An agreeable party dined here yesterday--Lord Stuart de Rothesay, our
Ambassador, the Duc and Duchesse de Guiche, the Duc de Mouchy, Sir
Francis Burdett, and Count Charles de Mornay. Lord Stuart de Rothesay
is very popular at Paris, as is also our Ambassadress; a proof that, in
addition to a vast fund of good-nature, no inconsiderable portion of
tact is conjoined--to please English and French too, which they
certainly do, requires no little degree of the rare talent of
_savoir-vivre_.
To a profound knowledge of French society and its peculiarities, a
knowledge not easily acquired, Lord and Lady Stuart de Rothesay add the
happy art of adopting all that is agreeable in its usages, without
sacrificing any of the stateliness so essential in the representatives
of our more grave and reflecting nation.
Among the peculiarities that most strike one in French people, are the
good-breeding with which they listen, without even a smile, to the
almost incomprehensible attempts at speaking French made by many
strangers, and the quickness of apprehension with which they seize
their meaning, and assist them in rendering the sense complete.
I have seen innumerable proofs of this politeness--a politeness so
little understood, or at least so little practised, among the English,
that mistakes perfectly ludicrous, and which could not have failed to
set my compatriots in a titter, if not in a roar, have not produced the
movement of a single risible muscle, and yet the French are more prone
to gaiety than are the English.
Mr. D---- and Mr. T---- dined here yesterday. The former, mild,
gentlemanlike, and unostentatious, seems to forget what so many would,
if similarly situated, remember with arrogance, namely, that he is
immensely rich; an obliviousness that, in my opinion, greatly enhances
his other merits.
Mr. T---- is little changed since I last saw him, and is well-informed,
clover, and agreeable,--but his own too-evident consciousness of
possessing these recommendations prevents other people from according
him due merit for them.
In society, one who believes himself clever must become a hypocrite,
and so conceal all knowledge of his self-complacency, if he wishes to
avoid being unpopular; for woe be to him who lets the world see he
thinks highly of himself, however his abilities may justify his
self-approval!
The sight of Mr. T---- recalled his amiable and excellent mother to my
memory. I never esteemed any woman more highly, or enjoyed the society
of any other person more than hers. How many pleasant hours have I
passed with her! I so well remember John Kemble fancying that if I went
through a course of reading Shakspeare with his sister Mrs. T----, I
should make, as he said, a fine actress; and we were to get up private
theatricals at Mountjoy Forest.
In compliance with the request of Lord Blessington, I studied
Shakspeare with this amiable and gifted woman for many months, which
cemented a friendship between us that ended but with her life. Her
method of reading was admirable; for to the grandeur of her sister Mrs.
Siddons, she united a tenderness and softness, in which that great
actress was said to be deficient. I never open any of the plays of
Shakspeare which I studied with her without thinking I hear her voice,
and I like them better for the association.
To great personal attractions, which even to the last she retained
enough of to give a notion of what her beauty must have been in her
youth, Mrs. T---- added a charm of manners, a cultivation of mind, and
a goodness of heart seldom surpassed; and, in all the relations of
life, her conduct was most praiseworthy. Even now, though six years
have elapsed since her death, the recollection of it brings tears to my
eyes. Good and gentle woman, may your virtues on earth find their
reward in Heaven!
I passed last evening at Madame Craufurd's, where I met Lady Charlotte
Lindsay and the Misses Berry. How perfectly they answered to the
description given of them by Sir William Gell; who, though exceedingly
attached to all three, has not, as far as one interview permitted me to
judge, overrated their agreeability! Sir William Gell has read me many
letters from these ladies, replete with talent, of which their
conversation reminded me.
Francis Hare and his wife dined here to-day. They are _en route_ from
Germany--where they have been sojourning since their marriage--for
England, where her _accouchement_ is to take place. Francis Hare has
lived with us so much in Italy, that we almost consider him a member of
the domestic circle; and, on the faith of this, he expressed his desire
that we should receive _madame son épouse_ as if she were an old
acquaintance.
Mrs. Hare is well-looking, and agreeable, appears amiable, and is a
good musician. I remember seeing her and her sisters with her mother,
Lady Paul, at Florence, when I had little notion that she was to be
Mrs. Hare. I never meet Francis Hare without being surprised by the
versatility of his information; it extends to the fine arts,
literature, rare books, the localities of pictures and statues; in
short, he is a moving library that may always be consulted with profit,
and his memory is as accurate as an index in rendering its precious
stores available.
It is strange, that the prominent taste of his wife, which is for
music, is the only one denied to him. He afforded an amusing instance
of this fact last night, when Mrs. Hare, having performed several airs
on the piano-forte, he asked her, "Why she played the same tune so
often, for the monotony was tiresome?"--an observation that set us all
laughing.
Took Mrs. Hare out shopping--saw piles of lace, heaps of silk, pyramids
of riband, and all other female gear. What a multiplicity of pretty
things we women require to render us what we consider presentable! And
how few of us, however good-looking we may chance to be, would agree
with the poet, that "loveliness needs not the foreign aid of ornament,
but is, when unadorned, adorned the most."
Even the fairest of the sex like to enhance the charms of nature by the
aid of dress; and the plainest hope to become less so by its
assistance. Men are never sufficiently sensible of our humility, in
considering it so necessary to increase our attractions in order to
please them, nor grateful enough for the pains we bestow in the
attempts.
Husbands and fathers are particularly insensible to this amiable desire
on the parts of their wives and daughters; and, when asked to pay the
heavy bills incurred in consequence of this praiseworthy humility and
desire to please, evince any feeling rather than that of satisfaction.
It is only admirers not called on to pay these said bills who duly
appreciate the cause and effect, and who can hear of women passing
whole hours in tempting shops, without that elongation of countenance
peculiar to husbands and fathers.
I could not help thinking with the philosopher, how many things I saw
to-day that could be done without. If women could be made to understand
that costliness of attire seldom adds to beauty, and often deteriorates
it, a great amelioration in expense could be accomplished.
Transparent muslin, the cheapest of all materials, is one of the
prettiest, too, for summer's wear, and with the addition of some bows
of delicate-coloured riband, or a _bouquet_ of fresh flowers, forms a
most becoming dress. The lowness of the price of such a robe enables
the purchaser to have so frequent a change of it, that even those who
are far from rich may have half-a-dozen, while one single robe of a
more expensive material will cost more; and having done so, the owner
will think it right to wear it more frequently than is consistent with
the freshness and purity that should ever be the distinguishing
characteristics in female dress, in order to indemnify herself for the
expense.
I was never more struck with this fact, than a short time ago, when I
saw two ladies seated next each other, both young and handsome; but
one, owing to the freshness of her robe, which was of simple
_organdie_, looked infinitely better than the other, who was quite as
pretty, but who, wearing a robe of expensive lace, whose whiteness had
fallen into "the sere and yellow leaf," appeared faded and _passée_.
Be wise, then, ye young and fair; and if, as I suspect, your object be
to please the Lords of the Creation, let your dress, in summer, be
snowy-white muslin, never worn after its pristine purity becomes
problematical; and in winter, let some half-dozen plain and simple silk
gowns be purchased, instead of the two or three expensive ones that
generally form the wardrobe, and which, consequently, soon not only
lose their lustre but give the wearer the appearance of having suffered
the same fate!
And you, O husbands and fathers, present and future, be ye duly
impressed with a sense of your manifold obligations to me for thus
opening the eyes of your wives and daughters how to please without
draining your purses; and when the maledictions of lace, velvet, and
satin-sellers full on my hapless head, for counsel so injurious to
their interests, remember they were incurred for yours!
Mr. and Mrs. Hare dined here yesterday. They brought with them Madame
de la H----, who came up from near Chantilly to see them. She is as
pretty as I remember her at Florence, when Mademoiselle D----, and is
_piquante_ and _spirituelle_. Counts Charles de Mornay and Valeski
formed the party, and Count Maussion and some others came in the
evening.
I observe that few English shine in conversation with the French. There
is a lightness and brilliancy, a sort of touch and go, if I may say so,
in the latter, seldom, if ever, to be acquired by strangers. Never
dwelling long on any subject, and rarely entering profoundly into it,
they sparkle on the surface with great dexterity, bringing wit, gaiety,
and tact, into play.
Like summer lightning, French wit flashes frequently, brightly and
innocuously, leaving nothing disagreeable to remind one of its having
appeared. Conversation is, with the French, the aim and object of
society. All enter it prepared to take a part, and he best enacts it
who displays just enough knowledge to show that much remains behind.
Such is the tact of the Parisians, that even the ignorant conceal the
poverty of their minds, and might, to casual observers, pass as being
in no way deficient, owing to the address with which they glide in an
_à propos oui, ou non_, and an appropriate shake of the head, nod of
assent, or dissent.
The constitutional vivacity of the French depending much on their
mercurial temperaments, greatly aids them in conversation. A light and
playful sally acquires additional merit when uttered with gaiety; and
should a _bon mot_ even contain something calculated to pique any one
present, or reflect on the absent, the mode in which it is uttered
takes off from the force of the matter; whereas, on the contrary, the
more grave and sententious manner peculiar to the English adds pungency
to their satire. Our old and valued friend, Mr. J. Strangways, has
arrived at Paris, and very glad were we to see him once more. He passed
through a severe trial since last we parted; and his conduct under it
towards his poor friend, Mr. Anson, does him credit.
The two companions--one the brother of the Earl of Ilchester, and the
other of Lord Anson--were travelling in Syria together. They had passed
through Aleppo, where the plague had then appeared, and were at the
distance of several days' journey from it, congratulating themselves on
their safety, when, owing to some error on the part of those who
examined their firman, they were compelled to retrace their steps to
Aleppo, where, condemned to become the inhabitants of a lazaretto until
the imagined mistake could be corrected, they found themselves
_tête-à-tête_.
The first two or three days passed without any thing to alarm the
friends. Engaged in drawing maps for their intended route, and plans
for the future, the hours glided away even cheerfully.
But this cheerfulness was not long to continue; for Mr. Anson, having
one morning asked Mr. Strangways to hold the end of his shawl while he
twisted it round his head as a turban, the latter observed, with a
degree of horror and dismay more easily to be imagined than described,
the fatal plague-spot clearly defined on the back of the neck of his
unfortunate friend.
He concealed his emotion, well knowing that a suspicion of its cause
would add to the danger of Mr. Anson, who, as yet, was unconscious of
the fearful malady that had already assailed him. Totally alone,
without aid, save that contained in their own very limited resources,
what must have been the feelings of Mr. Strangways, as he contemplated
his luckless companion?
He dreaded to hear the announcement of physical suffering, though he
well knew it must soon come, and marked with indescribable anguish the
change that rapidly began to be manifested in his friend. But even this
most terrible of all maladies was influenced by the gallant spirit of
him on whom it was now preying; for not a complaint, not a murmur,
broke from his lips: and it was not until Mr. Strangways had repeatedly
urged the most affectionate inquiries that he admitted he was not quite
well.
Delirium quickly followed; but even then this noble-minded young man
bore up against the fearful assaults of disease, and thought and spoke
only of those dear and absent friends he was doomed never again to
behold. It was a dreadful trial to Mr. Strangways to sit by the bed of
death, far, far away from home and friends, endeavouring to cool the
burning brow and to refresh the parched lips of him so fondly loved in
that distant land of which he raved.
He spoke of his home, of those who made it so dear to him, and even the
songs of infancy were again murmured by the dying lips. His friend
quitted him not for a minute until all was over; and _he_ was left
indeed alone to watch, over the corpse of him whom he had tried in vain
to save.
That Mr. Strangways should have escaped the contagion, seems little
less than miraculous. I, who have known him so long and so well,
attribute it to the state of his mind, which was so wholly occupied by
anxiety for his friend as to leave no room for any thought of self.
Made no entry in my journal for two days, owing to a slight
indisposition, which furnished an excuse for laziness.
Dined at Lointier's yesterday--a splendid repast given by Count A. de
Maussion, in consequence of a wager, lost on a subject connected with
the line arts. The party consisted of all those present at our house
when the wager was made. The Duc and Duchesse de Guiche, Mr. and Mrs.
Francis Hare, the Duc de Talleyrand, Duc de Dino, Count Valeski, Mr. J.
Strangways, and our own large family circle.
The dinner was the most _recherché_ that could be furnished: "all the
delicacies of the season," as a London paper would term it, were
provided; and an epicure, however fastidious, would have been satisfied
with the choice and variety of the _plats_; while a _gourmand_ would
have luxuriated in the quantity.
Nothing in the style of the apartments, or the service of the dinner,
bore the least indication that we were in the house of a _restaurant_.
A large and richly furnished _salon_, well lighted, received the
company before dinner; and in a _salle à manger_ of equal dimensions,
and equally well arranged, the dinner was served on a very fine service
of old plate.
Count de Maussion did the honours of the dinner _à merveille_, and it
passed off very gaily. It had been previously agreed that the whole
party were to adjourn to the Porte St. Martin, at which Count de
Maussion had engaged three large private boxes; and the ladies,
consequently, with one exception, came _en demi-toilette_.
The exception was Mrs. Hare, who, not aware that at Paris people never
go _en grande toilette_ to the theatres, came so smartly dressed, that,
seeing our simple toilettes, she was afraid of incurring observation if
she presented herself in a rich dress with short sleeves, a gold tissue
turban with a bird-of-paradise plume, and an _aigrette_ of coloured
stones; so she went to our house, with a few of the party, while I
accompanied the rest to the theatre.
The piece was _Faust_, adapted from Goethe, and was admirably
performed, more especially the parts of "Mephistopheles" and
"Margaret," in which Madame Dorval acts inimitably. This actress has
great merit; and the earnestness of her manner, and the touching tones
of her voice, give a great air of truth to her performances. The
prison-scene was powerfully acted; and the madness of "Margaret" when
stretched on her bed of straw, resisting the vain efforts of her lover
to rescue her, had a fearful reality.
The character of "Margaret" is a fine conception, and Goethe has
wrought it out beautifully. The simplicity, gentleness, and warm
feelings of the village maiden, excite a strong interest for her, even
when worked upon by Vanity; that alloy which, alas for Woman's virtue
and happiness! is too frequently found mixed up in the pure ore of her
nature.
The childish delight with which poor "Margaret" contemplates the
trinkets presented by her lover; the baleful ascendency acquired over
her by her female companion; and her rapid descent in the path of evil
when, as is ever the case, the commission of one sin entails so many,
render this drama a very effective moral lesson.
Of all Goethe's works, _Faust_ is the one I most like; and, of all his
female characters, "Margaret" is that which I prefer. A fine vein of
philosophy runs through the whole of this production, in which the
vanity of human knowledge without goodness was never more powerfully
exemplified.
"Faust," tempted by the desire of acquiring forbidden knowledge, yields
up his soul to the evil one; yet still retains enough of the humanity
of his nature to render him wretched, when her he loves, and has drawn
ruin on, suffers the penalty of his crime and of her love.
Exquisitely has Goethe wrought out the effects of the all-engrossing
passion of the poor "Margaret"--a passion that even in madness, still
clings to its object with all woman's tenderness and devotion,
investing even insanity with the touching charm of love. How perfect is
the part when, endeavouring to pray, the hapless "Margaret" fancies
that she hears the gibbering of evil spirits interrupting her
supplications, so that even the consolation of addressing the Divinity
is denied her!
But the last scene--that in the prison--is the most powerful of all.
Never was madness more touchingly delineated, or woman's nature more
truly developed;--that nature so little understood by those who are so
prone to pervert it, and whose triumphs over its virtues are always
achieved by means of the excess of that propensity to love, and to
believe in the truth of the object beloved, which is one of the most
beautiful characteristics in woman; though, wo to her! it is but too
often used to her undoing.
The feelings of poor "Margaret" are those of all her sex, ere vice has
sullied the nature it never can wholly subdue.
Mr. and Mrs. Hare left Paris to-day. I regret their departure; for she
is lively and agreeable, and I have known him so long, and like him so
well, that their society afforded me pleasure.
A large party at dinner, yesterday; among whom, was Mr. M----, who has
acquired a certain celebrity for his _bons mots_. He is said to be
decidedly clever, and to know the world thoroughly: appreciating it at
its just value, and using it as if formed for his peculiar profit and
pleasure. He is lately returned from England, where he has been
received with that hospitality that characterises the English, and has
gone a round of visits to many of the best houses.
He spoke in high terms of the hospitality he had experienced, but
agreed in the opinion I have often heard Lord Byron give, that the
society in English country-houses is any thing but agreeable.
I had heard so much of Mr. M----, that I listened to his conversation
with more interest than I might have done, had not so many reports of
his shrewdness and wit reached me. Neither seem to have been overrated;
for nothing escapes his quick perception; and his caustic wit is
unsparingly and fearlessly applied to all subjects and persons that
excite it into action.
He appears to be a privileged person--an anomaly seldom innoxiously
permitted in society: for those who may say _all they_ please, rarely
abstain from saying much that may displease others; and, though a laugh
may he often excited by their wit, some one of the circle is sure to be
wounded by it.
Great wit is not often allied to good-nature, for the indulgence of the
first is destructive to the existence of the second, except where the
wit is tempered by a more than ordinary share of sensibility and
refinement, directing its exercise towards works of imagination,
instead of playing it off, as is too frequently the case, against those
with whom its owner may come in contact.
Byron, had he not been a poet, would have become a wit in society; and,
instead of delighting his readers, would have wounded his associates.
Luckily for others, as well as for his own fame, he devoted to
literature that ready and brilliant wit which sparkles in so many of
his pages, instead of condescending to expend it in _bons mots_, or
_réparties_, that might have set the table on a roar, and have been
afterwards, as often occurs, mutilated in being repeated by, others.
The quickness of apprehension peculiar to the French, joined to the
excessive _amour propre_, which is one of the most striking of their
characteristics, render them exceedingly susceptible to the arrows of
wit; which, when barbed by ridicule, inflict wounds on their vanity
difficult to be healed, and which they are ever ready to avenge.
But this very acuteness of apprehension induces a caution in not
resenting the assaults of wit, unless the wounded can retort with
success by a similar weapon, or that the attack has been so obvious
that he is justified in resenting it by a less poetical one. Hence
arises a difficult position for him on whom a wit is pleased to
exercise his talent; and this is one of the many reasons why privileged
persons seldom add much to the harmony of society.
Went last night to the Porte St. Martin, and saw _Sept Heures_
represented. This piece has excited a considerable sensation at Paris;
and the part of the heroine, "Charlotte Corday," being enacted by
Madame Dorval, a very clever actress, it is very popular.
"Charlotte Corday" is represented in the piece, not as a heroine
actuated purely by patriotic motives in seeking the destruction of a
tyrant who inflicted such wounds on her country, but by the less
sublime one of avenging the death of her lover. This, in my opinion,
lessens the interest of the drama, and atones not for the horror always
inspired by a woman's arming herself for a scene of blood.
The taste of the Parisians has, I think, greatly degenerated, both in
their light literature and their dramas. The desire for excitement, and
not a decrease of talent, is the cause; and this morbid craving for it
will, I fear, lead to injurious consequences, not only in literature,
but in other and graver things.
The schoolmaster is, indeed, abroad in France, and has in all parts of
it found apt scholars--perhaps, too apt; and, like all such, the
digestion of what is acquired does not equal the appetite for
acquisition: consequently, the knowledge gained is as yet somewhat
crude and unavailable. Nevertheless, the people are making rapid
strides in improvement; and ignorance will soon be more rare than
knowledge formerly was.
At present, their minds are somewhat unsettled by the recentness of
their progress; and in the exuberance consequent on such a state, some
danger is to be apprehended.
Like a room from which light has been long excluded, and in which a
large window is opened, all the disagreeable objects in it so long
shrouded in darkness are so fully revealed, that the owner, becoming
impatient to remove them and substitute others in their place, often
does so at the expense of appropriateness, and crowds the chamber with
a heterogeneous _mélange_ of furniture, which, however useful in
separate parts, are too incongruous to produce a good effect. So the
minds of the French people are now too enlightened any longer to suffer
the prejudices that formerly filled them to remain, and have, in their
impatience, stored them with new ideas and opinions--many of them good
and useful, but too hastily adopted, and not in harmony with each other
to be productive of a good result, until time has enabled their owners
to class and arrange them.
I am every day more forcibly struck with the natural quickness and
intelligence of the people here: but this very quickness is a cause
that may tend to retard their progress in knowledge, by inducing them
to jump at conclusions, instead of marching slowly but steadily to
them; and conclusions so rapidly made are apt to be as hastily acted
upon, and, consequently, occasion errors that take some time to be
discovered, and still more to be corrected, before the truth is
attained.