Society.--Morality.--False Impressions and False
Reports.--Observations from a Frenchman on a recent
publication.
Much as I love the sights of Paris,--including as we must under this
term all that is great and enduring, as well as all that is for ever
changing and for ever new,--I am more earnestly bent, as you will
readily believe, upon availing myself of all my opportunities for
listening to the conversation within the houses, than on contemplating
all the marvels that may be seen without.
Joyfully, therefore, have I welcomed the attention and kindness that
have been offered me in various quarters; and I have already the
satisfaction of finding myself on terms of most pleasant and familiar
intercourse with a variety of very delightful people, many of them
highly distinguished, and, happily for me, varying in their opinions
of all things both in heaven and earth, from the loftiest elevation of
the _rococo_, to the lowest profundity of the _décousu_ school.
And here let me pause, to assure you, and any other of my countrymen
and countrywomen whose ears I can reach, that excursions to Paris, be
they undertaken with what spirit of enterprise they may, and though
they may be carried through with all the unrestrained expense that
English wealth can permit, yet without the power by some means or
other of entering into good French society, they are nothing worth.
It is true, that there is something most exceedingly exhilarating to
the spirits in the mere external novelty and cheerfulness of the
objects which surround a stranger on first entering Paris. That
indescribable air of gaiety which makes every sunshiny day look like a
fête; the light hilarity of spirit that seems to pervade all ranks;
the cheerful tone of voice, the sparkling glances of the numberless
bright eyes; the gardens, the flowers, the statues of Paris,--all
together produce an effect very like enchantment.
But "use lessens marvel;" and when the first delightful excitement is
over, and we begin to feel weary from its very intensity, the next
step is backward into rationality, low spirits, and grumbling.
From that moment the English tourist talks of nothing but wide rivers,
magnificent bridges, prodigious _trottoirs_, unrivalled drains, and
genuine port. It is at this stage that the traveller, in order to
continue his enjoyment and bring it to perfection, should remit his
examination of the exterior of noble _hôtels_, and endeavour to be
admitted to the much more enduring enchantment which prevails within
them.
So much has already been said and written on the grace and charm of
the French language in conversation, that it is quite needless to
dwell upon it. That _good things_ can be said in no other idiom with
equal grace, is a fact that can neither be controverted nor more
firmly established than it is already. Happily, the art of expressing
a clever thought in the best possible words did not die with Madame de
Sévigné; nor has it yet been destroyed by revolution of any kind.
It is not only for the amusement of an hour, however, that I would
recommend the assiduous cultivation of good French society to the
English. Great and important improvements in our national manners have
already arisen from the intercourse which long peace has permitted.
Our dinner-tables are no longer disgraced by inebriety; nor are our
men and women, when they form a party expressly for the purpose of
enjoying each other's society, separated by the law of the land during
half the period for which the social meeting has been convened.
But we have much to learn still; and the general tone of our daily
associations might be yet farther improved, did the best specimens of
Parisian habits and manners furnish the examples.
It is not from the large and brilliant parties which recur in every
fashionable mansion, perhaps, three or four times in each season,
that I think we could draw much improvement. A fine party at Lady
A----'s in Grosvenor Square, is not more like a fine party at Lady
B----'s in Berkeley Square, than a fine party in Paris is to one in
London. There are abundance of pretty women, handsome men, satin,
gauze, velvet, diamonds, chains, stars, moustaches, and imperials at
both, with perhaps very little deserving the name of rational
enjoyment in either.
I suspect, indeed, that we have rather the advantage on these crowded
occasions, for we more frequently change the air by passing from one
room to another when we eat our ices; and as the tulip-tinctured
throng enjoy this respite from suffocation by detachments, they have
often not only opportunity to breathe, but occasionally to converse
also, for several minutes together, without danger of being dislodged
from their standing-ground.
It is not, therefore, at the crowded roll-calls of all their
acquaintance that I would look for anything rational or peculiar in the
_salons_ of Paris, but in the daily and constant intercourse of familiar
companionship. This is enjoyed with a degree of pleasant ease--an
absence of all pomp, pride, and circumstance, of which unhappily we have
no idea. Alas! we must know by special printed announcement a month
beforehand that our friend is "at home,"--that liveried servants will
be in attendance, and her mansion blazing with light,--before we can
dare venture to pass an evening hour in her drawing-room. How would a
London lady stare, if some half-dozen--though perhaps among the most
chosen favourites of her visiting-list--were to walk unbidden into her
presence, in bonnets and shawls, between the hours of eight and eleven!
And how strangely new would it seem, were the pleasantest and most
coveted engagements of the week, formed without ceremony and kept
without ostentation, to arise from a casual meeting at the beginning
of it!
It is this ease, this habitual absence of ceremony and parade, this
national enmity to constraint and tediousness of all kinds, which
renders the tone of French manners so infinitely more agreeable than
our own. And the degree in which this is the case can only be guessed
at by those who, by some happy accident or other, possess a real and
effective "open sesame!" for the doors of Paris.
With all the superabundance of vanity ascribed to the French, they
certainly show infinitely less of it in their intercourse with their
fellow-creatures than we do. I have seen a countess, whose title was
of a dozen fair descents, open the external door of her apartment, and
welcome the guests who appeared at it with as much grace and elegance
as if a triple relay of tall fellows who wore her colours had handed
their names from hall to drawing-room. Yet in this case there was no
want of wealth. Coachman, footman, abigail, and doubtless all fitting
etceteras, owned her as their sovereign lady and mistress. But they
happened to have been sent hither and thither, and it never entered
her imagination that her dignity could be compromised by her appearing
without them. In short, the vanity of the French does not show itself
in little things; and it is exactly for this reason that their
enjoyment of society is stripped of so much of the anxious, sensitive,
ostentatious, self-seeking etiquette which so heavily encumbers our
own.
There are some among us, my friend, who might say of this testimony to
the charm of French society, that there was danger in praising, and
pointing out as an example to be followed, the manners of a people
whose morality is considered as so much less strict than our own.
Could I think that, by thus approving what is agreeable, I could
lessen by a single hair's-breadth the interval which we believe exists
between us in this respect, I would turn my approval to reproof, and
my superficial praise to deep-dyed reprobation: but to any who should
express such a fear, I would reply by assuring them that it would
require a very different species of intimacy from any to which I had
the honour of being admitted, in order to authorise, from personal
observation, any attack upon the morals of Parisian society. More
scrupulous and delicate refinement in _the tone of manners_ can
neither be found nor wished for anywhere; and I do very strongly
suspect, that many of the pictures of French depravity which have been
brought home to us by our travellers, have been made after sketches
taken in scenes and circles to which the introductions I so strongly
recommend to my countrywomen could by no possibility lead them. It is
not of such that I can be supposed to speak.
Apropos of false impressions and false reports, I may repeat to you an
anecdote which I heard yesterday evening. The little committee in
which it was related consisted of at least a dozen persons, and it
appeared that I was myself the only one to whom it was new.
"It is rather more than two years ago," said the speaker, "that we had
amongst us an English gentleman, who avowed that it was his purpose to
write on France, not as other men write--superficially, respecting
truths that lie obvious to ordinary eyes--but with a research that
should make him acquainted with all things above, about, and
underneath. He professed this intention to more than one dear friend;
and more than one dear friend took the trouble of tracing him in his
chase after hidden truths. Not long after his arrival among us, this
gentleman became intimately acquainted with a lady more celebrated for
the variety of her friendships with men of letters than for the
endurance of them. This lady received the attentions of the stranger
with distinguished kindness, and, among other proofs of regard,
undertook to purvey for him all sorts of private anecdotes, great and
little, that from the mass he might form an average estimate of the
people; assuring him at the same time, that no one in Paris was more
_au fait_ of its secret histories than herself. This," continued my
informant, "might be, and I believe was, very particularly true; and
the English traveller might have been justified in giving to his
countrymen and countrywomen as much insight into such mysteries as he
thought good for them: but when he published the venomous slanders of
this female respecting persons not only of the highest honour, but of
the most unspotted reputation, he did what will blast his name as long
as his charlatan book is remembered." Such were the indignant words,
and there was nothing in the tone with which they were uttered to
weaken their expression.
I tell you the tale as I heard it; but I will not repeat much more
that was said on the same subject, nor will I give any A..., B..., or
C... hints as to the names so freely mentioned.
Some degree of respectability ought certainly to attach to those from
whom important information is sought respecting the morals and manners
of a country, when it is the intention of the inquirer that his
observations and statements upon it should become authority to the
whole civilized world.
The above conversation, however, was brought to a laughing conclusion
by Madame C----, who, addressing her husband as he was seconding the
angry eloquence I have repeated, said, "Calmez-vous donc, mon ami:
après tout, le tableau fait par M. le Voyageur des dames Anglaises n'a
rien à nous faire mourir de jalousie."
I suspect that neither you nor any other lady of England will feel
disposed to contradict her.
Adieu!