Count Charles de Mornay dined here yesterday, _en famille_. How clever
and amusing he is! Even in his liveliest sallies there is the evidence
of a mind that can reflect deeply, as well as clothe its thoughts in
the happiest language. To be witty, yet thoroughly good-natured as he
is, never exercising his wit at the expense of others, indicates no
less kindness of heart than talent.
I know few things more agreeable than to hear him and his cousin open
the armoury of their wit, which, like summer lightning, flashes rapidly
and brightly, but never wounds. In England, we are apt to consider wit
and satire as nearly synonymous; for we hear of the clever sayings of
our reputed wits, in nine cases out of ten, allied to some ill-natured
_bon mot_, or pointed epigram. In France this is not the case, for some
of the most witty men, and women too, whom I ever knew, are as
remarkable for their good nature as for their cleverness. That wit
which needs not the spur of malice is certainly the best, and is most
frequently met with at Paris.
Went last evening to see Mademoiselle Marsin _Henri III_. Her acting
was, as usual, inimitable. I was disappointed in the piece, of which I
had heard much praise. It is what the French call _décousue_, but is
interesting as a picture of the manners of the times which it
represents. There is no want of action or bustle in it; on the
contrary, it abounds in incidents: but they are, for the most part,
puerile. As in our own _Othello_, a pocket handkerchief leads to the
_dénouement_, reminding one of the truth of the verse,--
"What great events from trivial causes spring!"
The whole court of Henry the Third are brought on the scene, and with
an attention to costume to be found only in a Parisian theatre. The
strict attention to costume, and to all the other accessories
appertaining to the epoch, _mise en scène_, is very advantageous to the
pieces brought out here; but, even should they fail to give or preserve
an illusion, it is always highly interesting as offering a _tableau du
costume, et des moeurs des siècles passés_. The crowd brought on the
stage in _Henri III_, though it adds to the splendour of the scenic
effect, produces a confusion in the plot; as does also the vast number
of names and titles introduced during the scenes, which fatigue the
attention and defy the memory of the spectators.
The fierce "Duc de Guise," the slave at once of two passions, generally
considered to be the most incompatible, Love and Ambition, is made to
commit strange inconsistencies. "Saïnt-Mégrin" excites less interest
than he ought; but the "Duchesse de Guise," whose beautiful arm plays a
_grand rôle_, must, as played by Mademoiselle Mars, have conquered all
hearts _vi et armis_.
_Henri III_ has the most brilliant success, and, in despite of some
faults, is full of genius, and the language is vigorous. Perhaps its
very faults are to be attributed to an excess, rather than to a want,
of power, and to a mind overflowing with a knowledge of the times he
wished to represent; which led to a dilution of the strength of his
scenes, by crowding into them too much extraneous matter.
A curious incident occurred during the representation. Two
ladies--_gentlewomen_ they could not be correctly styled--being seated
in the _balcon_, were brought in closer contact, whether by the crowd,
or otherwise, than was agreeable to them. From remonstrances they
proceeded to murmurs, not only "loud, but deep," and from
murmurs--"tell it not in Ascalon, publish it not in Gath"--to violent
pushing, and, at length, to blows. The audience were, as well they
might be, shocked; the _Gendarmes_ interfered, and order was soon
restored. The extreme propriety of conduct that invariably prevails in
a Parisian audience, and more especially in the female portion of it,
renders the circumstance I have narrated remarkable.
Met Lady G., Lady H., and the usual circle of _habitués_ last night at
Madame C----'s. The first-mentioned lady surprises me every time I meet
her, by the exaggeration of her sentiment and the romantic notions she
entertains. Love, eternal love, is her favourite topic of conversation;
a topic unsuited to discussion at her age and in her position.
To hear a woman, no longer young, talking passionately of love, has
something so absurd in it, that I am pained for Lady C., who is really
a kind-hearted and amiable woman. Her definitions of the passion, and
descriptions of its effects, remind me of the themes furnished by
Scudéry, and are as tiresome as the tales of a traveller recounted some
fifty years after he has made his voyage. Lady H., who is older than
Lady G., opens wide her round eyes, laughs, and exclaims, "Oh,
dear!--how very strange!--well, that is so funny!" until Lady C. draws
up with all the dignity of a heroine of romance, and asserts that "few,
very few, are capable of either feeling or comprehending the passion."
A fortunate state for those who are no longer able to inspire it!
To grow old gracefully, proves no ordinary powers of mind, more
especially in one who has been (oh, what an odious phrase that same
_has been_ is!) a beauty. Well has it been observed by a French writer,
that women no longer young and handsome should forget that they ever
were so.
I have been reading Wordsworth's poems again, and I verily believe for
the fiftieth time. They contain a mine of lofty, beautiful, and natural
thoughts. I never peruse them without feeling proud that England has
such a poet, and without finding a love for the pure and the noble
increased in my mind. Talk of the ideal in poetry? what is it in
comparison with the positive and the natural, of which he gives such
exquisite delineations, lifting his readers from Nature up to Nature's
God? How eloquently does he portray the feelings awakened by fine
scenery, and the thoughts to which it gives birth!
Wordsworth is, _par excellence_, the Poet of Religion, for his
productions fill the mind with pure and holy aspirations. Fortunate is
the poet who has quaffed inspiration in the purest of all its sources,
Nature; and fortunate is the land that claims him for her own.
The influence exercised by courts over the habits of subjects, though
carried to a less extent in our days than in past times, is still
obvious at Paris in the display of religion assumed by the upper class.
Coroneted carriages are to be seen every day at the doors of certain
churches, which it is not very uncharitable to suppose might be less
frequently beheld there if the King, Madame la Dauphine, and the
Dauphin were less religious; and hands that have wielded a sword in
many a well-fought battle-field, and hold the _bâton de maréchal_ as a
reward, may now be seen bearing a lighted _cierge_ in some pious
procession,--the military air of the intrepid warrior lost in the
humility of the devotee.
This general assumption of religion on the part of the courtiers
reminds me forcibly of a passage in a poetical epistle, written, too,
by a sovereign, who, unlike many monarchs, seemed to have had a due
appreciation of the proneness of subjects to adopt the opinions of
their rulers.
"L'exemple d'un monarque ordonne et se fait suivre:
Quand Auguste buvait, la Pologne était ivre;
Et quand Louis le Grand brûlait d'un tendre amour,
Paris devint Cythère, et tout suivait sa cour;
Lorsqu'il devint dévot, ardent à la prière,
Ses lâches courtisans marmottaient leur bréviaire."
Should the Duc de Bordeaux arrive at the throne while yet in the
hey-day of youth, and with the gaiety that generally accompanies that
period of life, it will be amusing to witness the metamorphosis that
will be effected in these same courtiers. There are doubtless many, and
I am acquainted with some persons here, whose religion is as sincere
and as fervent as is that of the royal personages of the court they
frequent; but I confess that I doubt whether the general mass of the
upper class would _afficher_ their piety as much as they now do if
their regular attendance at divine worship was less likely to be known
at the Tuileries. The influence of a pious sovereign over the religious
feelings of his people must be highly beneficial when they feel,
instead of affecting to do so, the sanctity they profess.
When those in the possession of supreme power, and all the advantages
it is supposed to confer, turn from the enjoyment of them to seek
support from Heaven to meet the doom allotted to kings as well as
subjects, the example is most salutary; for the piety of the rich and
great is even more edifying than that of the poor and lowly, who are
supposed to seek consolation which the prosperous are imagined not to
require.
The Duchesse de Berri is very popular at Paris, and deservedly so. Her
natural gaiety harmonises With that of this lively people; and her love
of the fine arts, and the liberal patronage she extends to them,
gratify the Parisians.
I heard an anecdote of her to-day from an authority which leaves no
doubt of its truth. Having commanded a brilliant _fête_, a heavy fall
of snow drew from one of her courtiers a remark that the extreme cold
would impede the pleasure of the guests, who would suffer from it in
coming and departing, "True," replied the Duchesse; "but if they in
comfortable carriages, and enveloped in furs and cashmeres, can suffer
from the severity of the weather, what must the poor endure?" And she
instantly ordered a large sum of money to be forthwith distributed, to
supply fuel to the indigent, saying--"While I dance, I shall have the
pleasure of thinking the poor are not without the means of warmth."
Received a long and delightful letter from Walter Savage Landor. His is
one of the most original minds I have ever encountered, and is joined
to one of the finest natures. Living in the delightful solitude he has
chosen near Florence, his time is passed in reading, reflecting, and
writing; a life so blameless and so happy, that the philosophers of
old, with whose thoughts his mind is so richly imbued, might, if envy
could enter into such hearts, entertain it towards him.
Landor is a happy example of the effect of retirement on a great mind.
Free from the interruptions which, if they harass not, at least impede
the continuous flow of thought in those who live much in society, his
mind has developed itself boldly, and acquired a vigour at which,
perhaps, it might never have arrived, had he been compelled to live in
a crowded city, chafed by the contact with minds of an inferior
calibre.
_The Imaginary Conversations_ could never have been written amid the
vexatious interruptions incidental to one mingling much in the scenes
of busy life; for the voices of the sages of old with whom, beneath his
own vines, Landor loves to commune, would have been inaudible in the
turmoil of a populous town, and their secrets would not have been
revealed to him. The friction of society may animate the man of talent
into its exercise, but I am persuaded that solitude is essential to the
perfect developement of genius.
A letter from Sir William Gell, and, like all his letters, very
amusing. Yet how different from Landor's! Both written beneath the
sunny sky of Italy, both scholars, and nearly of the same age,
nevertheless, how widely different are their letters!
Gell's filled with lively and comic details of persons, seldom fail to
make me laugh; Landor's, wholly devoted to literary subjects, set me
thinking. Cell would die of _ennui_ in the solitude Landor has
selected; Landor would be chafed into irritation in the constant
routine of visiting and dining-out in which Gell finds amusement. But
here am I attempting to draw a parallel where none can be established,
for Landor is a man of genius, Gell a man of talent.
Was at the Opera last night, and saw the Duc d'Orléans there with his
family. They are a fine-looking flock, male and female, and looked as
happy as they are said to be.
I know no position more enviable than that of the Duc d'Orléans.
Blessed with health, a princely revenue, an admirable wife, fine
children, and many friends, he can have nothing to desire but a
continuance of these blessings. Having experienced adversity, and nobly
endured the ordeal, he must feel with an increased zest the happiness
now accorded to him,--a happiness that seems so full and complete, that
I can fancy no addition possible to it.
His vast wealth may enable him to exercise a generosity that even
sovereigns can rarely practise; his exalted rank, while it places him
near a throne, precludes him from the eating cares that never fail to
attend even the most solidly established one, and leaves him free to
enjoy the happiness of domestic life in a family circle said to contain
every ingredient for creating it.
The fondest husband, father, and brother, he is fortunate beyond most
men in his domestic relations, and furnishes to France a bright example
of irreproachable conduct and well-merited felicity in them all. In the
possession of so many blessings, I should, were I in his position (and
he probably does, or he is not the sensible man I take him to be),
tremble at the possibility of any event that could call him from the
calm enjoyment of them to the giddy height and uneasy seat of a throne.
The present king is in the vale of years, the Dauphin not young, and
the Duc de Bordeaux is but a child. Should any thing occur to this
child, then would the Duc d'Orléans stand in direct line after the
Dauphin. I thought of this contingency last night as I looked on the
happy family, and felt assured that were the Duc d'Orléans called to
reign in France, these same faces would look less cloudless than they
did then, for I am one of those who believe that "uneasy lies the head
that wears a crown."
With a good sense that characterises the Duc d'Orléans, he has sent his
sons to public schools--a measure well calculated not only to give them
a just knowledge of the world, so often denied to princes, but to
render them popular. The Duc de Chartres is an exceedingly handsome
young man, and his brothers are fine youths. The Princesses are brought
up immediately under the eye of their mother, who is allowed by every
one to be a faultless model for her sex.
The Duc d'Orléans is said to be wholly engrossed in the future
prospects of his children, and in insuring, as far as human foresight
can insure, their prosperity.
I have been reading Shelley's works, in which I have found many
beautiful thoughts. This man of genius--for decidedly such he was--has
not yet been rendered justice to; the errors that shroud his poetry, as
vapours rising from too rich a soil spread a mist that obstructs our
view of the flowers that also spring from the same bed, have hindered
us from appreciating the many beauties that abound in Shelley's
writings. Alarmed by the poison that lurks in some of his wild
speculations, we have slighted the antidote to be found in many others
of them, and heaped obloquy on the fame of a poet whose genius and
kindness of heart should have insured our pity for the errors of his
creed.
He who was all charity has found none in the judgment pronounced on him
by his contemporaries; but posterity will be more just. The wild
theories and fanciful opinions of Shelley, on subjects too sacred to be
approached lightly, carry with them their own condemnation; and so
preclude the evil which pernicious doctrines, more logically reasoned,
might produce on weak minds. His theories are vague, dreamy, always
erroneous, and often absurd: but the imagination of the poet, and the
tenderness of heart of the man, plead for pardon for the false
doctrines of the would-be philosopher; and those who most admire his
poetry will be the least disposed to tolerate his anti-religious
principles. As a proof that his life was far from being in accordance
with his false creed, he enjoyed, up to his death, the friendship of
some of the most excellent men, who deplored his errors but who loved
and valued him.
William Spencer, the poet, dined here yesterday. Alas! he has "fallen
into the sere and yellow leaf," for though sometimes uttering brilliant
thoughts, they are "like angel visits, few and far between;" and total
silence, or half-incoherent rhapsodies, mark the intervals.
This melancholy change is accounted for by the effects of an indulgence
in wine, had recourse to in consequence of depression of spirits. Nor
is this pernicious indulgence confined to the evening, for at a
_déjeûner à la fourchette_ at two o'clock, enough wine is drunk to dull
his faculties for the rest of the day. What an unpoetical close to a
life once so brilliant!
Alas, alas, for poor human nature! when, even though illumined by the
ethereal spark, it can thus sully its higher destiny. I thought of the
many fanciful and graceful poems so often perused with pleasure,
written by Mr. Spencer amid the brilliant _fêtes_ in which he formerly
passed his nights, and where he often found his inspirations. His was
ever a courtly Muse, but without the hoop and train--a ball-room
_belle_, with alternate smiles and sentimentality, and witty withal. No
out-bursting of passion, or touch of deep pathos, interrupted the
equanimity of feeling of those who perused Spencer's verses; yet was
their absence unmissed, for the fancy, wit, and sentiment that marked
them all, and the graceful ease of the versification, rendered them
precisely what they were intended for,--_les vers de société_, the
fitting volume elegantly bound to be placed in the _boudoir_.
And there sat the pet poet of gilded _salons_, whose sparkling sallies
could once delight the fastidious circles in which he moved. His once
bright eyes, glazed and lustreless, his cheeks sunken and pale, seeming
only conscious of the presence of those around him when offered
champagne, the excitement of which for a few brief moments produced
some flashing _bon mot à propos de rien_ passing at the time, after
which his spirits subsided even more rapidly than did the bubbles of
the wine that had given them their short excitement.
It made me sad to contemplate this wreck; but most of those around him
appeared unconscious of there being any thing remarkable in his
demeanour. They had not known him in his better days.
I am often amused, and sometimes half-vexed by witnessing the
prejudices that still exist in France with regard to the English. These
prejudices prevail in all ranks, and are, I am disposed to think,
incurable.
They extend to trivial, as well as to more grave matters, and influence
the opinions pronounced on all subjects. An example of this prejudice
occurred a few weeks ago, when one of our most admired _belles_ from
London having arrived at Paris, her personal appearance was much
canvassed. One person found her too tall, another discovered that she
had too much _embonpoint_, and a third said her feet were much too
large. A Frenchman, when appealed to for his opinion, declared "_Elle
est très-bien pour une Anglaise_." I ought to add, that there was no
English person present when he made this ungallant speech, which was
repeated to me by a French lady, who laughed heartily at his notion.
If an Englishwoman enters a glover's, or shoemaker's shop, these
worthies will only shew her the largest gloves or shoes they have in
their _magasins_, so persuaded are they that she cannot have a small
hand or foot; and when they find their wares too large, and are
compelled to search for the smallest size, they seem discomposed as
well as surprised, and inform the lady that they had no notion "_une
dame anglaise_ could want small gloves or shoes."
That an Englishwoman can be witty, or brilliant in conversation, the
French either doubt or profess to doubt; but if convinced against their
will they exclaim, "_C'est drôle, mais madame a l'esprit éminemment
français_." Now this no Englishwoman has, or, in my opinion, can have;
for it is peculiar, half-natural and half-acquired.
Conversation, in France, is an art successfully studied; to excel in
which, not only much natural talent is required, but great fluency and
a happy choice of words are indispensable. No one in Parisian society
speaks ill, and many possess a readiness of wit, and a facility of
turning it to account, that I have never seen exemplified in women of
other countries.
A Frenchwoman talks well on every subject, from those of the most grave
political importance, to the _dernière mode_. Her talent in this art is
daily exercised, and consequently becomes perfected; while an
Englishwoman, with more various and solid attainments, rarely if ever,
arrives at the ease and self-confidence which would enable her to bring
the treasures with which her mind is stored into play. So generally is
the art of conversation cultivated in France, that even those with
abilities that rise not beyond mediocrity can take their parts in it,
not only without exposing the poverty of their intellects, but with
even a show of talent that often imposes on strangers.
An Englishwoman, more concentrated in her feelings as well as in her
pursuits, seldom devotes the time given by Frenchwomen to the
superficial acquisition of a versatility of knowledge, which, though it
enables _them_ to converse fluently on various subjects, _she_ would
dread entering on, unless well versed in. My fair compatriots have
consequently fewer topics, even if they had equal talent, to converse
on; so that the _esprit_ styled, _par excellence, l'esprit éminemment
français_, is precisely that to which we can urge the fewest
pretensions.
This does not, however, dispose me to depreciate a talent, or art, for
art it may be called, that renders society in France not only so
brilliant but so agreeable, and which is attended with the salutary
effect of banishing the ill-natured observations and personal remarks
which too often supply the place of more harmless topics with us.