Charles Kemble dined here yesterday, and in the evening read to us his
daughter Fanny's Tragedy of _Francis the First_--a very wonderful
production for so young a girl. There is considerable vigour in many
parts of this work, and several passages in it reminded me of the old
dramatists. The character of "Louisa of Savoy" is forcibly
drawn--wonderfully so, indeed, when considered as the production of so
youthful a person. The constant association with minds deeply imbued
with a love of the old writers, must have greatly influenced the taste
of Miss Kemble.
_Francis the First_ bears irrefragable evidence that her reading has
lain much among the old poets, and that Shakspeare is one of her most
favourite ones. "Triboulet," the king's jester, may be instanced as an
example of this; and "Margaret of Valois" furnishes another. "Françoise
de Foix" is a more original conception; timid, yet fond, sacrificing
her honour to save her brother's life, but rendered wretched by
remorse; and not able to endure the presence of her affianced husband,
who, believing her pure and sinless as he left her, appeals to her,
when "Gonzales" reveals her shame.
This same "Gonzales," urged on by vengeance, and ready to do
aught--nay, more than "may become a man,"--to seek its gratification,
is a boldly drawn character.
The introduction of the poet "Clément Marot" is no less happy than
judicious; and Miss Kemble gives him a very beautiful speech, addressed
to his master "Francis the First," in which the charm that reigns about
the presence of a pure woman is so eloquently described, as to have
reminded me of the exquisite passage in _Comus_, although there is not
any plagiary in Miss Kemble's speech.
A poetess herself, she has rendered justice to the character of Clement
Marot, whose honest indignation at being employed to bear a letter from
the amorous "Francis" to the sister of "Lautrec," she has very
gracefully painted.
The "Constable Bourbon" is well drawn, and has some fine speeches
assigned to him; and "Gonzales" gives a spirited description of the
difference between encountering death in the battle-field, surrounded
by all the spirit-stirring "pomp and circumstance of glorious war," and
meeting the grisly tyrant on the scaffold, attended by all the
ignominious accessories of a traitor's doom.
This Tragedy, when given to the public, will establish Miss Kemble's
claims to distinction in the literary world, and add another laurel to
those acquired by her family.
There are certain passages in the speeches of "Gonzales," that, in my
opinion, require to be revised, lest they should provoke censures from
the fastidious critics of the present time, who are prone to detect
evil of which the authors, whose works they analyse, are quite
unconscious. Innocence sometimes leads young writers to a freedom of
expression from which experienced ones would shrink back in alarm; and
the perusal of the old dramatists gives a knowledge of passions, and of
sins, known only through their medium, but the skilful developement of
which, subjects a female writer, and more particularly a youthful one,
to ungenerous animadversion. It is to be hoped, that the friends of
this gifted girl will so prune the luxuriance of her pen, as to leave
nothing to detract from a work so creditable to her genius.
Charles Kemble rendered ample justice to his daughter's Tragedy by his
mode of reading it; and we counted not the hours devoted to the task.
How many reminiscences of the olden time were called up by hearing him!
I remembered those pleasant evenings when he used to read to us in
London, hour after hour, until the timepiece warned us to give over. I
remembered, too, John Kemble--"the great John Kemble," as Lord
Guildford used to call him--twice or thrice reading to us with Sir T.
Lawrence; and the tones of Charles Kemble's voice, and the expression
of his face, forcibly reminded me of our departed friend.
I have scarcely met with a more high-bred man, or a more agreeable
companion, than Charles Kemble. Indeed, were I called on to name the
professional men I have known most distinguished for good breeding and
manners, I should name our four tragedians,--the two Kembles, Young,
and Macready.
Sir Francis Burdett dined here yesterday _en famille_, and we passed
two very pleasant hours. He related to us many amusing and interesting
anecdotes connected with his political life.
Went to the Opera in the evening, whither he accompanied us. I like my
box very much. It is in the centre of the house, is draped with pale
blue silk, and has very comfortable chairs. The Parisians are, I find,
as addicted to staring as the English; for many were the glasses
levelled last night at Sir Francis Burdett who, totally unconscious of
the attention he excited, was wholly engrossed by the "Count Ory," some
of the choruses in which pleased me very much.
A visit to-day from our excellent and valued friend, Sir A. Barnard,
who has promised to dine with us to-morrow. Paris is now filling very
fast, which I regret, as I dislike crowds and having my time broken in
upon.
I become more convinced every day I live, that quiet and repose are the
secrets of happiness, for I never feel so near an approach to this
blessing as when in the possession of them. General society is a heavy
tax on time and patience, and one that I feel every year less
inclination to pay, as I witness the bad effect it produces not only on
the habits but on the mind.
Oh! the weariness of listening for hours to the repetition of past
gaieties, or the anticipation of future ones, to the commonplace
remarks or stupid conversation of persons whose whole thoughts are
engrossed by the frivolous amusements of Paris, which are all and every
thing to them!
How delicious is it to shut out all this weariness, and with a book, or
a few rationally minded friends, indulge in an interchange of ideas!
But the too frequent indulgence of this sensible mode of existence
exposes one to the sarcasms of the frivolous who are avoided.
One is deemed a pedant--a terrible charge at Paris!--or a _bas bleu_,
which is still worse, however free the individual may be from any
pretensions to merit such charges.
Paid a visit to the justly celebrated Mademoiselle Mars yesterday, at
her beautiful hôtel in the Rue de la Tour des Dames. I have entertained
a wish ever since my return from Italy, to become acquainted with this
remarkable woman; and Mr. Young was the medium of accomplishing it.
Mademoiselle Mars is even more attractive off the stage than on; for
her countenance beams with intelligence, and her manners are at once so
animated, yet gentle; so kind, yet dignified; and there is such an
inexpressible charm in the tones of her voice, that no one can approach
without being delighted with her.
Her conversation is highly interesting, marked by a good sense and good
taste that render her knowledge always available, but never obtrusive.
Her features are regular and delicate; her figure, though inclined to
_embonpoint_, is very graceful, and her smile, like the tones of her
voice, is irresistibly sweet, and reveals teeth of rare beauty.
Mademoiselle Mars, off the stage, owes none of her attractions to the
artful aid of ornament; wearing her own dark hair simply arranged, and
her clear brown complexion free from any artificial tinge. In her air
and manner is the rare and happy mixture of _la grande dame et la femme
aimable_, without the slightest shade of affectation.
Mademoiselle Mars' hôtel is the prettiest imaginable. It stands in a
court yard, wholly shut in from the street; and, though not vast, it
has all the elegance, if not the splendour, of a fine house. Nothing
can evince a purer taste than this dwelling, with its decorations and
furniture. It contains all that elegance and comfort can require,
without any thing meretricious or gaudy, and is a temple worthy of the
goddess to whom it is dedicated.
It has been well observed, that a just notion of the character of a
person can always be formed by the style of his or her dwelling. Who
can be deceived in the house of a _nouveau riche_? Every piece of
furniture in it vouches, not only for the wealth of its owner, but that
he has not yet got sufficiently habituated to the possession of it, to
be as indifferent to its attributes as are those to whom custom has
rendered splendour no longer a pleasure.
Every thing in the house of Mademoiselle Mars bespeaks its mistress to
be a woman of highly cultivated mind and of refined habits.
The boudoir is in the style of Louis XIV, and owes its tasteful
decorations to the pencil of Ciceri. The pictures that ornament it are
by Gérard, and are highly creditable to his reputation. The library
serves also as a picture-gallery; and in it may be seen beautiful
specimens of the talents of the most esteemed French artists, offered
by them as a homage to this celebrated woman. Gérard, Delacroix,
Isabey, Lany, Grévedon, and other distinguished artists, have
contributed to this valuable collection. A fine portrait of Madame
Pasta, and another of Talma, with two exquisite pictures of the mother
of Mademoiselle Mars, not less remarkable for the rare beauty of the
subject than for the merit of the artists, complete it.
One book-case in the library contains only the presentation copies of
the pieces in which Mademoiselle Mars has performed, magnificently
bound by the authors.
On a white marble _console_ in this gallery is placed an interesting
memorial of her brilliant theatrical career, presented to her by the
most enthusiastic of its numerous admirers. It consists of a laurel
crown, executed in pure gold; on the leaves of which are engraved on
one side, the name of each piece in which she appeared, and, on the
other, the _rôle_ which she acted in it. A very fine statue of Molière
is placed in this apartment.
Never did two hours glide more rapidly away than those passed in the
society of this fascinating woman, whose presence I left penetrated
with the conviction that no one can know without admiring her; and that
when she retires from the stage, "we shall not look upon her like
again."
Passed a very agreeable evening, at Madame Craufurd's, Met there la
Duchesse de la Force, and the usual circle of _habitués_. Talking of
theatres, some of _la Vieille Cour_, who happened to be present,
remarked on the distinction always made between the female performers
of the different ones. Those of the Théâtre Français were styled "_Les
Dames de la Comédie Française_"; "those of the Théâtre Italien," "_Les
Demoiselles du Théâtre Italien_;" and the dancers, "_Les Filles de
l'Opéra_." This last mode of naming _les danseuses_, though in later
times considered as a reproach, was, originally, meant as an honourable
distinction; the king, on establishing the _Académie Royale de
Musique_, having obtained the privilege that the performers attached to
it should be exempt from excommunication. Hence they were named, "_Les
Filles de l'Opéra_," as persons sometimes said "_Les Filles de la
Reine_."
_À propos_ of the Opera, Madame Grassini, once no less celebrated for
her beauty than for her voice, was of the party last night. She is, and
deservedly, a general favourite in Parisian society, in which her
vivacity, good-nature, and amiability, are duly appreciated. Her lively
sallies and _naïve_ remarks are very amusing; and the frankness and
simplicity she has preserved in a profession and position so calculated
to induce the reverse, add to her attractions and give piquancy to her
conversation.
There are moments in which Madame Grassini's countenance becomes
lighted up with such animation, that it seems to be invested with a
considerable portion of the rare beauty for which she was so
remarkable.
Her eyes are still glorious, and, like those only of the sunny South,
can flash with intelligence, or melt with tenderness. It is when
conversing on the grand _rôles_ which she filled as _prima donna_, that
her face lights up as I have noticed,--as the war-horse, when hearing
the sound of the trumpet, remembers the scene of his past glory.
When in Italy, some years since, Madame Grassini's carriage was stopped
by brigands, who, having compelled her to descend, ransacked it and
took possession of her splendid theatrical wardrobe, and her
magnificent diamonds.
She witnessed the robbery with calmness, until she saw the brigands
seize the portrait of the Emperor Napoleon, presented to her by his own
hand, and set round with large brilliants, when she appealed to them
with tears streaming down her cheeks to take the settings and all the
diamonds, but not to deprive her of the portrait of her "dear, dear
Emperor!" When this circumstance was referred to she told me the story,
and her eyes glistened with tears while relating it.
Went to Orsay yesterday, and passed a very agreeable day there. It was
a fortified chateau, and must have been a very fine place before the
Revolution caused, not only its pillage, but nearly total destruction,
for only one wing of it now remains.
Built in the reign of Charles VII, it was esteemed one of the best
specimens of the feudal _château fort_ of that epoch; and the
subterranean portion of it still attests its former strength and
magnitude.
It is surrounded by a moat, not of stagnant water, but supplied by the
river Ivette, which flows at the base of the hill on which the château
stands. The water is clear and brisk and the château looks as if it
stood in a pellucid river. The view from the windows is very extensive,
commanding a rich and well-wooded country.
The chapel escaped not the ravages of the sacrilegious band, who
committed such havoc on the château; for the beautiful altar, and some
very interesting monuments, were barbarously mutilated, and the tomb of
the Princesse de Croy, the mother of General Count d'Orsay, on which a
vast sum had been expended, was nearly razed to the ground.
If aught was required to increase my horror of revolutions, and of the
baleful consequences to which they lead, the sight of this once
splendid château, and, above all, of its half-ruined chapel, in which
even the honoured dead were insulted, would have accomplished it.
An heiress of one of the most ancient houses in the _Pays-Bas_, the
Princesse de Croy brought a noble dowry to her husband, himself a man
of princely fortune. Young and beautiful, her munificence soon rendered
her an object of almost, adoration to the dependents of her lord; and
when soon after having given birth to a son and heir, the present
General Comte d'Orsay, she was called to another world, her remains
were followed to her untimely grave by a long train of weeping poor,
whose hearts her bounty had often cheered, and whose descendants were
subsequently horror-struck to see the sanctity of her last earthly
resting-place invaded.
We passed through the hamlet of Palaiseau, on our return to Paris; and
saw in it the steeple where the magpie concealed the silver spoons he
had stolen, and which occasioned the event from which the drama of _La
Pie Voleuse_, known in so many languages, has had its origin.
The real story ended not so happily as the opera, for the poor girl was
executed--the spoons not having been discovered until after her death.
This tragedy in humble life has attached great interest to the steeple
at Palaiseau, and has drawn many persons to the secluded hamlet in
which it stands.
The Duc and Duchesse de Quiche returned from Luneville yesterday; and
we spent last evening with them. The good Duke de Gramont was there,
and was in great joy at their return. They all dine with us to-morrow;
and Madame Craufurd comes to meet them.
Never have I seen such children as the Duc de Quiche's. Uniting to the
most remarkable personal beauty an intelligence and docility as rare as
they are delightful; and never did I witness any thing like the
unceasing care and attention bestowed on their education by their
parents.
Those who only know the Duc and Duchesse in the gay circles, in which
they are universally esteemed among the brightest ornaments, can form
little idea of them in the privacy of their domestic one--emulating
each other in their devotion to their children, and giving only the
most judicious proofs of their attachment to them. No wonder that the
worthy Duc de Gramont doats on his grandchildren, and never seems so
happy as with his excellent son and daughter-in-law.
Went to the Vaudeville Théâtre last evening, to see the new piece by
Scribe, so much talked of, entitled _Avant_, _Pendant, et Aprés_. There
is a fearful _vraisemblance_ in some of the scenes with all that one
has read or pictured to oneself, as daily occurring during the terrible
days of the Revolution; and the tendency of the production is not, in
my opinion, calculated to produce salutary effects. I only wonder it is
permitted to be acted.
The piece is divided, as the title announces, into three different
epochs. The first represents the frivolity and vices attributed to the
days of _l'ancien régime_, and the _tableau des moeurs_, which is
vividly coloured, leaves no favourable impression in the minds of the
audience of that _noblesse_ whose sufferings subsequently expiated the
errors said to have accelerated, if not to have produced, the
Revolution.
Nothing is omitted that could cast odium on them, as a preparation for
the Reign of Terror that follows. The anarchy and confusion of the
second epoch--the fear and horror that prevail when the voices and
motions of a sanguinary mob are heard in the streets, and the terrified
inmates of the houses are seen crouching in speechless terror, are
displayed with wonderful truth.
The lesson is an awful, and I think a dangerous, one, and so seemed to
think many of the upper class among the audience, for I saw some fair
cheeks turn pale, and some furrowed brows look ominous, as the scene
was enacted, while those of the less elevated in rank among the
spectators assumed, or seemed to assume, a certain _fierté_, if not
ferocity, of aspect, at beholding this vivid representation of the
triumph achieved by their order over the _noblesse_.
It is not wise to exhibit to a people, and above all to so inflammable
a people as the French, what _they_ can effect; and I confess I felt
uneasy when I witnessed the deep interest and satisfaction evinced by
many in the _parterre_ during the representation.
The _Après_, the third epoch, is even more calculated to encourage
revolutionary principles, for in it was displayed the elevation to the
highest grades in the army and in the state of those who in the _ancien
régime_ would have remained as the Revolution found them, in the most
obscure stations, but who by that event had brilliant opportunities
afforded for distinguishing themselves.
Heroic courage, boundless generosity, and devoted patriotism, are
liberally bestowed on the actors who figure in this last portion of the
drama; and, as these qualities are known to have appertained to many of
those who really filled the _rôles_ enacted at the period now
represented, the scene had, as might be expected, a powerful effect on
a people so impressible as the French, and so liable to be hurried into
enthusiasm by aught that appeals to their imaginations.
The applause was deafening; and I venture to say, that those from whom
it proceeded left the theatre with a conviction that a revolution was a
certain means of achieving glory and fortune to those who, with all the
self-imagined qualities to merit both, had not been born to either.
Every Frenchman in the middle or lower class believes himself capable
of arriving at the highest honours. This belief sometimes half
accomplishes the destiny it imagines; but even when it fails to effect
this, it ever operates in rendering Frenchmen peculiarly liable to rush
into any change or measure likely to lead to even a chance of
distinction.
As during the performance of _Avant, Pendant et Après_, my eye glanced
on the faces of some of the emigrant _noblesse_, restored to France by
the entry of the Bourbons, I marked the changes produced on their
countenances by it. Anxiety, mingled with dismay, was visible; for the
scenes of the past were vividly recalled, while a vague dread of the
future was instilled. Yes, the representation of this piece is a
dangerous experiment, and so I fear it will turn out.
I am sometimes amused, but more frequently irritated, by observing the
_moeurs Parisiennes_, particularly in the shop-keepers. The airs of
self-complacency, amounting almost to impertinence, practised by this
class, cannot fail to surprise persons accustomed to the civility and
assiduity of those in London, who, whether the purchases made in their
shops be large or small, evince an equal politeness to the buyers.
In Paris, the tradesman assumes the right of dictating to the taste of
his customers; in London, he only administers to it. Enter a Parisian
shop, and ask to be shewn velvet, silk, or riband, to assort with a
pattern you have brought of some particular colour or quality, and the
mercer, having glanced at it somewhat contemptuously, places before you
six or eight pieces of a different tint and texture.
You tell him that they are not similar to the pattern, and he answers,
"That may be; nevertheless, his goods are of the newest fashion, and
infinitely superior to your model." You say, "You prefer the colour of
your pattern, and must match it." He produces half-a-dozen pieces still
more unlike what you require; and to your renewed assertion that no
colour but the one similar to your pattern will suit you, he assures
you, that his goods are superior to all others, and that what you
require is out of fashion, and a very bad article, and, consequently,
that you had much better abandon your taste and adopt his. This counsel
is given without any attempt at concealing the contempt the giver of it
entertains for your opinion, and the perfect satisfaction he indulges
for his own.
You once more ask, "If he has got nothing to match the colour you
require?" and he shrugs his shoulders and answers, "_Pourtant_, madame,
what I have shewn you is much superior," "Very possible; but no colour
will suit me but this one," holding up the pattern; "for I want to
replace a breadth of a new dress to which an accident has occurred."
"_Pourtant_, madame, my colours are precisely the same, but the quality
of the materials is infinitely better!" and with this answer, after
having lost half an hour--if not double that time--you are compelled to
be satisfied, and leave the shop, its owner looking as if he considered
you a person of decidedly bad taste, and very troublesome into the
bargain.
Similar treatment awaits you in every shop; the owners having, as it
appears to me, decided on shewing you only what _they_ approve, and not
what you seek. The women of high rank in France seldom, if ever, enter
any shop except that of Herbault, who is esteemed the _modiste, par
excellence_, of Paris, and it is to this habit, probably, that the want
of _bienséance_ so visible in Parisian _boutiquiers_, is to be
attributed.