Objections to quoting the names of private
individuals.--Impossibility of avoiding Politics.--_Parceque_
and _Quoique_.--Soirée Antithestique.
It would be a pleasure to me to give you the names of many persons
with whom I have become acquainted in Paris, and I should like to
describe exactly the _salons_ in which I met them; but a whole host of
proprieties forbid this. Where individuals are so well known to fame
as to render the echoing of their names a matter of ordinary
recurrence, I can of course feel no scruple in repeating the echo--one
reverberation more can do no harm: but I will never be the first to
name any one, either for praise or for blame, beyond the sanctuary of
their own circle.
I must therefore restrict myself to the giving you the best general
idea I can of the tone and style of what I have seen and heard; and if
I avail myself of the conversations I have listened to, it shall be in
such a manner as to avoid the slightest approach to personal allusion.
This necessary restraint, however, is not submitted to without
regret: it must rob much of what I would wish to repeat of the value
of authority; and when I consider how greatly at variance my
impressions are on many points to some which have been publicly
proclaimed by others, I feel that I deserve some praise for
suppressing names which would stamp my statements with a value that
neither my unsupported assertions, nor those of any other traveller,
can be supposed to bear. Those who best know what I lose by this will
give me credit for it; and I shall be sufficiently rewarded for my
forbearance if it afford them a proof that I am not unworthy the
flattering kindness I have received.
We all declare ourselves sick of politics, and a woman's letters, at
least, ought if possible to be free from this wearily pervading
subject: but the describing a human being, and omitting to mention the
heart and the brain, would not leave the analysis more defective, than
painting the Parisians at this moment without permitting their
politics to appear in the picture.
The very air they breathe is impregnated with politics. Were all words
expressive of party distinctions to be banished from their
language--were the curse of Babel to fall upon them, and no man be
able to discourse with his neighbour,--still political feeling would
find itself an organ whereby to express its workings. One man would
wear a pointed hat, another a flat one; one woman would be girt with
a tri-coloured sash, and another with a white one. Some exquisites
would be closely buttoned to the chin, while the lapels of others
would open wide in all the expansive freedom of republican
unrestraint. One set would be seen adorning Napoleon's pillar with
trophies; another, prostrate before the altar of the elder Bourbon's
monumental chapel; a third, marshalling themselves under the bloody
banner of Robespierre to the tune of "Dansons la Carmagnole;" whilst a
fourth, by far the most numerous, would be brushing their national
uniforms, attending to their prosperous shops, and giving a nod of
good-fellowship every time his majesty the king passes by.
Some friends of mine entered a shop the other day to order some
article of furniture. While they remained there, a royal carriage
passed, and one of the party said--
"It is the queen, I believe?"
"Yes, sir," replied the _ébéniste_, "it is the lady that it pleases us
to call the queen. We may certainly call her so if we like it, for we
made her ourselves; and if we find it does not answer, we shall make
another.--May I send you home this table, sir?..."
When politics are thus lightly mixed up with all things, how can the
subject be wholly avoided without destroying the power of describing
anything as we find it?
Such being the case, I cannot promise that all allusion to the
subject shall be banished from my letters; but it shall be made as
little predominant as possible. Could I indeed succeed in transferring
the light tone in which these weighty matters are generally discussed
to the account I wish to give you of them, I need not much fear that I
should weary you.
Whether it be essentially in the nature of the people, or only a
transitory feature of the times, I know not; but nothing strikes me so
forcibly as the airy, gay indifference with which subjects are
discussed on which hang the destinies of the world. The most
acute--nay, often the most profound remarks are uttered in a tone of
badinage; and the probabilities of future events, vital to the
interests of France, and indeed of Europe, are calculated with as idle
an air, and with infinitely more _sang froid_, than the chances at a
game of _rouge et noir_.
Yet, behind this I suspect that there is a good deal of sturdy
determination in all parties, and it will be long ere France can be
considered as one whole and united people. Were the country divided
into two, instead of into three factions, it is probable that the
question of which was to prevail would be soon brought to an issue;
but as it is, they stand much like the uncles and nieces in the
Critic, each keeping the other two in check.
Meanwhile this temporary division of strength is unquestionably very
favourable to the present government; in addition to which, they
derive much security from the averseness which all feel, excepting the
naughty boys and hungry desperadoes, to the disturbance of their
present tranquillity. It is evident that those who do not belong to
the triumphant majority are disposed for the most part to wait a more
favourable opportunity of hostilely and openly declaring themselves;
and it is probable that they will wait long. They know well, and are
daily reminded of it, that all the power and all the strength that
possession can give are vested in the existing dynasty; and though
much deeply-rooted feeling exists that is inimical to it, yet so many
of all parties are firmly united to prevent farther anarchy and
revolution, that the throne of Louis-Philippe perhaps rests on as
solid a foundation as that of any monarch in Europe: the fear of
renewed tumult acts like the key-stone of an arch, keeping firm,
sound, and in good condition, what would certainly fall to pieces
without it.
In addition to this wholesome fear of pulling their own dwellings
about their ears, there is also another fear that aids greatly in
producing the same result. Many of the riotous youths who so
essentially assisted in creating the confusion which ended in
uncrowning one king and crowning another, are, as far as I can
understand, quite as well disposed to make a row now as they were
then: but they know that if they do, they will most incontestably be
whipped for it; and therefore, though they pout a little in private,
they are, generally speaking, very orderly in public. Every one, not
personally interested in the possible result of another uproar, must
rejoice at this improvement in discipline. The boys of France must now
submit to give way before her men; and as long as this lasts,
something like peace and prosperity may be hoped for.
Yet it cannot be denied, I think, that among these prudent men--these
doctrinaires who now hold the high places, there are many who, "with
high thoughts, such as Lycurgus loved," still dream of a commonwealth;
or that there are others who have not yet weaned their waking thoughts
from meditations on faith, right, and loyalty. But nevertheless, all
unite in thinking that they had better "let things be," than risk
making them worse.
Nothing is more common than to hear a conversation end by a cordial
and unanimous avowal of this prudent and sagacious sentiment, which
began by an examination of general principles, and the frank
acknowledgment of opinions which would certainly lead to a very
different conclusion.
It is amusing enough to remark how these advocates for expediency
contrive each of them to find reasons why things had better remain as
they are, while all these reasons are strongly tinted by their various
opinions.
"Charles Dix," says a legitimate in principle, but a _juste-milieu_
man in practice,--"Charles Dix has abdicated the throne, which
otherwise must unquestionably be his by indefeasible right. His
heir-apparent has followed the example. The country was in no state to
be governed by a child; and what then was left for us, but to take a
king from the same race which so for many ages has possessed the
throne of France. _Louis-Philippe est roi, PARCEQU'il est Bourbon_."
"Pardonnez-moi," replies another, who, if he could manage it without
disturbing the tranquillity about him, would take care to have it
understood that nothing more legitimate than an elective monarchy
could be ever permitted in France,--"Pardonnez-moi, mon ami;
_Louis-Philippe est roi, QUOIQU'il est Bourbon_."
These two parties of the _Parceques_ and the _Quoiques_, in fact, form
the great bulwarks of King Philippe's throne; for they both consist of
experienced, practical, substantial citizens, who having felt the
horrors of anarchy, willingly keep their particular opinions in
abeyance rather than hazard a recurrence of it. They, in truth, form
between them the genuine _juste-milieu_ on which the present
government is balanced.
That there is more of the practical wisdom of expediency than of the
dignity of unbending principle in this party, can hardly be denied.
They are "wiser in their generation than the children of light;" but
it is difficult, "seeing what we have seen, seeing what we see," to
express any heavy sentence of reprobation upon a line of conduct which
ensures, for the time at least, the lives and prosperity of millions.
They tell me that my friend the Vicomte has sapped my legitimate
principles; but I deny the charge, though I cannot deliberately wish
that confusion should take the place of order, or that the desolation
of a civil war should come to deface the aspect of prosperity that it
is so delightful to contemplate.
This discrepancy between what is right and what is convenient--this
wavering of principle and of action, is the inevitable consequence of
repeated political convulsions. When the times become out of joint,
the human mind can with difficulty remain firm and steadfast. The
inconceivable variety of wild and ever-changing speculations which
have long overborne the voice of established belief and received
authority in this country, has brought the principles of the people
into a state greatly resembling that of a wheel radiated with every
colour of the rainbow, but which by rapid movement is left apparently
without any colour at all.
Our last _soirée_ was at the house of a lady who takes much interest
in showing me "le Paris d'aujourd'hui," as she calls it. "Chère dame!"
she exclaimed as I entered, "I have collected _une société délicieuse_
for you this evening."
She had met me in the ante-room, and, taking my arm within hers, led
me into the _salon_. It was already filled with company, the majority
of which were gentlemen. Having found room for us on a sofa, and
seated herself next to me, she said--
"I will present whomsoever you choose to know; but before I bring
anybody up, I must explain who they all are."
I expressed my gratitude, and she began:--"That tall gentleman is a
great republican, and one of the most respectable that we have left of
the _clique_. The party is very nearly worn out among the _gens comme
il faut_. His father, however, is of the same party, and still more
violent, I believe, than himself. Heaven knows what they would be
at!... But they are both deputies, and if they died to-morrow, would
have, either father or son, a very considerable mob to follow them to
Père Lachaise; not to mention the absolute necessity which I am sure
there would be to have troops out: c'est toujours quelque chose,
n'est-ce pas? I know that you hate them all--and, to say truth, so do
I too;--mais, chère amie! qu'est-ce que cela fait? I thought you would
like to see them: they really begin to get very scarce in _salons_."
I assured her that she was quite right, and that nothing in the whole
Jardin des Plantes could amuse me better.
"Ah ça!" she rejoined, laughing; "voilà ce que c'est d'être
raisonnable. Mais regardez ce beau garçon leaning against the
chimneypiece. He is one of _les fidèles sans tache_. Is he not
handsome? I have him at all my parties; and even the ministers' ladies
declare that he is perfectly charming."
"And that little odd-looking man in black," said I, "who is he?...
What a contrast!"
"N'est-ce pas? Do they not group well together? That is just the sort
of thing I like--it amuses everybody: besides, I assure you, he is a
very remarkable person,--in short, it is M----, the celebrated
atheist. He writes for the ----. But the Institute won't have him:
however, he is excessively talked of--and that is everything.... Then
I have two peers, both of them highly distinguished. There is M. de
----, who, you know, is King Philippe's right hand; and the gentleman
sitting down just behind him is the dear old Duc de ----, who lived
ages in exile with Louis Dix-huit.... That person almost at your
elbow, talking to the lady in blue, is the Comte de P----, a most
exemplary Catholic, who always followed Charles Dix in all religious
processions. He was half distracted, poor man! at the last revolution;
but they say he is going to dine with King Philippe next week: I long
to ask him if it is true, but I am afraid, for fear he should be
obliged to answer 'Yes;'--that would be so embarrassing!... Oh, by the
way, that is a peer that you are looking at now;--he has refused to
sit on the trial.... Now, have I not done _l'impossible_ for you?"
I thanked her gratefully, and as I knew I could not please her better
than by showing the interest I took in her menagerie, I inquired the
name of a lady who was talking with a good deal of vehemence at the
opposite side of the room.
"Oh! that's a person that I always call my '_dame de l'Empire_.' Her
husband was one of Napoleon's creations; and Josephine used to amuse
herself without ceasing by making her talk--her language and accent
are _impayables_!"
"And that pretty woman in the corner?"
"Ah! ... she is charming!... It is Madame V----, daughter of the
celebrated Vicomte de ----, so devoted, you know, to the royal cause.
But she is lately married to one of the present ministers--quite a
love-match; which is an innovation, by the way, more hard to pardon in
France than the introduction of a new dynasty. Mais c'est égal--they
are all very good friends again.... Now, tell me whom I shall
introduce to you?"
I selected the heroine of the love-match; who was not only one of the
prettiest creatures I ever saw, but so lively, intelligent, and
agreeable, that I have seldom passed a pleasanter hour than that which
followed the introduction. The whole of this heterogeneous party
seemed to mix together with the greatest harmony; the only cold glance
I saw given being from the gentleman designated as "King Philippe's
right hand," towards the tall republican deputy of whose funeral my
friend had predicted such honours. The _dame de l'Empire_ was
indulging in a lively flirtation with one of the peers _sans tache_;
and I saw the fingers of the exemplary Catholic, who was going to dine
with King Philippe, in the _tabatière_ of the celebrated atheist. I
then remembered that this was one of the _soirées antithestiques_ so
much in fashion.