Made the acquaintance of the celebrated Dr. P----, today, at Madame
C----'s. He is a very interesting old man; and, though infirm in body,
his mind is as fresh, and his vivacity as unimpaired, as if he had not
numbered forty instead of eighty summers.
I am partial to the society of clever medical men, for the
opportunities afforded them of becoming acquainted with human nature,
by studying it under all the phases of illness, convalescence, and on
the bed of death, when the real character is exposed unveiled from the
motives that so often shadow, if not give it a false character, in the
days of health, render their conversation very interesting.
I have observed, too, that the knowledge of human nature thus attained
neither hardens the heart nor blunts the sensibility, for some of the
most kind-natured men I ever knew were also the most skilful physicians
and admirable, surgeons. Among these is Mr. Guthrie, of London, whose
rare dexterity in his art I have often thought may be in a great degree
attributed to this very kindness of nature, which has induced him to
bestow a more than usual attention to acquiring it, in order to abridge
the sufferings of his patients.
In operations on the eye, in which he has gained such a justly merited
celebrity, I have been told by those from whose eyes he had removed
cataracts, that his precision and celerity are so extraordinary as to
appear to them little short of miraculous.
Talking on this subject with Dr. P---- to-day, he observed, that he
considered strength of mind and kindness of heart indispensable
requisites to form a surgeon; and that it was a mistake to suppose that
these qualities had any other than a salutary influence over the nerves
of a surgeon.
"It braces them, Madame," said he; "for pity towards the patient
induces an operator to perform his difficult task _con amore_, in order
to relieve him."
Dr. P---- has nearly lost his voice, and speaks in a low but distinct
whisper. Tall and thin, with a face pale as marble, but full of
intelligence, he looks, when bending on his gold-headed cane, the very
_beau idéal_ of a physician of _la Vieille Cour_, and he still retains
the costume of that epoch. His manner, half jest and half earnest,
gives an idea of what that of the Philosopher of Ferney must have been
when in a good humour, and adds piquancy to his narrations. Madame
C----, who is an especial favourite of his, and who can draw him out in
conversation better than any one else, in paying him a delicate and
well-timed compliment on his celebrity, added, that few had ever so
well merited it.
"Ah! Madame, celebrity is not always accorded to real merit," said he,
smiling. "I have before told Madame that mine--if I may be permitted to
recur to it--was gained by an artifice I had recourse to, and without
which, I firmly believe I should have remained unknown."
"No, no! my dear doctor," replied Madame C----; "your merit must have,
in time, acquired you the great fame you enjoy." The Doctor laughed
heartily, but persisted in denying this; and the lady urged him to
relate to me the plan he had so successfully pursued in abridging his
road to Fortune. He seemed flattered by her request, and by my desire
for his compliance with it, and commenced as follows:--
"I came from the country, Mesdames, with no inconsiderable
claims to distinction in my profession. I had studied it _con
amore_, and, urged by the desire that continually haunted me
of becoming a benefactor to mankind--ay! ladies, and still
more anxious to relieve your fair and gentle sex from those
ills to which the delicacy of your frames and the sensibility
of your minds so peculiarly expose you--I came to Paris with
little money and few friends, and those few possessed no
power to forward my interest.
"It is true they recommended me to such of their acquaintance
as needed advice; but whether, owing to the season being a
peculiarly healthy one, or that the acquaintances of my
friends enjoyed an unusual portion of good health, I was
seldom called on to attend them; and, when I was, the
remuneration offered was proportioned, not to the relief
afforded, but to the want of fame of him who lent it.
"My purse diminished even more rapidly than my hopes, though
they, too, began to fade; and it was with a heavy heart that
I look my pen to write home to those dear friends who
believed that Paris was a second _El Dorado_, where all who
sought--must find--Fortune.
"At length, when one night stretched on my humble bed, and
sleepless from the cares that pressed heavily on my mind, it
occurred to me that I must put some plan into action for
getting myself known; and one suggested itself, which I next
day adopted.
"I changed one of the few remaining _louis d'or_ in my purse,
and, sallying forth into one of the most popular streets, I
wrote down the addresses of some of the most
respectable-looking houses, and going up to a porter, desired
him to knock at the doors named, and inquire if the
celebrated Doctor P---- was there, as his presence was
immediately required at the hôtel of the Duc de ----.
"I despatched no less than twenty messengers through the
different streets on the same errand, and having succeeded in
persuading each that it was of the utmost importance that the
celebrated Doctor P---- should be found, they persuaded the
owners of the houses of the same necessity.
"I persevered in this system for a few days, and then tried
its efficacy at night, thinking that, when knocked up from
their beds, people would be sure to be more impressed with
the importance of a doctor in such general request.
"My scheme succeeded. In a few days, I was repeatedly called
in by various patients, and liberal fees poured into the
purse of the celebrated Dr. P----. Unfortunately my practice,
although every day multiplying even beyond my most sanguine
hopes, was entirely confined to the _bourgeoisie_; and though
they paid well, my ambition pointed to higher game, and I
longed to feel the pulses of _la haute noblesse_, and to
ascertain if the fine porcelain of which I had heard they
were formed was indeed as much superior to the delf of which
the _bourgeoisie_ are said to be manufactured, as I was led
to believe.
"Luckily for me, the _femme de chambre_ of a grand lady
fancied herself ill, mentioned the fancy to her friend, who
was one of my patients, and who instantly advised her to
consult the _celebrated_ Dr. P----, adding a lively account
of the extent of my practice and the great request I was in.
"The _femme de chambre_ consulted me, described symptoms
enough to baffle all the schools of medicine in France, so
various and contradictory were they, and I, discovering that
she really had nothing the matter with her, advised what I
knew would be very palatable to her,--namely, a very
nutritious _régime_, as much air and amusement as was
possible in her position, and gave her a prescription for
some gentle medicine, to prevent any evil effect from the
luxurious fare I had recommended.
"I was half tempted to refuse the fee she slipped into my
hand, but I recollected that people never value what they get
for nothing, and so I pocketed it.
"In a few days, I was sent for to the Hôtel--to attend the
Duchesse de ---- the mistress of the said _femme de chambre_.
This was an event beyond my hopes, and I determined to profit
by it. I found the Duchesse suffering under a malady--if
malady it could be called--to which I have since discovered
grand ladies are peculiarly subject; namely, a superfluity of
_embonpoint_, occasioned by luxurious habits and the want of
exercise.
"'I am very much indisposed, Doctor,' lisped the lady, 'and
your prescription has done my _femme de chambre_ so much
good, that I determined to send for you. I am so very ill,
that I am fast losing my shape; my face, too, is no longer
the same; and my feet and hands are not to be recognised.'
"I drew out my watch, felt her pulse, looked grave,
inquired--though it was useless, her _embonpoint_ having
revealed it--what were her general habits and _régime_; and
then, having written a prescription, urged the necessity of
her abandoning _café au lait_, rich _consommés_, and
high-seasoned _entrées_; recommended early rising and
constant exercise; and promised that a strict attention to my
advice would soon restore her health, and with it her shape.
"I was told to call every day until further orders; and I,
pleading the excess of occupation which would render my daily
visits to her so difficult, consented to make them, only on
condition that my fair patient was to walk with me every day
six times around the garden of her hôtel; for I guessed she
was too indolent to persevere in taking exercise if left to
herself.
"The system I pursued with her succeeded perfectly. I was
then a very active man, and I walked so fast that I left the
Duchesse every day when our promenade ended bathed in a
copious perspiration; which, aided by the medicine and
sparing _régime_, soon restored her figure to its former
symmetry.
"At her hôtel, I daily met ladies of the highest rank and
distinction, many of whom were suffering from a similar
cause, the same annoyance for which the Duchesse consulted
me; and I then discovered that there is no malady, however
grave, so distressing to your sex, ladies, or for the cure of
which they are so willing to submit to the most disagreeable
_régime_, as for aught that impairs their personal beauty.
"When her female friends saw the improvement effected in the
appearance of the Duchesse by my treatment, I was consulted
by them all, and my fame and fortune rapidly increased. I was
proclaimed to be the most wonderful physician, and to have
effected the most extraordinary cures; when, in truth, I but
consulted Nature, and aided her efforts.
"Shortly after this period, a grand lady, an acquaintance of
one of my many patients among the _noblesse_, consulted me;
and here the case was wholly different to that of the
Duchesse, for this lady had grown so thin, that
wrinkles--those most frightful of all symptoms of decaying
beauty--had made their appearance. My new patient told me
that, hearing that hitherto my great celebrity had been
acquired by the cure of obesity, she feared it was useless to
consult me for a disease of so opposite a nature, but even
still more distressing.
"I inquired into her habits and _régime_. Found that she took
violent exercise; was abstemious at table; drank strong green
tea, and coffee without cream or milk; disliked nutritious
food; and, though she sat up late, was an early riser. I
ordered her the frequent use of warm baths, and to take all
that I had prohibited the Duchesse; permitted only gentle
exercise in a carriage; and, in short, soon succeeded in
rendering the thin lady plump and rosy, to the great joy of
herself, and the wonder of her friends.
"This treatment, which was only what any one possessed of
common sense would have prescribed in such a case, extended
my fame far and wide. Fat and thin ladies flocked to me for
advice, and not only liberally rewarded the success of my
system, but sounded my praises in all quarters.
"I became the doctor _à la mode_, soon amassed an
independence, and, though not without a confidence in my own
skill--for I have never lost any opportunity of improvement
in my profession--I must confess that I still retain the
conviction that the celebrated Doctor P---- would have had
little chance, at least for many years, of acquiring either
fame or wealth, had he not employed the means I have
confessed to you, ladies."
I cannot do justice to this _spirituel_ old man's mode of telling the
story, or describe the finesse of his arch smile while recounting it.
Mr. P.C. Scarlett, a son of our excellent and valued friend Sir James
Scarlett[3], dined here yesterday. He is a fine young man, clever,
well-informed, and amiable, with the same benignant countenance and
urbanity of manner that are so remarkable in his father.
I remember how much struck I was with Sir James Scarlett's countenance
when he was first presented to me. It has in it such a happy mixture of
sparkling intelligence and good-nature that I was immediately pleased
with him, even before I had an opportunity of knowing the rare and
excellent qualities for which he is distinguished, and the treasures of
knowledge with which his mind is stored.
I have seldom met any man so well versed in literature as Sir James
Scarlett, or with a more refined taste for it; and when one reflects on
the arduous duties of his profession--duties which he has ever
fulfilled with such credit to himself and advantage to others--it seems
little short of miraculous how he could have found time to have made
himself so intimately acquainted, not only with the classics, but with
all the elegant literature of England and France.
How many pleasant days have I passed in the society of Lord Erskine and
Sir James Scarlett! Poor Lord Erskine! never more shall I hear your
eloquent tongue utter _bons mots_ in which wit sparkled, but ill-nature
never appeared; nor see your luminous eyes flashing with joyousness, as
when, surrounded by friends at the festive board, you rendered the
banquet indeed "the feast of reason and the flow of soul!"
Mr. H---- B---- dined here yesterday, and he talked over the pleasant
days we had passed in Italy. He is an excellent specimen of the young
men of the present day. Well-informed, and with a mind highly
cultivated, he has travelled much in other countries, without losing
any of the good qualities and habits peculiar to his own.
Went to the Théàtre Italien, last night, and heard Madame Malibran sing
for the first time. Her personation of "Desdemona" is exquisite, and
the thrilling tones of her voice were in perfect harmony with the deep
sensibility she evinced in every look and movement.
I have heard no singer to please me comparable to Malibran: there is
something positively electrical in the effect she produces on my
feelings. Her acting is as original as it is effective; Passion and
Nature are her guides, and she abandons herself to them _con amore_.
The only defect I can discover in her singing is an excess of
_fiorituri_, that sometimes destroys the _vraisemblance_ of the _rôle_
she is enacting, and makes one think more of the wonderful singer than
of "Desdemona." This defect, however, is atoned for by the bursts of
passion into which her powerful voice breaks when some deep emotion is
to be expressed, and the accomplished singer is forgotten in the
impassioned "Desdemona."
Spent last evening at Madame C----'s, and met there la Duchcsse de la
Force, la Marquise de Bréhan, and the usual _habitués de la maison_. La
Duchesse is one of _l'ancien régime_, though less ceremonious than they
are in general said to be, and appears to be as good-natured as she is
good-humoured.
The Marquise de B---- told me some amusing anecdotes of the Imperial
Court, and of the gaiety and love of dress of the beautiful Princesse
Pauline Borghese, to whom she was much attached.
The whole of the Buonaparte family seem to have possessed, in an
eminent degree, the happy art of conciliating good-will in those around
them--an art necessary in all persons filling elevated positions, but
doubly so in those who have achieved their own elevation. The family of
the Emperor Napoleon were remarkable for the kindness and consideration
they invariably evinced for those who in any way depended on them, yet
a natural dignity of manner precluded the possibility of familiarity.
The Marquise de B---- having mentioned the Duchesse d'Abrantes, Madame
C---- inquired kindly for her, and the Marquise told her that she had
been only a few days before to pay her a visit.
Anxious to learn something of a woman who filled so distinguished a
position during the imperial dynasty, I questioned Madame de B----, and
learned that the Duchesse d'Abrantes, who for many years lived in a
style of splendour that, even in the palmy days of her husband's
prosperity, when, governor of Paris, he supported almost a regal
establishment, excited the surprise, if not envy, of his
contemporaries, is now reduced to so limited an income that many of the
comforts, if not the necessaries of life, are denied her.
"She supports her privations cheerfully," added the Marquise; "her
conversation abounds in anecdotes of remarkable people, and she relates
them with a vivacity and piquancy peculiar to her, which render her
society very amusing and interesting. The humanity, if not the policy,
of the Bourbons may be questioned in their leaving the widow of a brave
general in a state of poverty that must remind her, with bitterness, of
the altered fortunes entailed on her and many others by their
restoration."
When indemnities were granted to those whom the Revolution, which drove
the royal family from France, nearly beggared, it would have been well
if a modest competency had been assigned to those whose sons and
husbands shed their blood for their country, and helped to achieve for
it that military glory which none can deny it.
Went over the Luxembourg Palace and Gardens to-day. The only change in
the former since I last saw it, is that some pictures, painted by
French artists at Rome, and very creditable to them, have been added to
its collection.
I like these old gardens, with their formal walks and prim _parterres_;
I like also the company by which they are chiefly frequented,
consisting of old people and young children.
Along the walk exposed to the southern aspect, several groups of old
men were sauntering, conversing with an animation seldom seen in
sexagenarians, except in France; old women, too, many of them holding
lapdogs by a riband, and attended by a female servant, were taking
their daily walk; while, occasionally, might be seen an elderly couple
exhibiting towards each other an assiduity pleasant to behold,
displayed by the husband's arranging the shawl or cloak of his wife, or
the wife gently brushing away with her glove the silken threads left on
his sleeve by its contact with hers.
No little portion of the love that united them in youth may still be
witnessed in these old couples. Each has lost every trace of the
comeliness that first attracted them to each other; but they remember
what they were, and memory, gilding the past, shews each to the other,
not as they actually are, but as they were many a long year ago. No
face, however fair,--not even the blooming one of their favourite
granddaughter, seems so lovely to the uxorious old husband as the one
he remembers to have been so proud of forty years ago, and which still
beams on him with an expression of tenderness that reminds him of its
former beauty. And she, too, with what complacency does she listen to
his oft-repealed reminiscences of her youthful attractions, and how
dear is the bond that still unites them!
Plain and uninteresting in the eyes of others, they present only the
aspect of age; alas! never lovely: but in them at least other gleams of
past good looks recall the past, when each considered the other
peerless, though now they alone remember that "such things were, and
were most sweet."
Their youth and their maturity have been passed together; their joys
and their sorrows have been shared, and they are advancing hand in hand
towards that rapid descent in the mountain of life, at whose base is
the grave, hoping that in death they may not be divided.
Who can look at those old couples, and not feel impressed with the
sanctity and blessedness of marriage, which, binding two destinies in
one, giving the same interests and the same objects of affection to
both, secures for each a companionship and a consolation for those days
which must come to all, when, fallen into the sere and yellow leaf, the
society of the young and gay can no longer charm them, and the present
requires the recollections of the past to render it less cheerless;
recollections only to be found in those who have grown old together?
Yonder old man, leaning on the arm of a middle-aged woman, who seems
less like his housekeeper than his domestic tyrant, offers an example
of the fate of those who have lived in what is commonly called a state
of single blessedness. A youth and maturity of pleasure have been
followed by an old age of infirmity.
He had a thousand pleasantries ready to utter on the subject of
marriage whenever it was mentioned; could cite endless examples of
unhappy couples (forgetting to name a single one of the happy); and
laughed and shook his head as he declared that _he_ never would be
caught.
As long as health remained, and that he could pass his evenings in gay
society, or at the theatres, he felt not the want of that greatest of
all comforts, _home_; a comfort inseparable from a wife to share, as
well as to make it. But the first attack of illness that confined him
to his room, with no tender hand to smooth his pillow, no gentle voice
to inquire into his wants, or to minister to them; no one to anticipate
his wishes almost before he had framed them; no loving face to look
fondly and anxiously on him; made him feel sensible, that though a
bachelor's life of pleasure may pass agreeably enough during the season
of health, it is a most cheerless and dreary state of existence when
deprived of it.
The discovery is, alas! made too late. All that he had ever heard or
urged against matrimony applies tenfold to cases where it is contracted
in old age. He can still admire youth and beauty, but he knows that
with such there can never exist any reciprocity with his own feelings.
The young beauty who would barter her charms for his wealth, would be,
he knows, no suitable companion for his fire-side; and to wed some
staid dame whose youth has been passed with some dear, kind, first
husband--of whom, if not often speaking, she might in all human
probability be sometimes thinking--has something too repugnant to his
feelings to be thought of.
An elderly maiden with a lap-dog, or a parrot, would be even more
insupportable; for how could one who has never had to consult the
pleasure or wishes of aught save self be able to study his? No! it is
now too late to think of marriage, and what, therefore, is to be done?
In this emergency, a severe attack of rheumatism confines him to his
chamber for many days. His valet is found out to be clumsy and awkward
in assisting him to put on his flannel gloves; the housekeeper, who is
called up to receive instructions about some particular broth that he
requires, is asked to officiate, and suggests so many little comforts,
and evinces so much sympathy for his sufferings, that she is soon
installed as nurse.
By administering to his wants, and still more by flattery and
obsequiousness, she soon renders herself indispensable to the invalid.
She is proclaimed to be a treasure, and her accounts, which hitherto
had been sharply scrutinised and severely censured, are henceforth
allowed to pass unblamed, and, consequently, soon amount to double the
sum which had formerly, and with reason, been found fault with. The
slightest symptom of illness is magnified into a serious attack by the
supposed affectionate and assiduous nurse, until her master, in
compliance with her advice, becomes a confirmed hypochondriac, whom she
governs despotically under a show of devoted attachment.
She has, by slow but sure degrees, alienated him from all his
relatives, and banished from his house the few friends whom she
believed possessed any influence over him. Having rendered herself
essential to his comfort, she menaces him continually with the threat
of leaving his service; and is only induced to remain by a considerable
increase to her salary, though not, as she asserts, by any interested
motive.
She lately informed her master, that she was "very sorry--very sorry,
indeed--but it was time for her to secure her future comfort; and M.
----, the rich grocer, had proposed marriage to her, and offered a good
settlement. It would be a great grief to her to leave so kind a master,
especially as she knew no one to whom she could confide the care of
him; but a settlement of 4000 francs a-year was not to be refused, and
she might never again receive so good an offer."
The proposal of the rich grocer, which never existed but in her own
fertile brain, is rejected, and her continuance as housekeeper and
nurse secured by a settlement of a similar sum made on her by her
master; who congratulates himself on having accomplished so
advantageous a bargain, while she is laughing with the valet at his
credulity.
This same valet, finding her influence to be omnipotent with his
master, determines on marrying her secretly, that they may join in
plundering the valetudinarian, whose infirmities furnish a perpetual
subject for the coarse pleasantries of both these ungrateful menials.
She is now giving him his daily walk on the sunny side of the
Luxembourg Gardens. See how she turns abruptly down an alley, in
despite of his request to continue where he was: but the truth is, her
Argus eyes have discovered his niece and her beautiful children walking
at a distance; and, as she has not only prevented their admission to
his house, but concealed their visits, intercepted their letters,
making him believe they are absent from Paris and have forgotten him,
she now precludes their meeting; while to his querulous murmurs at
being hurried along, she answers that the alley she has taken him to is
more sheltered.
It is true the invalid sometimes half suspects, not only that he is
governed, but somewhat despotically, too, by the worthy and
affectionate creature, whose sole study it is to take care of his
health. He considers it hard to be debarred from sending for one of his
old friends to play a party at picquet, or a game at chess with him,
during the long winter evenings; and he thinks it would be pleasanter
to have some of his female relatives occasionally to dinner: but as the
least hint on these subjects never fails to produce ill-humour on the
part of the "good Jeanette," who declares that such unreasonable
indulgence would inevitably destroy the precious health of Monsieur, he
submits to her will; and while wholly governed by an ignorant and
artful servant, can still smile that he is free from being henpecked by
a wife.