Parisian habits.--The Chaussée d’Antin.--Season of Bon-bons.--Jour
de l’An.--Commencement of the Season.--The Carnival.--Reception at
the Tuileries.--Lady Granville.--The Royal Family.--Court
Ceremonies.--Ball at the Hotel de Ville.--French Beauty.--A Bal de
Charité.--Lord Canterbury.--Bulwer.--Sir Sydney Smith.--The Court
Balls.--Splendid Scene.--The Princess Amelia.--Comparison between
Country and City Life.
PARIS, January 25th, 1836.
As your husband has gallantly allowed me the exclusive pleasure of
writing to you this week, I am going to use the privilege in giving you
his biography for the year 1836. For a wife to judge of her husband’s
conduct from her husband’s letters, is absolute folly.--He rises at
day-break, which occurs in this country, at this season, about nine; he
makes his toilet with Parisian nicety, breakfasts at eleven, and then
attends his consultations, till three. After this hour he runs upon
errands. Paris covers eight thousand five hundred square acres, and he
has business at both ends of it; I have to run after him, just as a
man’s shadow would, if people in this country had shadows, a league to
the east, and then a league to the west, only because he don’t know a
Frenchman calls his mother a _mare_, and a horse a _shovel_. As he and
his partner do not comprehend each other, and he cannot communicate with
the world out of doors, you may imagine I have got myself into a
business.
And here are all nations of the earth to be interpreted, and all sexes;
French, Spaniards, Italians, Poles, and modern Greeks. “God’s life, my
lords, I have had to rub up my Latin.” One might as well have been
interpreter at Babel. We dine at six, and have all the rest of the day
to ourselves.--Then comes smoking of Turkish tobacco in a long pipe,
then a cup of good coffee and the little glass of quirsh; and then
conversations--conversations, not about burning Moscara, and the Bedouin
brothers; or whether beet sugar should be taxed; but that which it
imports more our happiness to know, what vintage is the wine, and
whether we are to pass the evening at the Italien, or Grand Opera. Our
host, who is a French gentleman, a man of the world, and refined in
learning, adds the perfume of his wit to the little minutes as they go
fluttering by.
_A propos_ of good coffee, I will tell you how to make it. Make it very
strong, and then pour out with your right hand half a cup, and with your
left the milk, foaming and smoking like Vesuvius upon it; it is reduced
thus to a proper consistency and complexion, retaining its heat.
Strange! that so simple a process should not have superseded the
premeditated dishwater of our American cities. This is the _café au
lait_ of the breakfast; the coffee of the dinner is without milk.
At length conversation flags, and we sit each in a “_Fauteuil_,”
recumbent, and looking silently upon the Turkish vapour as it ascends to
the upper region of the room, till it has obscured the atmosphere in
clouds as dark as science metaphysic; and then we sweeten ourselves with
open air and evening recreations--
“Vive Henri Quatre! vive ce roi vaillant!”
And so we stroll, arm in arm, through the Boulevards to the “Rue
Favart,” and there drink down Grisi until the unwelcome midnight sends
us to our pillows. This repairs us from the cares of the day, and raises
us up fresh and vegetated to the duties of to-morrow. I must not forget
to tell you, we live now in the _Rue Neuve des Maturins_, a little east
of the Boulevards. I was quite disdainful of this unclassic ground after
so long an abode among the Muses; but this street is more than classic,
it runs right-angled into the aristocratic _Chaussée d’Antin_; is full
of honour and high fare, and ennobled by some of the best Parisian
blood.
Your husband--I suppose by living here, has got into the _bel air_ of
the French. (I forgot to put a _dash_ under his name.) He has his share
of Favoris, and mustachios, and a coat from Barde’s that would win the
ear of a countess. Barde makes coats for “crowned heads,” and takes
measures at Moscow;--and he never ties his cravat--(I mean your
husband)--just in front, but always a quarter of an inch or so to the
left; nor sends a lady a red rose, when white roses are in the fashion;
and though he speaks nothing yet of the French jargon, he makes Paris
agreeable to every one. Folks, to be liked in this country, are obliged
to be amiable--a violent effort sometimes for me. In this respect we
have an advantage at home, where poor people only are required to have
wit, and twenty thousand a-year may be as big a fool as it pleases.
This is the season of _bon-bons_. I think I see you, and little Jack and
Sall, parading your littleness upon the Boulevards--which I presume you
will do this time next year. Here is the whole animal creation in paste,
and all the fine arts in _sucre d’orge_. You can buy an epigram in
dough, and a pun in soda-biscuit; a “Constitutional Charter” all in
jumbles; and a “Revolution of July” just out of the frying-pan. Or, if
you love American history, here is a United States’ frigate, two inches
long, and a belly-gut commodore bombarding Paris--(with
“shin-plasters”)--and the French women and children stretching out their
little arms, three quarters of an inch long, towards heaven, and
supplicating the mercy of the victors, in molasses candy.
You will see also a General Jackson, with the head of a hickory-nut,
with a purse, I believe, of “carraway comfits,” and in a great hurry
pouring out the “twenty-five millions,” a king, a queen, and a royal
family, all of plaster of Paris. If you step into one of these stores
you will see a gentleman in mustachios, whom you will mistake for a
nobleman, who will ask you “to give yourself the pain to sit down,” and
he will put you up a paper of _bon-bons_, and he will send it home for
you, and he will accompany you to the door, and he will have “the honour
to salute you”--all for four sous.--But I must get on with my biography.
We went, the first day of the year, to the Palace, and saw the king and
the queen with our own eyes. I must tell you all about it. Paris usually
comes to town three months before this. The gentry, and the woodcock,
and all the Italian singers come in October, and every thing runs over
with the reflux of the natives, and the influx of foreigners. Of the
latter, the greater part are English, who, to escape the ignominy of
staying in London at this season, or being uneasy on their seats, (I
mean their country seats,) come hither to walk in the Rue de la Paix,
and sleep in the Rue Castiglione. You will see now and then a knot of
American girls, who sun themselves upon the Boulevards, or sit in the
Tuileries to do mischief with their looks upon bearded Frenchmen.
But the gaieties at this season only essay their little wings; they do
not venture beyond the opera and private parties, and a display of
black eyes and fashionable equipages at the Bois de Boulogne, until the
close of the year. Then all the sluices are set loose. Then magnificent
beauty encircles the boxes at the opera, decked in all the gems which
the “swart Indian culls from the green sea,” and overlooks the gazing
deluge of spectators from the pit, and the nut-brown maids of Italy and
France wave around the ball-room in all the swimming voluptuousness of
the waltz. Grisi warbles more divinely at the Italien, and, at the Grand
Opera, more sweetly, Taglioni
“Twirls her light limbs, and bares her breasts of snow.”
“Due pome acerbe, e pur d’ivorio fatte,
Vengono e van, come onda al primo margo,
Quando piacevole aura il mar combatte.”
Harlequin now puts on his fustian mantle, and all Paris, her caps and
bells, turning out upon the Boulevards, and men and women run wild
through the streets. This is the Carnival, which will continue gathering
force as it goes, till the end of February, as a snow-ball upon your
Pine-Hill comes down an avalanche into the valley. On Shrove-Tuesday all
will be still--operas, balls, concerts, fêtes, the racket of the
fashionable soirée, and the orgies of the Carnival will be hushed; and
then the quiet and social parties will employ the rest of the season.
My Lord Granville will be “at home” on Monday, and the Duchess de
Broglie “at home” on Saturday; in a word, every one that can afford it
will be “at home” one evening in the week, receiving and entertaining
with gaiety and simplicity his friends, until the dogstar shall send
again the idle world to its shady retreats of Montmorency and St. Cloud.
The first drawing-room or “reception” at court, on the New Year’s night
gives the watch-word, and announces that the season of mirth has begun.
This is followed by the regular court-balls, and balls ministerial and
diplomatic; and the balls of the bankers and other opulent individuals
bring up the rear.
We put ourselves in a black suit, in silk stockings and pumps, with a
little, military tinsel, under the arm; stepped into a _remise_ (a
remise is a public carriage disguised as a private one) and in a few
minutes stood upon the broad steps of the Tuileries; from which we were
conducted up into the rooms, with no more ceremony than writing our
names upon a registry in the hall.--The English and French books say
that we Americans have a great _penchant_ for kings, and that we run
after nobility and titles more than becomes republicans. Whether this be
true or not, and whether it is really an inclination of human nature
that, like other passions, will have its way, I do not stop to inquire;
with me I declare it to be mere curiosity; I had the same when a mere
child, for a puppet show, without wishing to be “Punch” or “Judy.” But
here I am moralising again when I should be telling you of the
“Reception.”
You must imagine a long suite of rooms, and the edges all round
embroidered with ladies, strung together like pearls--ladies dressed in
the excess of the toilet, and many hundred lustres pouring down a blaze
of light upon their charms; and the interior of the rooms filled with
gentlemen clad in various liveries, mostly military--in all you may
reckon about four thousand, including Doctor C. and _me_. Here was my
Lady Granville ambassadress and her Lord; I love a broad pair of
shoulders on a woman--even a little too broad; and here was the fair
Countess of Comar Plotocka. The richest mine that sleeps between your
Broad and Sharp Mountains would not buy this lady’s neck. I have heard
it valued at three millions. It would make a rail-road from here to
Havre.
I have half-a-mind to put in here as a note, that we Americans in our
citizen coats, and other republican simplicities, make no kind of figure
at a court. When one contemplates brother Jonathan by the side of Prince
Rousimouski, all gorgeous in the furs of the Neva--I can’t find any
other comparison than that character of arithmetic they call _zero_; for
he seems of no other use than to give significance to some figure that
is next to him. It is strange how much human dignity is improved by a
fashionable wardrobe; I have seen a nobleman spoiled altogether by a few
holes in his breeches.
The king, the queen, the princes and princesses entered about nine; they
passed slowly round the rooms, saluting the ladies, saying a few words
to each, with a gentle inclination of the head, and a proportionate
jutting out at the head’s antipodes:--the latter part of the compliment
intended for us gentlemen. At the end of this fatiguing ceremony the
royal family retired, bowing to us all in the lump.--I forgot to say,
that being apart in a corner, as a modest maid who sits alone, the queen
in passing dropped me a curtsey for myself. When her Majesty bowed to
the whole multitude the honour was wasted by diffusion. To have one all
to one’s self was very gratifying. They now posted themselves in a room
at the south end of the company, accessible by two doors, through one of
which gentlemen were admitted Indian file, and introduced personally to
the king, the king standing on the right, the queen on the left of the
room, and the little queens in the middle.
It was an imposing ceremony; and this was the manner of the
introduction. For example, the Doctor, entering, gave his name and
nation to the Aid-de-Camp, who pronounced it aloud; the king then _prit
la parole, et un verre d’eau sucrée, de la manière suivante_: “You are
from Philadelphia, I am glad to see you.”--And then the Doctor, who had
studied his speech in the ante-chamber, replied, “Yes.”--After this he
bowed a little to the queen, and walked out with an imperturbable
gravity at the left door, as I had just done before him. We then went
home, and told people we had spoken to the king.--This is a Reception at
the Tuileries. To give you an account of the other charming fêtes we
have seen this month, will require another sheet.--The hour is late, I
bid you good night.
January 26th.
The first fête of which we partook was a great ball given at the Hotel
de Ville, to relieve the poor of the “Quartier St. Germain.” Here, as
every place else, where there is a chance of an innocent squeezing,
there was a crowd. There were two thousand souls, all dancing in the
same room; and the ladies, whom I include in the article of souls, were
dressed _dans l’excès de la belle coiffure_. The Queen and Madame
Adelaide, and other such like fine people, who were announced in the
newspapers, hoaxed us by not coming. However, we danced all the poor out
of the hospitals. We put on our rustling silks that the grisettes might
get a blanket for their shivering babies, and our dear little prunellas,
that they might have a pair of sabots, and a little bit of wool about
their feet in the Faubourg St. Germain. Charity affects people in
different ways. In Philadelphia it gives one a chill, or it sends one
with a long face to pray at St. Stephens’; here, to “cut pigeon wing” at
the Hotel de Ville.--The bill of fare was only ices, lemonades and eau
sucrée--no liquors.
A Frenchman is always fuddled enough with his own animal spirits, and
needs no rum. In all French parties in high life there is little
ceremony about eating and drinking; it is economical to be well bred.
Dancing is performed in the same monotonous dull way as in America. The
“_pirouettes_ and _entrechats_” are a monopoly of the Opera Français.
English gravity was always afraid of being caught cutting a caper, and
John Bull leads his lady through a dance as if conducting her to her
pew. The fashion of now-a-days is any thing English, especially English
whims and nonsense. “They are not dancing, but only walking in their
sleep,” is a _bon mot_ of his Majesty, who is not much addicted to
wit--better if he were; Fieschi would never have thought of killing him.
But they are better walkers than we are. They are better dressed, too,
though with less cost. In our country the same dress suits all ladies of
the same size, being always made after the last doll that came over by
the packet, only a little more fashionable. And so we are
“Laced
From the full bosom to the slender waist,
Fine by degrees and beautifully less.”