Went to see the Hôtel d'Orsay, to-day. Even in its ruin it still
retains many of the vestiges of its former splendour. The _salle à
manger_, for the decoration of which its owner bought, and had conveyed
from Rome, the columns of the Temple of Nero, is now--hear it, ye who
have taste!--converted into a stable; the _salons_, once filled with
the most precious works of art, are now crumbled to decay, and the vast
garden where bloomed the rarest exotics, and in which were several of
the statues that are now in the gardens of the Tuileries, is now turned
into paddocks for horses.
It made me sad to look at this scene of devastation, the result of a
revolution which plunged so many noble families from almost boundless
wealth into comparative poverty, and scattered collections of the works
of art that whole lives were passed in forming. I remember Mr.
Millingen, the antiquary, telling me in Italy that when yet little more
than a boy he was taken to view the Hôtel d'Orsay, then one of the most
magnificent houses in Paris, and containing the finest collection of
pictures and statues, and that its splendour made such an impression on
his mind that he had never forgotten it.
With an admirable taste and a princely fortune, Count d'Orsay spared
neither trouble nor expense to render his house the focus of all that
was rich and rare; and, with a spirit that does not always animate the
possessor of rare works of art, he opened it to the young artists of
the day, who were permitted to study in its gallery and _salons_.
In the slate drawing-rooms a fanciful notion of the Count's was carried
into effect and was greatly admired, though, I believe, owing to the
great expense, the mode was not adopted in other houses, namely, on the
folding-doors of the suite being thrown open to admit company, certain
pedals connected with them were put in motion, and a strain of music
was produced, which announced the presence of guests, and the doors of
each of the drawing-rooms when opened took up the air, and continued it
until closed.
Many of the old _noblesse_ have been describing the splendour of the
Hôtel d'Orsay to me since I have been at Paris, and the Duc de
Talleyrand said it almost realised the notion of a fairy palace. Could
the owner who expended such vast sums on its decoration, behold it in
its present ruin, he could never recognise it; but such would be the
case with many a one whose stately palaces became the prey of a furious
rabble, let loose to pillage by a revolution--that most fearful of all
calamities, pestilence only excepted, that can befall a country.
General Ornano, his stepson Count Waleski, M. Achille La Marre, General
d'Orsay, and Mr. Francis Baring dined here yesterday. General Ornano is
agreeable and well-mannered. We had music in the evening, and the
lively and pretty Madame la H---- came. She is greatly admired, and no
wonder; for she is not only handsome, but clever and piquant. Hers does
not appear to be a well-assorted marriage, for M. la H---- is grave, if
not austere, in his manners, while she is full of gaiety and vivacity,
the demonstrations of which seem to give him any thing but pleasure.
I know not which is most to be pitied, a saturnine husband whose
gravity is only increased by the gaiety of his wife, or the gay wife
whose exuberance of spirits finds no sympathy in the Mentor-like
husband. Half, if not all, the unhappy marriages, accounted for by
incompatibility of humour, might with more correctness be attributed to
a total misunderstanding of each other's characters and dispositions in
the parties who drag a heavy and galling chain through life, the links
of which might be rendered light and easy to be borne, if the wearers
took but half the pains to comprehend each other's peculiarities that
they in general do to reproach or to resent the annoyance these
peculiarities occasion them.
An austere man would learn that the gaiety of his wife was as natural
and excusable a peculiarity in her, as was his gravity in him, and
consequently would not resent it; and the lively wife would view the
saturnine humour of her husband as a malady demanding forbearance and
kindness.
The indissolubility of marriage, so often urged as an additional cause
for aggravating the sense of annoyance experienced by those wedded but
unsuited to each other, is, in my opinion, one of the strongest motives
for using every endeavour to render the union supportable, if not
agreeable. If a dwelling known to be unalienable has some defect which
makes it unsuited to the taste of its owner, he either ameliorates it,
or, if that be impracticable, he adopts the resolution of supporting
its inconvenience with patience; so should a philosophical mind bear
all that displeases in a union in which even the most fortunate find
"something to pity or forgive." It is unfortunate that this same
philosophy, considered so excellent a panacea for enabling us to bear
ills, should be so rarely used that people can seldom judge of its
efficacy when required!
Saw _la Gazza Ladra_ last night, in which Malibran enacted "Ninetta,"
and added new laurels to the wreath accorded her by public opinion. Her
singing in the duo, in the prison scene, was one of the most touching
performances I ever heard; and her acting gave a fearful reality to the
picture.
I have been reading the _Calamities of Authors_ all the morning, and
find I like the book even better on a second perusal--no mean praise,
for the first greatly pleased me. So it is with all the works of Mr.
D'Israeli, who writes _con amore_; and not only with a profound
knowledge of his subjects, but with a deep sympathy, which peeps forth
at every line, for the literary men whose troubles or peculiarities he
describes.
His must be a fine nature--a contemplative mind imbued with a true love
of literature, and a kindness of heart that melts and makes those of
others melt, for the evils to which its votaries are exposed.
How much are those who like reading, but are too idle for research,
indebted to Mr. D'Israeli, who has given them the precious result of a
long life of study, so admirably digested and beautifully conveyed that
in a few volumes are condensed a mass of the most valuable information!
I never peruse a production of his without longing to be personally
acquainted with him; and, though we never met, I entertain a regard and
respect for him, induced by the many pleasant hours his works have
afforded me.
Met the Princesse de Talleyrand last night at Madame C----'s. I felt
curious to see this lady, of whom I had heard such various reports;
and, as usual, found her very different to the descriptions I had
received.
She came _en princesse_, attended by two _dames de compagnie_, and a
gentleman who acted as _chambellan_. Though her _embonpoint_ has not
only destroyed her shape but has also deteriorated her face, the small
features of which seem imbued in a mask much too fleshy for their
proportions, it is easy to see that in her youth she must have been
handsome. Her complexion is fair; her hair, judging from the eye-brows
and eye-lashes, must have been very light; her eyes are blue; her nose,
_retroussé_; her mouth small, with full lips; and the expression of her
countenance is agreeable, though not intellectual.
In her demeanour there is an evident assumption of dignity, which,
falling short of the aim, gives an ungraceful stiffness to her
appearance. Her dress was rich but suited to her age, which I should
pronounce to be about sixty. Her manner has the formality peculiar to
those conscious of occupying a higher station than their birth or
education entitles them to hold; and this consciousness gives an air of
constraint and reserve that curiously contrasts with the natural
good-humour and _naïveté_ that are frequently perceptible in her.
If ignorant--as is asserted--there is no symptom of it in her language.
To be sure, she says little; but that little is expressed with
propriety: and if reserved, she is scrupulously polite. Her _dames de
compagnie_ and _chambellan_ treat her with profound respect, and she
acknowledges their attentions with civility. To sum up all, the
impression made upon me by the Princesse Talleyrand was, that she
differed in no way from any other princess I had ever met, except by a
greater degree of reserve and formality than were in general evinced by
them.
I could not help smiling inwardly when looking at her, as I remembered
Baron Denon's amusing story of the mistake she once made. When the
Baron's work on Egypt was the topic of general conversation, and the
hôtel of the Prince Talleyrand was the rendezvous of the most
distinguished persons of both sexes at Paris, Denon being engaged to
dine there one day, the Prince wished the Princesse to read a few pages
of the book, in order that she might be enabled to say something
complimentary on it to the author. He consequently ordered his
librarian to send the work to her apartment on the morning of the day
of the dinner; but, unfortunately, at the same time also commanded that
a copy of _Robinson Crusoe_ should be sent to a young lady, a
_protégée_ of hers, who resided in the hôtel. The Baron Denon's work,
through mistake, was given to Mademoiselle, and _Robinson Crusoe_ was
delivered to the Princesse, who rapidly looked through its pages.
The seat of honour at table being assigned to the Baron, the Princesse,
mindful of her husband's wishes, had no sooner eaten her soup than,
smiling graciously, she thanked Denon for the pleasure which the
perusal of his work had afforded her. The author was pleased, and told
her how much he felt honoured; but judge of his astonishment, and the
dismay of the Prince Talleyrand, when the Princesse exclaimed. "Yes,
Monsieur le Baron, your work has delighted me; but I am longing to know
what has become of your poor man Friday, about whom I feel such an
interest?"
Denon used to recount this anecdote with great spirit, confessing at
the same time that his _amour propre_ as an author had been for a
moment flattered by the commendation, even of a person universally
known to be incompetent to pronounce on the merit of his book. The
Emperor Napoleon heard this story, and made Baron Denon repeat it to
him, laughing immoderately all the time, and frequently after he would,
when he saw Denon, inquire "how was poor Friday?"
When the second restoration of the Bourbons took place, the Prince
Talleyrand, anxious to separate from the Princesse, and to get her out
of his house, induced her, under the pretence that a change of air was
absolutely necessary for her health, to go to England for some months.
She had only been there a few weeks when a confidential friend at Paris
wrote to inform her that from certain rumours afloat it was quite clear
the Prince did not intend her to take up her abode again in his house,
and advised her to return without delay. The Princesse instantly
adopted this counsel, and arrived most unexpectedly in the Rue
St.-Florentin, to the alarm and astonishment of the whole establishment
there, who had been taught not to look for her entering the hôtel any
more; and to the utter dismay of the Prince, who, however anxious to be
separated from her, dreaded a scene of violence still more than he
wished to be released from his conjugal chains.
She forced her admission to his presence, overwhelmed him with
reproaches, and it required the exercise of all his diplomatic skill to
allay the storm he had raised. The affair became the general topic of
conversation at Paris; and when, the day after the event, the Prince
waited on Louis the Eighteenth on affairs of state, the King, who loved
a joke, congratulated him on the unexpected arrival of Madame la
Princesse.
Prince Talleyrand felt the sarcasm, and noticed it by one of those
smiles so peculiar to him--a shake of the head and shrug of the
shoulders, while he uttered "_Que voulez-vous, Sire, chacun a son vingt
Mars_?" referring to the unexpected arrival of the Emperor Napoleon.
I have been reading _Yes and No_, a very clever and, interesting novel
from the pen of Lord Normanby. His writings evince great knowledge of
the world, the work-o'-day world, as well as the _beau monde_; yet
there is no bitterness in his satire, which is always just and happily
pointed. His style, too, is easy, fluent, and polished, without being
disfigured by the slightest affectation or pedantry.
Had a long visit to-day from Dr. P----, who has lent me the works of
Bichat and Broussais, which he recommends me to read. He is a most
agreeable companion, and as vivacious as if he was only twenty. He
reminds me sometimes of my old friend Lady Dysart, whose juvenility of
mind and manner always pleased as much as it surprised me.
Old people like these appear to forget, as they are forgotten by, time;
and, like trees marked to be cut down, but which escape the memory of
the marker, they continue to flourish though the lines traced for their
destruction are visible.
The more I see of Count Waleski the more I am pleased with him. He has
an acute mind, great quickness of perception, and exceedingly good
manners. I always consider it a good sign of a young man to be partial
to the society of the old, and I observe that Count Waleski evinces a
preference for that of men old enough to be his father. People are not
generally aware of the advantages which agreeable manners confer, and
the influence they exercise over society. I have seen great abilities
fail in producing the effect accomplished by prepossessing manners,
which are even more serviceable to their owner than is a fine
countenance, that best of all letters of recommendation.
Half the unpopularity of people proceeds from a disagreeable manner;
and though we may be aware of the good qualities of persons who have
this defect, we cannot conceal from ourselves that it must always
originate in a want of the desire to please--a want, the evidence of
which cannot fail to wound the self-love of those who detect, and
indispose them towards those who betray it. By a disagreeable manner I
do not mean the awkwardness often arising from timidity, or the too
great familiarity originating in untutored good nature: but I refer to
a superciliousness, or coldness, that marks a sense of superiority; or
to a habit of contradiction, that renders society what it should never
be--an arena of debate.
How injudicious are those who defend their absent friends, when accused
of having disagreeable manners, by saying, as I have often heard
persons say--"I assure you that he or she can be very agreeable with
those he or she likes:" an assertion which, by implying that the person
accused did not like those who complained of the bad manner, converts
them from simple disapprovers into something approaching to enemies.
I had once occasion to notice the fine tact of a friend of mine, who,
hearing a person he greatly esteemed censured for his disagreeable
manner, answered,
"Yes, it is very true: with a thousand good qualities his
manner is very objectionable, even with those he likes best:
it is his misfortune, and he cannot help it; but those who
know him well will pardon it."
This candid admission of what could not be refuted, checked all further
censure at the moment, whereas an injudicious defence would have
lengthened it; and I heard some of the individuals then present assert,
a few days subsequently, that Lord ---- was not, after all, by any
means to be disliked: for that his manners were equally objectionable
even with his most esteemed friends, and consequently meant nothing
uncivil to strangers.
I tried this soothing system the other day in defence of ----, when a
whole circle were attacking him for his rude habit of contradicting, by
asserting, with a grave face, that he only contradicted those whose
talents he suspected, in order that he might draw them out in
discussion.
---- came in soon after, and it was positively amusing to observe how
much better people bore his contradiction. Madame ---- only smiled
when, having asserted that it was a remarkably fine day, he declared it
to be abominable. The Duc de ---- looked gracious when, having repeated
some political news, ---- said he could prove the contrary to be the
fact; and the Comtesse de ---- looked archly round when, having
extravagantly praised a new novel, he pronounced that it was the worst
of all the bad ones of the author.
---- will become a popular man, and have to thank me for it. How angry
would he be if he knew the service I have rendered him, and how quickly
would he contradict all I said in his favour! ---- reminds me of the
Englishman of whom it was said, that so great was his love of
contradiction, that when the hour of the night and state of the weather
were announced by the watchman beneath his window, he used to get out
of bed and raise both his casement and his voice to protest against the
accuracy of the statement.
Read _Pelham_; commenced it yesterday, and concluded it to-day. It is a
new style of novel, and, like all that is very clever, will lead to
many copyists. The writer possesses a felicitous fluency of language,
profound and just thoughts, and a knowledge of the world rarely
acquired at his age, for I am told he is a very young man.
This work combines pointed and pungent satire on the follies of
society, a deep vein of elevated sentiment, and a train of
philosophical thinking, seldom, if ever, allied to the tenderness which
pierces through the sentimental part. The opening reminded me of that
of _Anastatius_, without being in the slightest degree an imitation;
and many of the passages recalled Voltaire, by their wit and terseness.
I, who don't like reading novels, heard so much in favour of this
one--for all Paris talk of it--that I broke through a resolution formed
since I read the dull book of ----, to read no more; and I am glad I
did so, for this clever book has greatly interested me.
Oh, the misery of having stupid books presented to one by the author!
----, who is experienced in such matters, told me that the best plan in
such cases was, to acknowledge the receipt of the book the same day it
arrived, and civilly express the pleasure anticipated from its perusal,
by which means the necessity of praising a bad book was avoided. This
system has, however, been so generally adopted of late, that authors
are dissatisfied with it; and, consequently, a good-natured person
often feels compelled to write commendations of books which he or she
is far from approving; and which, though it costs an effort to write,
are far from satisfying the _exigeant amour propre_ peculiar to
authors.
I remember once being present when the merits of a book were canvassed.
One person declared it to be insufferably dull, when another, who had
published some novel, observed, with rather a supercilious air, "You
know not how difficult it is to write a good book!"
"I suppose it must be very difficult," was the answer, "seeing how long
and how often you have attempted, without succeeding."
How these letters of commendations of bad books, extorted from those to
whom the authors present them, will rise up in judgment against the
writers, when they are "gone to that bourne whence no traveller
returns!" I tremble to think of it! What severe animadversions on the
bad taste, or the want of candour of the writers, and all because they
were too good-natured to give pain to the authors!
Went to the Théâtre Italien last night, and saw Malibran in _la
Cenerentola_, in which her acting was no less admirable than her
singing. She sang "Non più Mesta" better than I ever heard it before,
and astonished as well as delighted the audience. She has a soul and
spirit in her style that carries away her hearers, as no other singer
does, and excites an enthusiasm seldom, if ever, equalled. Malibran
seems to be as little mistress of her own emotions when singing, as
those are whom her thrilling voice melts into softness, or wakes into
passion. Every tone is pregnant with feeling, and every glance and
attitude instinct with truthful emotion.
A custom prevails in France, which is not practised in Italy, or in
England, namely, _les lettres de faire part_, sent to announce deaths,
marriages, and births, to the circle of acquaintances of the parties.
This formality is never omitted, and these printed letters are sent out
to all on the visiting lists, except relations, or very intimate
friends, to whom autograph letters are addressed.
Another custom also prevails, which is that of sending _bonbons_ to the
friends and acquaintance of the _accouchée_. These sweet proofs
_d'amitié_ come pouring in frequently, and I confess I do not dislike
the usage.
The godfather always sends the _bonbons_ and a trinket to the mother of
the child, and also presents the godmother with a _corbeille_, in which
are some dozens of gloves, two or three handsome fans, embroidered
purses, a smelling-bottle, and a _vinaigrette_; and she offers him, _en
revanche_, a cane, buttons, or a pin--in short, some present. The
_corbeilles_ given to godmothers are often very expensive, being suited
to the rank of the parties; so that in Paris the compliment of being
selected as a godfather entails no trifling expense on the chosen. The
great prices given for wedding _trousseaux_ in France, even by those
who are not rich, surprise me, I confess.
They contain a superabundance of every article supposed to be necessary
for the toilette of a _nouvelle mariée_, from the rich robes of velvet
down to the simple _peignoir de matin_. Dresses of every description
and material, and for all seasons, are found in it. Cloaks, furs,
Cashmere shawls, and all that is required for night or day use, are
liberally supplied; indeed, so much so, that to see one of these
_trousseaux_, one might imagine the person for whom it was intended was
going to pass her life in some far-distant clime, where there would be
no hope of finding similar articles, if ever wanted.
Then comes the _corbeille de mariage_, well stored with the finest
laces, the most delicately embroidered pocket handkerchiefs, veils,
_fichus, chemisettes_ and _canezous_, trinkets, smelling-bottles, fans,
_vinaigrettes_, gloves, garters; and though last, not least, a purse
well filled to meet the wants or wishes of the bride,--a judicious
attention never omitted.
These _trousseaux_ and _corbeilles_ are placed in a _salon_, and are
exhibited to the friends the two or three days previously to the
wedding; and the view of them often sends young maidens--ay, and
elderly ones, too--away with an anxious desire to enter that holy state
which ensures so many treasures. It is not fair to hold out such
temptations to the unmarried, and may be the cause why they are
generally so desirous to quit the pale of single blessedness.