
which yesterday it was a stranger, and my purse considerably lightened
by the two visits I had paid.
Englishwomen who have not made their purchases at the houses of the
_marchandes de modes_ considered the most _recherché_ at Paris, have no
idea of the extravagance of the charges. Prices are demanded that
really make a prudent person start; nevertheless, she who wishes to
attain the distinction so generally sought, of being perfectly well
dressed, which means being in the newest fashion, must submit to pay
largely for it.
Three hundred and twenty francs for a crape hat and feathers, two
hundred for a _chapeau à fleurs_, one hundred for a _chapeau négligé de
matin_, and eighty-five francs for an evening-cap composed of tulle
trimmed with blonde and flowers, are among the prices asked, and, to my
shame be it said, given.
It is true, hats, caps, and bonnets may be had for very reasonable
prices in the shops in the Rue Vivienne and elsewhere at Paris, as I
and many of my female compatriots found out when I was formerly in this
gay capital; but the bare notion of wearing such would positively shock
a lady of fashion at Paris, as much as it would an English one, to
appear in a hat manufactured in Cranbourn Alley.
Here Fashion is a despot, and no one dreams of evading its dictates.
Having noticed the extravagance of the prices, it is but fair to remark
the elegance and good taste of the millinery to be found at Monsieur
Herbault's. His _chapeaux_ look as if made by fairy fingers, so fresh,
so light, do they appear; and his caps seem as if the gentlest sigh of
a summer's zephyr would bear them from sight, so aerial is their
texture, and so delicate are the flowers that adorn them, fresh from
the _ateliers_ of Natier, or Baton.
Beware, O ye uxorious husbands! how ye bring your youthful brides to
the dangerous atmosphere of Paris, while yet in that paradise of fools
ycleped the honey-moon, ere you have learned to curve your brows into a
frown, or to lengthen your visages at the sight of a long bill.
In that joyful season, when having pleased your eyes and secured your
hearts, your fair brides, with that amiability which is one of the
peculiar characteristics of their sex, are anxious to please all the
world, and from no other motive than that _your_ choice should be
admired, beware of entering Paris, except _en passant_. Wait until you
have recovered that firmness of character which generally comes back to
a Benedict after the first year of his nuptials, before you let your
wives wander through the tempting mazes of the _magasins de modes_ of
this intoxicating city.
And you, fair dames, "with stinted sums assigned," in the shape of
pin-money, beware how you indulge that taste for pretty bonnets, hats,
caps, and turbans, with which all bountiful Nature has so liberally
gifted you; for, alas! "beneath the roses fierce Repentance rears her
snaky crest" in form of a bill, the payment of which will "leave you
poor indeed" for many a long day after, unless your liege lord, melted
by the long-drawn sighs heaved when you remark on the wonderfully high
prices of things at Paris, opens his purse-strings, and, with something
between a pshaw and a grunt, makes you an advance of your next
quarter's pin-money; or, better still, a present of one of the hundred
pounds with which he had intended to try his good luck at the club.
Went yesterday to the Rue d'Anjou, to visit Madame Craufurd. Her hôtel
is a charming one, _entre cour et jardin_; and she is the most
extraordinary person of her age I have ever seen. In her eightieth
year, she does not look to be more than fifty-five; and possesses all
the vivacity and good humour peculiar only to youth.
Scrupulously exact in her person, and dressed with the utmost care, as
well as good taste, she gives me a notion of the appearance which the
celebrated Ninon de l'Enclos must have presented at the same age, and
has much of the charm of manner said to have belonged to that
remarkable woman.
It was an interesting sight to see her surrounded by her grand-children
and great-grand-children, all remarkable for their good looks, and
affectionately attached to her, while she appears not a little proud of
them. The children of the Duc de Guiche have lost nothing of their
beauty since their _séjour_ at Pisa, and are as ingenuous and amusing
as formerly.
I never saw such handsome children before, nor so well brought up. No
trouble or expense is spared in their education; and the Duc and
Duchesse devote a great portion of their time to them.
All our friends are occupied in looking out for a house for us; and I
have this day been over, at least, ten--only one of which seems likely
to suit.
I highly approve the mode at Paris of letting unfurnished houses, or
apartments, with mirrors and decorations, as well as all fixtures (with
us, in England, always charged separately) free of any extra expense.
The good taste evinced in the ornaments is in general remarkable, and
far superior to what is to be met with in England; where, if one
engages a new house lately papered or painted, one is compelled to
recolour the rooms before they can be occupied, owing to the gaudy and
ill-assorted patterns originally selected.
The house of the Maréchal Lobau, forming the corner of the Rue de
Bourbon, is the one I prefer of all those I have yet seen, although it
has many _désagrémens_ for so large an establishment as ours. But I am
called to go to the review in the Champ-de-Mars, so _allons_ for a
_spectacle militaire_, which, I am told, is to be very fine.
The review was well worth seeing; and the troops performed their
evolutions with great precision. The crowd of spectators was immense;
so much so, that those only who formed part of the royal _cortège_
could reach the Champ-de-Mars in time to see its commencement. No
carriages, save those of the court, were allowed to enter the file.
The dust was insupportable; and the pretty dresses of the ladies
suffered from it nearly as much as did the smart uniforms of the
officers.
The _coup d'oeil_ from the pavilion (where we had, thanks to our
_chaperon_, the Duchesse de Guiche, front seats) was very fine. The
various and splendid uniforms, floating standards, waving plumes,
glittering arms, and prancing steeds, gave to the vast plain over which
the troops were moving a most animated aspect, while the sounds of
martial music exhilarated the spirits.
Nor was the view presented by the interior of the pavilion without its
charms. A number of ladies, some of them young and handsome, and all
remarkably well-dressed, gave to the benches ranged along it the
appearance of a rich _parterre_, among the flowers of which the
beautiful Duchesse de Guiche shone pre-eminent.
I was seated next to a lady, with large lustrous eyes and a pale olive
complexion, whose countenance, from its extreme mobility, attracted my
attention; at one moment, lighting up with intelligence, and the next,
softening into pensiveness.
A remarkably handsome young man stood behind her, holding her shawl,
and lavishing on her those attentions peculiar to young Benedicts. The
lady proved to be the Marchioness de Loulé, sister to the King of
Portugal; and the gentleman turned out to be her husband, for whose
_beaux yeux_ she contracted what is considered a _mésalliance_.
The simplicity of her dress, and unaffectedness of her manner, invested
her with new attractions in my eyes; which increased when I reflected
on the elevated position she had resigned, to follow the more humble
fortunes of her handsome husband.
How strange, yet how agreeable too, must the change be, from the most
formal court, over which Etiquette holds a despotic sway, to the
freedom from such disagreeable constraint permitted to those in private
life, and now enjoyed by this Spanish princess!
She appears to enjoy this newly acquired liberty with a zest in
proportion to her past enthralment, and has proved that the daughter of
a King of Portugal has a heart, though the queens of its neighbour,
Spain, were in former days not supposed to have legs.
During the evolutions, a general officer was thrown from his horse; and
a universal agitation among a group of ladies evinced that they were in
a panic. Soon the name of the general, Count de Bourmont, was heard
pronounced; and a faint shriek, followed by a half swoon from one of
the fair dames, announced her deep interest in the accident.
Flacons and vinaigrettes were presented to her on every side, all the
ladies present seeming to have come prepared for some similar
catastrophe; but in a few minutes a messenger, despatched by the
general, assured Madame la Comtesse of his perfect safety; and tears of
joy testified her satisfaction at the news.
This little episode in the review shewed me the French ladies in a very
amiable point of view. Their sensibility and agitation during the
uncertainty as to the person thrown, vouched for the liveliness of
their conjugal affection; and their sympathy for Madame la Comtesse de
Bourmont when it was ascertained that her husband was the sufferer,
bore evidence to the kindness of their hearts, as well as to their
facility in performing the little services so acceptable in moments
like those I had just witnessed.
Charles X, the Dauphin and Dauphine, and the Duchesse de Berri, were
present--the two latter in landaus, attended by their ladies. The king
looked well, his grey hair and tall thin figure giving him a very
venerable aspect.
The Dauphine is much changed since I last saw her, and the care and
sorrow of her childhood have left their traces on her countenance. I
never saw so melancholy a face, and the strength of intellect which
characterises it renders it still more so, by indicating that the marks
of sorrow so visible were not indented on that brow without many an
effort from the strong mind to resist the attacks of grief.
I remember reading years ago of the melancholy physiognomy of King
Charles I, which when seen in his portrait by a Florentine sculptor, to
whom it was sent in order that a bust should be made from it, drew
forth the observation that the countenance indicated that its owner
would come to a violent death.
I was reminded of this anecdote by the face of the Duchesse
d'Angoulême; for though I do not pretend to a prescience as to her
future fate, I cannot help arguing from it that, even should a peaceful
reign await her, the fearful trials of her youth have destroyed in her
the power of enjoyment; and that on a throne she can never forget the
father and mother she saw hurried from it, to meet every insult that
malice could invent, or cruelty could devise, before a violent death
freed them from their sufferings.
Who can look on this heroic woman without astonishment at the power of
endurance that has enabled her to live on under such trials? Martyr is
written in legible characters on that brow, and on those lips; and her
attempt to smile made me more sad than the tears of a mourner would
have done, because it revealed "a grief too deep for tears."
Must she not tremble for the future, if not for the present, among a
people so versatile as those among whom she is now thrown? And can she
look from the windows of the palace she has been recalled to inhabit,
without seeing the spot where the fearful guillotine was reared that
made her an orphan?
The very plaudits that now rend the skies for her uncle must remind her
of the shouts that followed her father to the scaffold: no wonder,
then, that she grows pale as she hears them; and that the memory of the
terrible past, written in characters of blood, gives a sombre hue to
the present and to the future.
The sight of her, too, must awaken disagreeable recollections in those
over whom her husband may be soon called to reign, for the history of
the crimes of the Revolution is stamped on her face, whose pallid lint
and rigid muscles tell of the horror and affliction imprinted on her
youth; the reminiscence of which cannot be pleasant to them.
The French not only love their country passionately, but are
inordinately proud of it; hence, aught that reminds them of its
sins--and cruelty is one of a deep dye--must be humiliating to them; so
that the presence of the Duchesse d'Angoulême cannot be flattering to
their _amor patriæ_ or _amour propre_. I thought of all this to-day, as
I looked on the face of Madame la Dauphine; and breathed a hope that
the peace of her life's evening may console her for the misfortunes of
its morning and its noon.
The Duchesse de Berri has an animated and peculiarly good-natured
expression of countenance. Her restored gaiety makes the French forget
why it was long and cruelly overclouded, and aids the many good
qualities which she possesses, in securing the popularity she has so
generally acquired in the country of her adoption.
House-hunting again, and still unsuited. Dined yesterday at the
Duchesse de Guiche's; a very pleasant party, increased by some
agreeable people in the evening. Our old acquaintance, William Lock,
was among the guests at dinner, and is as good-looking and
light-hearted as ever.
The Marquis l'Espérance de l'Aigle was also present, and is a perfect
specimen of the fine gentleman of _la Vieille Cour_--a race now nearly
extinct. Possessing all the gaiety and vivacity of youth, with that
attention to the feelings of others peculiar only to maturity and
high-breeding, the Count l'Espérance de l'Aigle is universally beloved.
He can talk over old times with the grand-mother with all the wit that
we read of, oftener than we meet with; give his opinion of _la dernière
mode_ to the youthful mother, with rare tact and good taste; dance with
the young daughter as actively and gracefully as any _garçon de
dix-huit ans_ in Paris; and gallop through the Bois de Boulogne with
the young men who pride themselves on their riding, without being ever
left behind. I had frequently heard his praises from the Duchesse de
Guiche, and found that her description of him was very accurate.
The house of the Duc de Guiche is a picture of English comfort and
French elegance united; and that portion of it appropriated to its fair
mistress is fitted up with exquisite taste. Her _salons_ and _boudoir_
are objects of _vertù, bijouterie_, and vases of old Sèvre, enough to
excite envy in those who can duly appreciate such treasures, and tempt
to the violation of the tenth commandment. Order reigns in the whole
arrangement of the establishment, which, possessing all the luxurious
appliances of a _maison montée_, has all the scrupulous cleanliness of
that of a Quaker.
Went to the Opera last night, where I saw the _début_ of the new
_danseuse_ Taglioni. Hers is a totally new style of dancing; graceful
beyond all comparison, wonderful lightness, an absence of all violent
effort, or at least of the appearance of it, and a modesty as new as it
is delightful to witness in her art. She seems to float and bound like
a sylph across the stage, never executing those _tours de force_ that
we know to be difficult and wish were impossible, being always
performed at the expense of decorum and grace, and requiring only
activity for their achievement.
She excited the most rapturous applause, and received it with a "decent
dignity," very unlike the leering smiles with which, in general, a
_danseuse_ thinks it necessary to advance to the front of the
proscenium, shewing all her teeth, as she lowly courtesies to the
audience.
There is a sentiment in the dancing of this charming votary of
Terpsichore that elevates it far beyond the licentious style generally
adopted by the ladies of her profession, and which bids fair to
accomplish a reformation in it.
The Duc de Cazes, who came in to the Duchesse de Guiche's box, was
enthusiastic in his praises of Mademoiselle Taglioni, and said hers was
the most poetical style of dancing he had ever seen. Another observed,
that it was indeed the poetry of motion. I would describe it as being
the epic of dancing.
The Duc de Cazes is a very distinguished looking man, with a fine and
intelligent countenance, and very agreeable manners.
_À propos_ of manners, I am struck with the great difference between
those of Frenchmen and Englishmen, of the same station in life. The
latter treat women with a politeness that seems the result of habitual
amenity; the former with a homage that appears to be inspired by the
peculiar claims of the sex, particularised in the individual woman, and
is consequently more flattering.
An Englishman seldom lays himself out to act the agreeable to women; a
Frenchman never omits an opportunity of so doing: hence, the attentions
of the latter are less gratifying than those of the former, because a
woman, however free from vanity, may suppose that when an Englishman
takes the trouble--and it is evidently a trouble, more or less, to all
our islanders to enact the agreeable--she had really inspired him with
the desire to please.
In France, a woman may forget that she is neither young nor handsome;
for the absence of these claims to attention does not expose her to be
neglected by the male sex. In England, the elderly and the ugly "could
a tale unfold" of the _naïveté_ with which men evince their sense of
the importance of youth and beauty, and their oblivion of the presence
of those who have neither.
France is the paradise for old women, particularly if they are
_spirituelle_; but England is the purgatory.
The Comtesses de Bellegarde called on me to-day, and two more
warm-hearted or enthusiastic persons I never saw. Though no longer
young, they possess all the gaiety of youth, without any of its
thoughtlessness, and have an earnestness in their kindness that is very
pleasant.
Dined yesterday at Madame Craufurd's--a very pleasant party. Met there
the Duc de Gramont, Duc and Duchesse de Guiche, Colonel and lady
Barbara Craufurd, and Count Valeski.
The Duc de Gramont is a fine old man who has seen much of the world,
without having been soured by its trials. Faithful to his sovereign
during adversity, he is affectionately cherished by the whole of the
present royal family, who respect and love him; and his old age is
cheered by the unceasing devotion of his children, the Duc and Duchesse
de Guiche, who are fondly attached to him.
He gives up much of his time to the culture of flowers, and is more
interested in the success of his dahlias than in those scenes of
courtly circles in which he is called to fill so distinguished a part.
It pleased me to hear him telling his beautiful daughter-in-law of the
perfection of a flower she had procured him with some trouble; and then
adding: "_À propos_ of flowers, how is our sweet Ida, to-day? There is
no flower in my garden like her!--Ay, she will soon be two years old."
There is something soothing to the mind in the contemplation of a man
in the evening of life, whose youth was spent in all the splendour of a
court, and whose manhood has been tried by adversity, turning to Nature
for her innocent pleasures, when the discovery of the futility of all
others has been made. This choice vouches for the purity of heart and
goodness of him who has adopted it, and disposes me to give ample
credit to all the commendation the Duchesse de Guiche used to utter of
him in Italy.
Lady Barbara Craufurd is an excellent specimen of an English woman.
Pretty, without vanity or affectation; gentle, without insipidity; and
simple, yet highly polished, in mariners. She has, too, a low, "sweet
voice, an excellent thing in woman," and, to me, whose ears offer even
a more direct road to the heart than do the eyes, is a peculiar
attraction.
Colonel Craufurd seems to be the quintessence of good nature and of
good sense. Count Valeski is an intelligent young man, greatly _à la
mode_ at Paris, and wholly unspoilt by this distinction. Handsome,
well-bred, and agreeable, he is very popular, not only among the fine
ladies but fine gentlemen here, and appears worthy of the favour he
enjoys.
Several people of both sexes came in the evening to Madame Craufurd's,
and we had some excellent music. Madame C. does the honours of her
_salon_ with peculiar grace. She has a bright smile and a kind word for
every guest, without the slightest appearance of effort.
Still house-hunting; continually tempted by elegantly decorated
_salons_, and as continually checked by the want of room and comfort of
the rest of the apartments.
We have been compelled to abandon the project of taking the Maréchal
Lobau's house, or at least that portion of it which he wishes to
dispose of, for we found it impossible to lodge so large an
establishment as ours in it; and, though we communicated this fact with
all possible courtesy to the Maréchal, we have received a note in
answer, written in a different style, as he is pleased to think that,
having twice inspected his apartments, we ought to have taken them.
In England, a person of the Maréchal's rank who had a house to let
would not show it _in propriâ personâ_, but would delegate that task,
as also the terms and negotiations, to some agent; thus avoiding all
personal interference, and, consequently, any chance of offence: but if
people _will_ feel angry without any just cause, it cannot be helped;
and so Monsieur le Maréchal must recover his serenity and acquire a
temper more in analogy with his name; for, though a brave and
distinguished officer, as well as a good man, which he is said to be,
he certainly is _not Bon comme un mouton_, which is his cognomen.
Paris is now before us,--where to choose is the difficulty. We saw
to-day a house in the Rue St.-Honoré, _entre cour et jardin_, a few
doors from the English embassy. The said garden is the most tempting
part of the affair; for, though the _salons_ and sleeping-rooms are
good, the only entrance, except by a _passage dérobé_ for servants, is
through the _salle à manger_, which is a great objection.
Many of the houses I have seen here have this defect, which the
Parisians do not seem to consider one, although the odour of dinner
must enter the _salons_, and that in the evening visitors must find
servants occupied in removing the dinner apparatus, should they, as
generally happens, come for the _prima sera_.
French people, however, remain so short a time at table, and dine so
much earlier than the English people do, that the employment of their
_salle à manger_ as a passage does not annoy them.
Went to the opera last night, and saw the _Muette de Portici_. It is
admirably got up, and the costumes and scenery, as well as the
_tarantulas_, transported me back to Naples--dear, joyous
Naples--again. Nourrit enacted "Massaniello," and his rich and flexible
voice gave passion and feeling to the music. Noblet was the "Fenella,"
and her pantomime and dancing were good; but Taglioni spoils one for
any other dancing.
The six years that have flown over Noblet since I last saw her have
left little trace of their flight, which is to be marvelled at, when
one considers the violent and constant exercise that the profession of
a _danseuse_ demands.
When I saw the sylph-like Taglioni floating through the dance, I could
not refrain from sighing at the thought that grace and elegance like
hers should be doomed to know the withering effect of Time; and that
those agile limbs should one day become as stiff and helpless as those
of others. An _old danseuse_ is an anomaly. She is like an old rose,
rendered more displeasing by the recollection of former attractions.
Then to see the figure bounding in air, habit and effort effecting
something like that which the agility peculiar to youth formerly
enabled her to execute almost _con amore_; while the haggard face, and
distorted smile revealing yellow teeth, tell a sad tale of departed
youth. Yes, an old _danseuse_ is a melancholy object; more so, because
less cared for, than the broken-down racer, or worn-out hunter.
Went to Tivoli last night, and was amused by the scene of gaiety it
presented. How unlike, and how superior to, our Vauxhall! People of all
stations, of all ages, and of both sexes, threading the mazy dance with
a sprightliness that evinced the pleasure it gave them.
We paused to look at group after group, all equally enjoying
themselves; and the Duchesse de Guiche, from her perfect knowledge of
Paris, was enabled, by a glance, to name the station in life occupied
by each: a somewhat difficult task for a stranger, as the remarkably
good taste of every class of women in Paris in dress, precludes those
striking contrasts between the appearance of a _modiste_ and a
_marquise_, the wife of a _boutiquier_ and a _duchesse_, to be met with
in all other countries.
But it is not in dress alone that a similarity exists in the exteriors
of Parisian women. The air _comme il faut_, the perfect freedom from
all _gaucherie_, the ease of demeanour, the mode of walking, and, above
all, the decent dignity equally removed from _mauvaise honte_ and
effrontery, appertain nearly alike to all. The class denominated
_grisettes_ alone offered an exception, as their demonstrations of
gaiety, though free from boisterousness, betrayed stronger symptoms of
hilarity than were evinced by women belonging to a more elevated class
in society.
The dancing, too, surprised as well as pleased me; and in this
accomplishment the French still maintain their long-acknowledged
superiority, for among the many groups I did not see a single bad
dancer.
Around one quadrille party a more numerous audience was collected than
around the others, and the _entrechats_ of one of the gentlemen were
much applauded. Nods and smiles passing between the dancers and the
Duchesse de Guiche, revealed to me that they were among the circle of
her acquaintance; and, approaching nearer, I recognised in the
gentleman whose _entrechats_ were so much admired, my new acquaintance
the Marquis l'Espérance de l'Aigle, of whose excellence in the mazy
dance I now had an opportunity of seeing that Fame had not said too
much.
The ladies who formed the quadrille were la Marquise de Marmier, the
Vicomtesse de Noailles, and Madame Standish; all excellent dancers, and
attired in that most becoming of all styles of dress, the
_demi-toilette_, which is peculiar to France, and admits of the
after-dinner promenades or unceremonious visits in which French ladies
indulge. A simple robe of _organdie_, with long sleeves, a _canezou_ of
net, a light scarf, and a pretty _chapeau_ of _paille de riz_, form
this becoming toilette, which is considered a suitable one for all
theatres, except the Opera, where ladies go in a richer dress.
On our return from Tivoli, we had a small party to drink tea, and
remained chatting till one o'clock--a late hour for Paris. Among the
guests was our old friend Mr. T. Steuart, the nephew of Sir William
Drummond, who continues to be as clever and original as ever. His
lively remarks and brilliant sallies were very amusing.
Having complained of the want of a comfortable chair last evening, I
found a _chef d'oeuvre_ of Rainguet's in my _salon_ this morning, sent
me by my thoughtful and ever-kind friend the Duc de Guiche. A
connoisseur in chairs and sofas, being unhappily addicted to "taking
mine ease" not only in "mine inn," but wherever I meet these requisites
to it, I am compelled to acknowledge the superiority of Rainguet over
any that I have previously seen; and my only fear is, that this
luxurious chair will seduce me into the still greater indulgence of my
besetting or _besitting_ sin, sedentary habits.
At length, we have found a house to suit us, and a delightful one it
is; once the property of the Maréchal Ney, but now belonging to the
Marquis de Lillers. It is situated in the Rue de Bourbon, but the
windows of the principal apartments look on the Seine, and command a
delightful view of the Tuilerie Gardens. It is approached by an avenue
bounded by fine trees, and is enclosed on the Rue de Bourbon side by
high walls, a large _porte-cochère_, and a porter's lodge; which give
it all the quiet and security of a country house.
This hôtel may be viewed as a type of the splendour that marked the
dwellings of the imperial _noblesse_, and some notion of it may be
conceived from the fact that the decorations of its walls alone cost a
million of francs. These decorations are still--thanks to the purity of
the air of Paris--as fresh as if only a year painted, and are of great
beauty; so much so, that it will be not only very expensive but very
difficult to assort the furniture to them; and, unfortunately, there is
not a single _meuble_ in the house.
The rent is high, but there are so many competitors for the hôtel,
which has only been three days in the market, that we consider
ourselves fortunate in having secured it.
A small garden, or rather terrace, with some large trees and plenty of
flowers, separates the house from the Quai d'Orsay, and runs back at
its left angle. The avenue terminates in a court, from which, on the
right, a gate opens into the stable offices; and a vestibule, fitted up
as a conservatory, forms an entrance to the house. A flight of marble
steps on each side of the conservatory, leads to a large ante-room,
from which a window of one immense plate of glass, extending from the
ceiling to the floor, divides the centre, permitting the pyramids of
flowers to be seen through it. A glass door on each side opens from the
vestibule to the steps of the conservatory.
The vestibule, lofty and spacious, is lighted also by two other
windows, beyond the conservatory, and is ornamented with pilasters with
Corinthian capitals.
On the right hand is the _salle à manger_, a fine room, lighted by
three windows looking into the court-yard, and architecturally arranged
with pilasters, a rich cornice and ceiling: the hall is stuccoed,
painted in imitation of marble, and has so fine a polish as really to
deceive the eye. In the centre of this apartment is a large door
between the pilasters, opening into a drawing-room, and at the opposite
end from the door that opens from the vestibule is that which leads to
the kitchen offices, and by which dinner is served.
_Vis-à-vis_ to the _salle à manger_, and divided from it by the large
vestibule, is a dressing and bed-chamber with an alcove, both rooms
being ornamented with columns and pilasters, between which are mirrors
of large dimensions inserted in recesses. A corridor and _escalier
dérobé_ at the back of these two apartments admit the attendance of
servants, without their passing through the vestibule.
In the centre of this last, and opposite to the large plate of glass
that divides it from the conservatory, large folding doors open into
the principal drawing-room, which is lighted by three large and lofty
windows, the centre one exactly facing the folding doors, and, like
them, supported by pilasters.
This room is of large dimensions, and finely proportioned; the sides
and ends are divided by fluted pilasters with Corinthian capitals
richly gilt. At one extremity is a beautifully sculptured chimney-piece
of Parian marble, over which is a vast mirror, bounded by pilasters,
that separate it from a large panel on each side, in the centre of
which are exquisitely designed allegorical groups.
At the opposite end, a mirror, of similar dimensions to that over the
chimney-piece, and resting like it on a white marble slab, occupies the
centre, on each side of which are panels with painted groups. Doors at
each end, and exactly facing, lead into other _salons_; opposite to the
two end windows are large mirrors, resting on marble slabs, bounded by
narrow panels with painted figures, and between the windows are also
mirrors to correspond. The pictorial adornments in this _salon_ are
executed by the first artists of the day, and with a total disregard of
expense, so that it is not to be wondered at that they are beautiful.
Military trophies are mingled with the decorations, the whole on a
white ground, and richly ornamented with gilding. The Seine, with its
boats, and the gay scene of the Tuilerie Gardens, are reflected in the
mirrors opposite to the windows, while the groups on the panels are
seen in the others.
Nothing can exceed the beauty of this room, in which such fine
proportion, architectural decoration, and exquisite finish reign, that
the eye dwells on it with delight, and can trace no defect.
The door on the right-hand end, on entering, opens to a less richly
ornamented _salon_, inside which are two admirable bed-chambers and
dressing-rooms, communicating by an _escalier dérobé_ with a suite of
servants' apartments.
The door on the left-hand end of the large _salon_ opens into a
beautiful room, known as the _Salle de la Victoire_, from its being
decorated by paintings allegorical of Victory. This apartment is
lighted by two large windows, and opposite to them is a deep recess, or
alcove.
A cornice extends around the room, about four feet beneath the ceiling,
and is supported by white columns, projecting into the chamber, on each
of which stands a figure of Victory offering a wreath of laurels. This
cornice divides the room from the recess before mentioned.
The chimney-piece is in a recess, with columns on each side; and the
large mirror over it, and which is finished by the cornice, is faced by
a similar one, also in a recess, with white columns, standing on a
plinth on each side. The windows are finished by the former cornice,
that extends round the rooms, and have similar columns on each side
with Victories on them, and a mirror between. The room is white and
gold, with delicate arabesques, and medallions exquisitely painted.
This _salon_ communicates with a corridor behind it, which admits the
attendance of servants without the necessity of their passing through
the other apartments. Inside this _salon_ is a _chambre à coucher_,
that looks as if intended for some youthful queen, so beautiful are its
decorations. A recess, the frieze of which rests on two white columns
with silvered capitals, is meant to receive a bed.
One side of the room is panelled with mirrors, divided by pilasters
with silver capitals; and on the opposite side, on which is the
chimney, similar panels occupy the same space. The colour of the
apartment is a light blue, with silver mouldings to all the panels, and
delicate arabesques of silver. The chimney-piece and dogs for the wood
have silvered ornaments to correspond.
Inside this chamber is the dressing-room, which is of an octagon shape,
and panelled likewise with mirrors, in front of each of which are white
marble slabs to correspond with that of the chimney-piece. The
mouldings and architectural decorations are silvered, and arabesques of
flowers are introduced.
This room opens into a _salle de bain_ of an elliptical form; the bath,
of white marble, is sunk in the pavement, which is tessellated. From
the ceiling immediately over the bath hangs an alabaster lamp, held by
the beak of a dove; the rest of the ceiling being painted with Cupids
throwing flowers. The room is panelled with alternate mirrors and
groups of allegorical subjects finely executed; and is lighted by one
window, composed of a single plate of glass opening into a little spot
of garden secluded from the rest. A small library completes the suite I
have described, all the apartments of which are on the ground floor.
There are several other rooms in a wing in the court-yard, and the
whole are in perfect order.
I remembered to-day, when standing in the principal drawing-room, the
tragic scene narrated to me by Sir Robert Wilson as having taken place
there, when he had an interview with the Princesse de la Moskowa, after
the condemnation of her brave husband.
He told me, years ago, how the splendour of the decorations of the
_salon_--decorations meant to commemorate the military glory of the
Maréchal Ney--added to the tragic effect of the scene in which that
noble-minded woman, overwhelmed with horror and grief, turned away with
a shudder from objects that so forcibly reminded her of the brilliant
past, and so fearfully contrasted with the terrible present.
He described to me the silence, broken only by the sobs that heaved her
agonised bosom; the figures of the few trusted friends permitted to
enter the presence of the distracted wife, moving about with noiseless
steps, as if fearful of disturbing the sacredness of that grief to
offer consolation for which they felt their tongues could form no
words, so deeply did their hearts sympathise with it.
He told me that the images of these friends in the vast mirrors looked
ghostly in the dim twilight of closed blinds, the very light of day
having become insupportable to the broken-hearted wife, so soon to be
severed for ever, and by a violent death, from the husband she adored.
Ah, if these walls could speak, what agony would they reveal! and if
mirrors could retain the shadows replete with despair they once
reflected, who dare look on them?
I thought of all this to-day, until the tears came into my eyes, and I
almost determined not to hire the house, so powerfully did the
recollection of the past affect me: but I remembered that such is the
fate of mankind; that there are no houses in which scenes of misery
have not taken place, and in which breaking hearts have not been ready
to prompt the exclamation "There is no sorrow like mine."
How is the agony of such moments increased by the recollection that in
the same chamber where such bitter grief now reigns, joy and pleasure
once dwelt, and that those who shared it can bless us no more! How like
a cruel mockery, then, appear the splendour and beauty of all that
meets the eye, unchanged as when it was in unison with our feelings,
but which now jars so fearfully with them!
I wonder not that the bereaved wife fled from this house, where every
object reminded her of a husband so fondly loved, so fearfully lost, to
mourn in some more humble abode over the fate of _him_ who could no
more resist the magical influence of the presence of that glorious
chief, who had so often led him to victory, than the war-horse can
resist being animated by the sound of that trumpet which has often
excited the proud animal into ardour.
Peace be to thy manes, gallant Ney; and if thy spirit be permitted to
look down on this earth, it will be soothed by the knowledge that the
wife of thy bosom has remained faithful to thy memory; and that thy
sons, worthy of their sire--brave, noble, and generous-hearted--are
devoted to their country, for which thou hadst so often fought and
bled!