I could not write to you yesterday, because the diligence takes two days
and a night to go from Calais to Paris, though it stops but once in
twelve hours to eat, and then only for half an hour. The ride is not the
most agreeable. The whole country, and even its metropolis, certainly
appears somewhat dead, miserable, and dirty, after the rolling torrent
of business, the splendour and the neatness of England. The contrast is
doubly striking at this short distance. When you look at the grotesque
machine in which you are seated, the wretchedly harnessed cart-horses by
which you are slowly dragged along, and remember the noble horses, the
elegant light-built coaches, the beautiful harness ornamented with
bright brass and polished leather of England, you think you are
transported a thousand miles in a dream. The bad roads, the miserable
and dirty towns, awaken the same feeling. On the other hand, four things
are manifestly better here,--climate, eating and drinking, cheapness,
and sociability. 'Mais commençons par le commencement.' After I had
exchanged my incognito passport for one equally provisional, and valid
only as far as Paris, in the course of which operation I had nearly
forgotten my new name, I approached the wonderful structure, which in
France people have agreed to call a diligence. The monster was as long
as a house, and consisted, in fact, of four distinct carriages, grown,
as it were, together; the berline in the middle; a coach with a basket
for luggage behind; a coupé in front; and a cabriolet above, where the
conducteur sits, and where I also had perched myself. This conducteur,
an old soldier of Napoleon's Garde, was dressed like a wagoner, in a
blue _blouze_, with a stitched cap of the same material on his head. The
postillion was a still more extraordinary figure, and really looked
almost like a savage: he too wore a _blouze_, under which appeared
monstrous boots coated with mud; but besides this he wore an apron of
untanned black sheep's-skin, which hung down nearly to his knees. He
drove six horses, harnessed three-and-three, which drew a weight of six
thousand pounds over a very bad road. The whole road from Calais to
Paris is one of the most melancholy and uninteresting I ever saw. I
should therefore have read nearly all the way, had not the conversation
of the conducteur afforded me better entertainment. His own heroic deeds
and those of the Garde were an inexhaustible theme; and he assured me
without the slightest hesitation, "que les trente mille hommes dont il
faisoit partie dans ce tempslà," (that was his expression,) "auraient
été plus que suffisans pour conquérir toutes les nations de la terre, et
que les autres n'avaient fait que gâter l'affaire." He sighed every time
he thought of his Emperor. "Mais c'est sa faute," exclaimed he, "ah!
s---- d---- il serait encore Empéreur, si dans les cent jours il avait
seulement voulu employer _de jeunes gens qui désiraient faire fortune_,
au lieu de ces vieux Maréchaux qui étaient trop riches, et qui avaient
tous peur de leurs femmes. N'étaient ils pas tous gros et gras commes
des monstres? Ah! parlez moi d'un jeune, Colonel, comme nous en avions!
Celui-là vous aurait flanqué ça de la jolie manière.--Mais après tout
l'Empéreur aurait dû se faira tuer à Waterloo comme notre Colonel. Eh
bien, Monsieur, ce brave Colonel avait reçu trois coups de feu, un à la
jambe, et deux dans le corps, et pourtant il nous ménait encore à
l'attaque, porté par deux grénadiers. Mais quand tout fut en vain et
tout fini pour nous; Camérades, dit-il, j'ai fait ce que j'ai pû, mais
nous voilà.--Je ne puis plus rendre service à l'Empéreur, à quoi bon
vivre plus long temps? Adieu donc, mes Camérades--Vive l'Empéreur! Et le
voilà qui tire son pistolet, et le décharge dans sa bouche. C'est ainsi,
ma foi, que l'Empéreur aurait dû finir aussi."
Here we were interrupted by a pretty girl, who ran out of a poor-looking
house by the road side, and called up to us, (for we were at least eight
ells from the ground,) "Ah ça, Monsieur le Conducteur, oubliez vous les
craipes?" "O ho! es tu là, mon enfant?" and he rapidly scrambled down
the accustomed break-neck steps, made the postillion stop, and
disappeared in the house. After a few minutes he came out with a packet,
seated himself with an air of great satisfaction by me, and unfolded a
prodigious store of hot smoking German _Plinzen_, a dish which, as he
told me, he had learned to like so much in Germany, that he had imported
it into his own country. Conquests are, you see, productive of some
good. With French politeness he immediately begged me to partake of his
'goûté,' as he called it; and patriotism alone would have led me to
accept his offer with pleasure. I must however admit that no farmer in
Germany could have prepared his national dish better.
He was greatly troubled and distressed by a strange machine, nearly in
the form of a pump, placed near his seat, with which he was incessantly
busied; now pumping at it with all his might, then putting it in order,
screwing it round or turning it backwards and forwards. On inquiry, I
learned that this was a most admirable newly-invented piece of
machinery, for the purpose of retarding the diligence without the aid of
a drag-shoe. The conducteur was amazingly proud of this contrivance,
never called it by any other name than 'sa méchanique,' and treated it
with equal tenderness and reverence. Unhappily this prodigy broke the
first day; and as we were forced in consequence to creep more slowly
than before, the poor hero had to endure a good many jokes from the
passengers, on the frailty of his 'méchanique,' as well as on the name
of his huge vehicle, 'l'Hirondelle,' a name which truly seemed to have
been given it in the bitterest irony.
It was irresistibly droll to hear the poor devil, at every relay,
regularly advertise the postillion of the misfortune which had happened.
The following dialogue, with few variations, always ensued: "Mon enfant,
il faut que tu saches que je n'ai plus de méchanique." "Comment, s----
d----, plus de méchanique?" "Ma méchanique fait encore un peu, vois-tu,
mais c'est très peu de chose, le principal brancheron est au diable."
"Ah, diable!"
It was impossible to be worse seated, or to travel more uncomfortably or
tediously than I in my lofty cabriolet: and indeed I had now been for
some time deprived of my most familiar comforts: yet never were my
health or my spirits better than during this whole journey: I felt
uninterrupted cheerfulness and content, because I was completely free.
Oh! inestimable blessing of freedom, never do we value thee enough! If
every man would but clearly ascertain what were actually necessary to
his individual happiness and content, and would unconditionally choose
what best promised to secure that end, and heartily reject all the rest
(for we cannot have everything at once in this world), how many mistakes
were avoided, how much petty ambition crushed, how much true joy and
pleasure promoted! All would find a great over-proportion of happiness
in life, instead of torturing themselves to the very brink of the grave
to obtain what gives them neither tranquillity nor enjoyment.
I will not weary you with any further details of so uninteresting a
journey. It was like the melo-drame "One o'clock," and as tiresome. The
day we left Calais we stopped at one to dine; at one in the morning we
supped: the next day at one we had breakfast or dinner at Beauvais,
where a pretty girl who waited on us, and a friend of Bolivar's, who
told us a great deal about the disinterestedness of the Liberator, made
us regret our quick departure; and again, at one in the morning, we had
to fight for our luggage at the Custom-house at Paris. My servant put
mine upon a 'charrette' which a man crowded before us through the dark
and dirty streets to the Hotel St. Maurice, where I am now writing to
you in a little room in which the cold wind whistles through all the
doors and windows, so that the blazing fire in the chimney warms me only
on one side. The silken hangings, as well as the quantity of dirt they
cover; the number of looking-glasses; the large blocks of wood on the
fire; the tile parquet,--all recall vividly to my mind that I am in
France, and not in England.
I shall rest here a few days and make my purchases, and then hasten to
you, without, if possible, seeing _one_ acquaintance; 'car celà
m'entrainerait trop,' Do not, therefore, expect to hear anything new
from old Paris. A few detached remarks are all that I shall have to
offer you.
_January 6th._
To make some defence against the extreme cold, which I have always found
most insufferable in France and Italy, from the want of all provision
against it, I was obliged to-day to have all the chinks in my little
lodging stuffed with 'bourlets.' When this was done, I sallied forth to
take the customary first walk of strangers,--to the Boulevards, the
Palais Royal, Tuilleries, &c. for I was curious to see what alterations
had taken place in the course of seven years. On the Boulevards I found
all just as it was: in the Palais Royal, the Duke of Orleans has begun
to substitute new stone buildings and an elegant covered way for the
narrow old wooden galleries, and other holes and corners. When it is
finished, this palace will certainly be one of the most magnificent, as
it has always been one of the most singular and striking, in the world.
Perhaps there is no other instance of a royal prince inhabiting the same
house with several hundred shopkeepers, and as many inmates of a less
reputable description, and deriving from them a revenue much more than
sufficient for his 'mênus plaisirs.' In England a nobleman would think
the existence of such a society under his roof impossible; but could it
by any means find admittance, he would at least take care to have it
cleaner.
In the palace of the Tuilleries and the Rue Rivoli all the improvements
which Napoleon began were in much the same state as he left them. In
this point of view Paris has lost much in the Imperial dynasty, which
would have rendered it a truly magnificent city, and the luxury of
decoration must soon have been followed by that of cleanliness. One is
tempted to wish that the Pont de Louis Seize were among the unfinished
things; for the ludicrously theatrical statues, at least twice too big
in proportion to the bridge, and seeming to crush the pillars they stand
upon, have much more the air of bad 'acteurs de province' than of the
heroes they are meant to represent.
As cooks are to be numbered among the heroes of France, first on account
of their unequalled skill, and secondly of their sense of honour,
(remember Vatel,) I come naturally in this place to the restaurateurs.
Judging by the most eminent whom I visited to-day, I think they have
somewhat degenerated. They have, to be sure, exchanged their
inconveniently long 'carte' for an elegantly bound book; but the quality
of the dishes and wines seems to have deteriorated in proportion to the
increase of luxury in the announcement of them. After coming to this
melancholy conviction, I hastened to the once celebrated 'Rocher de
Cancale.' But Baleine has launched into the sea of eternity; and the
traveller who now trusts to the rock of Cancale, builds upon the sand:
'Sic transit gloria mundi.'
On the other hand I must give all praise to the Theatre de Madame, where
I spent my evening. Léontine Fay is a most delightful actress, and a
better 'ensemble' it would be difficult to find. Coming directly from
England, I was particularly struck with the consummate truth and nature
with which Léontine Fay represented the French girl educated in England,
yet without suffering this _nuance_ to break in any degree the harmony
and keeping of the character. It is impossible to discover in her
admirable acting the slightest imitation of Mademoiselle Mars; and yet
it presents as true, as tender, as pathetic a copy of nature, in a
totally different manner.--The second piece, a farce, was given with
that genuine ease and comic expression which make these French 'Riens'
so delightful and amusing in Paris, while they appear so vapid and
absurd in a German translation. The story is this:--A provincial uncle
secretly leaves his little country town, in which he has just been
chosen a member of a 'Société de la Vertu,' in order to reclaim his
nephew, of whom he has received the most discouraging accounts, from his
wild courses. Instead of which his nephew's companions get hold of him,
and draw him into all sorts of scrapes and excesses.
Mademoiselle Minette brings, by her coquetry, old Martin to give her a
kiss, at which moment her lover, the waiter, comes in with a pig's head,
stands speechless with amazement, and at length letting the head slide
slowly off the dish, cries out, "N'y a't-il pas de quoi perdre la tête?"
This certainly is a silly jest enough, yet one must be very stoically
inclined not to laugh heartily at the admirable drollery of the acting.
The rest is as diverting: Martin, alarmed at having been caught in such
an adventure, at length consoles himself with the thought that he is not
known here; and in the midst of his 'embarras,' accepts an invitation to
a 'déjeuner' from Dorval, who has just come in. The 'déjeuner' is given
at the theatre. Martin at first is very temperate; but at length the
truffles and dainties tempt him, 'et puis il faut absolument les arroser
d'un peu de Champagne.' After much pressing on the part of his hosts,
and much moralizing on his own, he consents to drink one glass 'à la
vertu.' 'Hélas, il n'y a que le premier pas qui coute.' A second glass
follows, 'à la piété;'--a third, 'à la miséricorde;' and before the
guests depart, we hear Martin, drunk and joyous, join in the toast,
'Vivent les femmes et le vin!' Play follows:--at first he will only join
in a game of piquet; from piquet he is led on to écarté, and from écarté
to hazard; loses a large sum, and at last learns, 'pour le combler de
confusion,' that he and his plan were betrayed from the first, and that
his nephew had put _him_ to the trial instead of being tried by him, and
had unfortunately found him very frail. He gladly agrees to all that is
required of him, 'pourvu qu'on lui garde le secret;' and the piece
concludes with the arrival of his old friend, who comes by extra post to
announce to him that he (Martin) was yesterday elected by acclamation
president of the 'Société de la Vertu' in his native town.
_Jan. 7th._
In spite of the 'bourlets' and a burning pile of wood in my chimney, I
continue to be almost frozen in my 'entresol.' There prevails moreover a
constant 'clair-obscur,' so that I see the writing implements before me
as if behind a veil. The small windows and high opposite houses render
this irremediable; you must forgive me, therefore, if my writing is more
unintelligible than usual. You must have remarked that the
preposterously high rate of postage in England taught me to write more
carefully, and especially smaller; so that a Lavater of handwritings
might study my character in the mere aspect of my letters to you. It is
in this, as in life; we are often led by good motives to begin to
contract in various ways: soon however the lines involuntarily expand;
and before we are conscious of it, the unfelt but irresistible power of
habit leads us back to our old latitude.
An English officer, whom I found to-day in the Café Anglais, repeatedly
asked the astonished 'garçon' for 'la charte,' concluding I suppose,
that in liberal France it formed a part of the furniture of every café.
Although the French seldom take any notice of the 'qui pro quos' of
foreigners, this was too remarkable not to draw forth a smile from
several. I thought, however,--how willingly would some reverse the
Englishman's blunder, and give the French people 'cartes' instead of
'chartes.'
I was greatly surprised in the evening at the Opéra Français, which I
had left a kind of bedlam, where a few maniacs screamed with agony as if
on the rack, and where I now found sweet singing in the best Italian
style, united to very good acting. Rossini, who, like a second Orpheus,
has tamed even this savage opera, is a real musical benefactor; and
natives as well as foreigners have reason to bless him for the salvation
of their ears. I prefer this now, though it is not the fashion to do so,
to the Italian Opera. It combines nearly all that one can desire in a
theatre;--the good singing and acting I have mentioned, with magnificent
decorations, and the best ballet in the world. If the text of the operas
were fine poetry, I know not what further could be wished; but even as
they are, one may be very well content; for instance, with the 'Muette
de Portici,' which I saw to-day. Mademoiselle Noblet's acting is full of
grace and animation, without the least exaggeration. The elder Nourrit
is an admirable Massaniello, though he, and he alone, sometimes screamed
too loud. The costumi were models; but Vesuvius did not explode and
flame properly, and the clouds of smoke which sunk into the earth
instead of ascending from it, were a phenomenon which I had not the good
fortune to witness when I 'assistai' at a real eruption of that
mountain.
_Jan. 8th._
A French writer somewhere says, "L'on dit que nous sommes des
enfans;--oui, pour les faiblesses, mais pas pour le bonheur." This,
thank God! I can by no means say of myself. 'Je le suis pour l'un et
pour l'autre,' in spite of my three dozen years. I amuse myself here in
the solitude of this great city uncommonly well, and can fancy myself a
young man just entering the world, and everything new to me. In the
mornings I see sights, saunter from one museum to another, or go
'shopping.' (This word signifies to go from shop to shop buying trifles,
such as luxury is always inventing in Paris and London.) I have already
collected a hundred little presents for you, so that my small apartment
can hardly contain them, and yet I have scarcely spent eighty pounds
sterling for them. In England it is the _dearness_, but here the
_cheapness_, that is expensive. I am often constrained to laugh when I
see that a cunning French shopkeeper thinks he has cheated a stiff
islander admirably, while the latter goes off in astonishment at having
bought things for a sixth part of what he had given for the very same in
London.
I continue my scientific researches among the restaurateurs, which
occupy me till evening, when I go to the theatre, though I have not time
to complete the course either of the one or the other.
During my 'shopping' to-day in the Palais Royal, I observed an _affiche_
announcing the wonderful exhibition of the death of Prince Poniatowski
at Leipsic. I am loath to omit anything of this national kind, so that I
ascended a miserable dirty staircase, where I found a shabbily dressed
man sitting near a half-extinguished lamp, in a dark room without a
window. A large table standing before him was covered with a dirty
table-cloth. As soon as I entered he arose and hastened to light three
other lamps, which however would not burn, whereupon he began to declaim
vehemently. I thought the explanation was beginning, and asked what he
had said, as I had not given proper attention. "Oh rien," was the reply,
"je parle seulement à mes lampes qui ne brûlent pas clair." After this
conversation with the lamps had accomplished its end, the cloth was
removed, and discovered a work of art which very much resembled a
Nüremberg toy, with little moving figures, but on the assurance of the
owner was well worth the entrance money. In a nasal singing tone he
began as follows: "Voilà le fameux Prince Poniatowski, se tournant avec
grace vers les officiers de son corps en s'ecriant, Quand on a tout
perdu et qu'on n'a plus d'espoir, la vie est un opprobre et la mort un
devoir.
"Remarquez bien, Messieurs, (he always addressed me in the plural,)
comme le cheval blanc du prince se tourne aussi lestement qu'un cheval
véritable. Voyez, pan à droite--pan à gauche,--mais le voilà qui
s'élance, se cabre, se précipite dans la rivière, et disparait." All
this took place; the figure was drawn by a thread first to the right,
then to the left, then forward; and at last, by pulling away a slide
painted to represent water, fell into a wheelbarrow that stood under the
table. "Ah!--bien!--voilà le prince Poniatowski noyé! Il est
mort!--C'est la première partie. Maintenant, Messieurs, vous allez voir
tout à l'heure la chose la plus surprénante qui ait jamais éte montrée
en France. Tous ces petits soldats innombrables que vous appercevez
devant vous (there were somewhere about sixty or seventy), sont tous
vraiment habillés; habits, gibernes, armes, tout peut s'ôter et se
remettre à volonté! Les canons servent commes les canons véritables, et
sont admirés par tous les officiers de génie qui viennent ici." In order
to give ocular demonstration of this, he took the little cannon off the
carriage, and the sword-belt off the soldier, nearest to him, which was
to serve as sufficient proof of his assertion. "Ah,--bien! vous allez
maintenant, Messieurs, voir manoeuvrer cette petite armée comme sur le
champ de bataille. Chaque soldat et chaque cheval feront séparément les
mouvements propres, voyez!" Hereupon the whole body of puppets, who had
not moved during the first act, (probably out of respect for Prince
Poniatowski,) now made two simultaneous movements to the sound of a drum
which a little boy beat under the table: the soldiers shouldered their
arms, and set them down again; the horses reared and kicked. While this
was going on, the expositor recounted the French bulletin of the affair
with increasing pathos,--and thus closed the second act. I thought there
could hardly be anything better to come; and as a few fresh spectators
had dropped in, and I found it impossible any longer to endure the
horrid stench of two lamps which had gone out, I fled from the field of
battle and all its wonders. Tragical enough was it, however, to see that
gallant selfdevoting hero so represented.
I was much pleased at the Opera with young Nourrit's Count Ory.
Connoisseurs may exclaim as they like against Rossini;--it is not the
less true that in this, as in his other works, streams of melody enchant
the ear,--now melting in tones of love, now thundering in tempests;
rejoicing, triumphant, at the banquet of the knights, or rising in
solemn adoration to heaven. It is curious enough that in this licentious
opera, the prayer of the knight, which is represented as merely a piece
of hypocrisy, is the very same which Rossini had composed for Charles
the Tenth's coronation. Madame Cinti sung the part of the Countess very
well; Mademoiselle Javoureck, as her page, showed very handsome legs,
and the bass singer was excellent.
The ballet I thought not so good as usual. Albert and Paul are not grown
lighter with years, and, except Noblet and Taglioni, there was no good
female dancer.
In the opera, I remarked that the same actor who played one of the
principal parts in the 'Muette,' sustained a very obscure one to-night
in the chorus of knights. Such things often occur here, and are worthy
of all imitation. It is only when the best performers are obliged to
concur in the 'ensemble,' be the part allotted to them great or small,
that a truly excellent whole can be produced. For this 'ensemble' much
more is generally done in France than in Germany, where the illusion is
frequently broken by trifles which are sacrificed to the ease and
convenience of the manager or actor. Hoffman used to say, that of all
incongruities none had ever shocked him more than when, on the Berlin
stage, a _Geheimerath_ of Iffland's, after deporting himself in the most
prosaic manner possible, suddenly, instead of going out at the door in a
human manner, vanished through the wall like mere air.
_Jan. 10._
It is an agreeable surprise to find the Museum, after all that it has
restored, still so abundantly rich. Dénon's new 'Salles' now afford a
worthy station to most of the statues. It is only a pity that the old
galleries are not arranged in the same style. Much would not be lost by
the demolition of the painted ceilings, which have no great merit in
themselves, and harmonize so ill with statues. Sculpture and painting
should never be mixed. I shall not dwell on the well-known
master-pieces; but let me mention to you some which particularly struck
me, and which I do not remember to have seen before.
First: A beautiful Venus, discovered a few years since in Milo, and
presented to the King by the Duc de Rivière. She is represented as
_victrix_; according to the opinion of antiquarians, either showing the
apple, or holding the shield of Mars with both hands. Both arms are
wanting, so that these are only hypotheses. But how exquisite is the
whole person and attitude! What life, what tender softness, and what
perfection of form! The proud triumphant expression of the face has the
truth and nature of a woman, and the sublimity and power of a deity.
Second: A female figure clothed in full drapery (called in the Catalogue
'Image de la Providence');--a noble, idealized woman;--mildness and
benignity in her countenance, divine repose in her whole person. The
drapery perfect in grace and execution.
Third: Cupid and Psyche, from the Villa Borghese. Psyche, sunk on her
knees, is imploring Cupid's forgiveness, and the sweet smile on his lips
shows that her prayer is inwardly accepted. Laymen, at least, can hardly
look without rapture on the exquisite beauty of the forms, and the
lovely expression of the countenances. The group is in such
preservation, that only one hand of the God of Love appears to have been
restored.
Fourth: A Sleeping Nymph. The ancients, who understood how to present
every object under the most beautiful point of view, frequently adorned
their sarcophagi with such figures, as emblems of death. The sleep is
evidently deep; but the attitude is almost voluptuous:--the limbs
exquisitely turned, and half concealed by drapery. The figure excites
the thought rather of the new young life to come, than of the death
which must precede it.[162]
Fifth: A Gipsy,--remarkable for the mixture of stone and bronze. The
figure is of the latter: the Lacedæmonian mantle, of the former. The
head is modern, but has a very charming arch expression, perfectly in
character for a Zingarella, such as Italy still contains.
Sixth: A magnificent Statue in an attitude of prayer. The head and neck,
of white marble, have the severe ideal beauty of the antique; and the
drapery, of the hardest porphyry, could not be more light and flowing in
silk or velvet.
Seventh: The colossal Melpomene gives its name to one of the new
galleries, and below it an elegant bronze railing encloses some
admirably executed imitations of antique mosaic by Professor Belloni.
This is a very interesting invention, and I wonder to see it so little
encouraged by the rich.
Eighth: The bust of the youthful Augustus. A handsome, mild, and
intelligent head; very different in expression, though with the same
outline of features, from the statue which represents the emperor at a
later period of life, when the power of circumstances and the influence
of parties had hurried him into so many acts of tyranny and cruelty,
till at length his native gentleness returned with the attainment of
uncontested and unlimited power.
Ninth: His great general, Agrippa. Never did I behold a more
characteristic physiognomy, with a nobler outline. It is curious that
the forehead and the upper part of the region of the eye have a strong
resemblance to a man, who, though in a different sphere of activity,
must be numbered among the great,--I mean Alexander von Humboldt. In the
other part of the face the resemblance wholly disappears. The more I
looked at this iron head, the more I was convinced that exactly such an
one was necessary to enable the soft Augustus to become and to remain
lord of the world.
Tenth: The last, and at the same time most interesting to me, was a bust
of Alexander, the only authentic one, as Dénon affirms, in existence; a
perfect study for physiognomists and craniologists: for the fidelity of
the artists of antiquity represented all the parts with equal care after
the model of nature. This head has indeed all the truth of a portrait,
not in the slightest degree idealized,[163]--not even remarkably
beautiful in feature; but, in the extraordinary proportions and
expression, distinctly telling the history of the great original. The
'abandon' of the character, sometimes amounting to levity, is clearly
betrayed by the graceful inclination of the neck and the voluptuous
beauty of the mouth. The forehead and jaw are strikingly like those of
Napoleon, as is also the entire form of the skull, both behind and
before (animal and intellectual.) The forehead is not too high,--it
bespeaks no ideologist--but compact, and of iron strength. The features
are generally regular and well turned, though, as I have already
remarked, they have no pretensions to ideal beauty. Around the eye and
nose reigns acuteness of mind, united with determined courage and a
singular elevated astuteness, and at the same time with that disposition
towards sensual pleasures, which combine to render Alexander such as he
stands alone in history,--a youthful hero, no less invincible than
amiable,--a hero realizing all the dreams of poetry and fiction. Gifted
with the same combination of qualities, neither Charles the Twelfth of
Sweden nor Napoleon would have met their overthrow in Russia; nor would
the one now be regarded as a mere Don Quixote, nor the other as a man
who employed his powers only as a calculating tyrant. The whole forms a
being whose aspect is in the highest degree attractive, and, though
imposing, awakens in the spectator courage, love, and confidence. He
feels himself happy and secure within the reflection of this wondrous
countenance; and sees that such a man, in any condition of life, must
have excited admiration and enthusiasm, and have exercised boundless
influence.
I must mention one lovely bas-relief, and a singularly beautiful altar.
The Bas-relief, for which, like so many others, France is indebted to
Napoleon, is from the Borghese collection. It represents Vulcan forging
the shield for Æneas: Cyclops around him, all with genuine Silenus' and
fauns' faces, are delightfully represented. But the most delightful
figure of the group is a lovely little Cupid, half hiding himself
behind the door with the cap of one of the Cyclops. All in this elegant
composition is full of life, humour, and motion, and the truth of the
forms and correctness of the outlines are masterly.
The Altar, dedicated to twelve Deities, is in form like a Christian
font. The twelve busts in alto-relievo surround it like a beautiful
wreath. The workmanship is exquisite, and the preservation nearly
perfect. The gods are placed in the following order: Jupiter, Minerva,
Apollo, Juno, Neptune, Vulcan, Mercury, Vesta, Ceres, Diana, all
separate; lastly, Mars and Venus united by Cupid. I wonder that this
graceful design has never been executed on a small scale in alabaster,
porcelain or glass, for ladies' bazaars, as the well-known doves and
other antique subjects are. Nothing could be better adapted for the
purpose; and yet there was not even a plaster cast of it to be found at
Jaquet's (the successor to Getti, 'mouleur du Musée;') nor had he any of
the subjects I have mentioned, merely because they are not among the
most celebrated; though some that are, are certainly not of a very
attractive character. Men are terribly like 'les moutons de Panurge:'
they implicitly follow authority, and suffer that to prescribe to them
what they shall like.
In the picture-galleries, the forced restitutions would be considerably
less remarked, if the places were not filled by so many pictures of the
modern French school, which I confess, with very few exceptions, produce
somewhat the effect of caricatures upon me. The theatrical attitudes,
the stage dignity, which even David's pictures frequently exhibit, and
the continual exaggeration of passion, appear like the work of learners,
compared with the noble fidelity to nature of the Italian masters, and
even make us regret the charming truth and reality of the German and
Flemish schools. Of all these famous moderns, Girodet displeased me the
most: no healthy taste can look at his Deluge without disgust. Gérard's
entry of Henry the Fourth appears to me a picture whose fame will
endure. The number of Rubens' and Lesueur's pictures which have been
brought from the Luxemburg, but ill replace the Raphaels, Leonardo da
Vincis, and Vandykes, which have disappeared. In short, all that had
been brought here since the Restoration, whether new or old, makes but
an unfavourable impression. This is not lessened by the bad busts of
painters which have been placed at regular intervals, and which, even
were they better as specimens of sculpture, are wholly out of place in a
collection of paintings. The magnificent long gallery affords, however,
as before, the most agreeable winter walk; and the liberality which
leaves it constantly accessible to strangers cannot be sufficiently
praised.
When I think how still more deplorable is the state of painting in
England, how little Italy and Germany now merit their former fame, I am
tempted to fear that this art will share the fate of painting on glass;
nay, that its most precious secrets are already irrecoverably lost. The
breadth, power, truth and life of the old masters, their technical
knowledge of colouring,--where are they now to be found? Thorwaldson,
Rauch, Danneker, Canova, rival the antique;[164] but where is the
painter who can be placed by the side of the second-rate artists of the
golden age of painting?
In a side court of the Museum stands the colossal Sphinx from Drovetti's
collection, destined for the court of the Louvre. It is of pale-red
granite, and the sculpture is as grand as the mass is stupendous. It is
perfectly intact, except the nose; this had just been replaced by one of
plaster of Paris, which had not received its last coat of colouring. The
sight of it made me involuntarily laugh; and, thinking of the strange
chain of events which had brought this giant hither, I internally
exclaimed, "What do you here, you huge Ægyptian, after a lapse of three
thousand years,--in this new Babylon, where no sphinx can keep a secret,
and where silence never found a home?"
In the evening I went to the Théatre Porte St. Martin to see Faust,
which was performed for the eightieth or ninetieth time. The culminating
point of this melodrame is a waltz which Mephistopheles dances with
Martha; and in truth it is impossible to dance more diabolically. It
never fails to call forth thunders of applause,--and in one sense
deserves it; for the pantomime is extremely expressive, and affects one
in the same manner as jests intermingled with ghost stories.
Mephistopheles, though ugly, has the air of a gentleman, which is more
than can be said for our German devils.
The most remarkable part of the scenery is the Blocksberg, with all its
horrors, which leave those of the Wolf's Glen far behind. Illumined by
lurid lights of all colours, gleaming from behind dark pines and clefts
in the rock, it swarmed with living skeletons, glittering snakes,
horrible monsters of deformity, headless or bleeding bodies, hideous
witches, huge fiery giants' eyes glaring out of bushes, toads as big as
men, and many other agreeable images of the like kind. In the last act,
the scene-painter had gone rather too far, having represented heaven and
hell _at the same time_. Heaven, which of course occupied the upper part
of the scene, shone with a very beautiful pale-blue radiance; but this
was so unbecoming to the complexion of Gretchen's soul, as well as to
that of the angels who pirouetted round her, that they looked more like
the corpses on the Blocksberg than the blessed in heaven.--The devils,
who danced immediately under the wooden floor of heaven, had a much more
advantageous tone of colour, which they certainly deserved for the zeal
with which they tore the effigy of Faust into pieces till the curtain
fell.
The theatre itself is tastefully decorated with gay paintings and gold
on a ground of white satin. The many-coloured flowers, birds and
butterflies, have a very lively agreeable effect. The interior of the
boxes is light blue, and the lining an imitation of red velvet. Besides
the annoying cry of the limonadiers, who, to a German ear, make such
singular abbreviations of the words 'orgeat, limonade, glace,' there was
a Jew who wandered about with 'lorgnettes,' which he let at ten sous for
the evening;--a trade which I don't remember to have observed before,
and which is very convenient to the public.
This letter will probably travel to you by sledges, for we have a truly
Russian climate, though unhappily no Russian stoves. Heaven send you a
better temperature in B----!