terrace in front of the palace to this "Arch of Triumph," commenced by
Napoleon at the extremity of the "Elysian Fields," a single avenue of
about two miles. The part beyond the gardens is the _fashionable
drive_, and, by a saunter on horseback to the _Bois de Boulogne_,
between four and five, on a pleasant day, one may see all the dashing
equipages in Paris. Broadway, however, would eclipse everything here,
either for beauty of construction or appointments. Our carriages are
every way handsomer and better hung, and the horses are harnessed more
compactly and gracefully. The lumbering vehicles here make a great
show, it is true--for the box, with its heavy hammer-cloth, is level
with the top, and the coachman and footmen and outriders are very
striking in their bright liveries; but the elegant, convenient,
light-running establishments of Philadelphia and New York, excel them,
out of all comparison, for taste and fitness. The best driving I have
seen is by the king's whips, and really it is beautiful to see his
retinue on the road, four or five coaches and six, with footmen and
outriders in scarlet liveries, and the finest horses possible for
speed and action. His majesty generally takes the outer edge of the
_Champs Elysees_, on the bank of the river, and the rapid glimpses of
the bright show through the breaks in the wood, are exceedingly
picturesque.
There is nothing in Paris that looks so outlandish to my eye as the
common vehicles. I was thinking of it this morning as I stood waiting
for the _St. Sulpice omnibus_, at the corner of the Rue Vivienne, the
great thoroughfare between the Boulevards and the Palais Royal. There
was the hack-cabriolet lumbering by in the fashion of two centuries
ago, with a horse and harness that look equally ready to drop in
pieces; the hand-cart with a stout dog harnessed under the axle-tree,
drawing with twice the strength of his master; the market-waggon,
driven always by women, and drawn generally by a horse and mule
abreast, the horse of the Norman breed, immensely large, and the mule
about the size of a well-grown bull-dog; a vehicle of which I have not
yet found out the name, a kind of demi-omnibus, with two wheels and a
single horse, and carrying nine; and last, but not least amusing, a
small close carriage for one person, swung upon two wheels and drawn
by a servant, very much used, apparently, by elderly women and
invalids, and certainly most admirable conveniences either for the
economy or safety of getting about a city. It would be difficult to
find an American servant who would draw in harness as they do here;
and it is amusing to see a stout, well-dressed fellow, strapped to a
carriage, and pulling along the _paves_, sometimes at a jog-trot,
while his master or mistress sits looking unconcernedly out of the
window.
I am not yet decided whether the French are the best or the worst
drivers in the world. If the latter they certainly have most
miraculous escapes. A cab-driver never pulls the reins except upon
great emergencies, or for a right-about turn, and his horse has a most
ludicrous aversion to a straight line. The streets are built inclining
toward the centre, with the gutter in the middle, and it is the habit
of all cabriolet-horses to run down one side and up the other
constantly at such sudden angles that it seems to you they certainly
will go through the shop windows. This, of course, is very dangerous
to foot-passengers in a city where there are no side-walks; and, as a
consequence, the average number of complaints to the police of Paris
for people killed by careless driving, is about four hundred annually.
There are probably twice the number of legs broken. One becomes vexed
in riding with these fellows, and I have once or twice undertaken to
get into a French passion, and insist upon driving myself. But I have
never yet met with an accident. "_Gar-r-r-r-e!_" sings out the driver,
rolling the word off his tongue like a bullet from a shovel, but never
thinking to lift his loose reins from the dasher, while the frightened
passenger, without looking round, makes for the first door with an
alacrity that shows a habit of expecting very little from the
_cocher's_ skill.
Riding is very cheap in Paris, if managed a little. The city is
traversed constantly in every direction by omnibuses, and you may go
from the Tuileries to _Pere la Chaise_, or from St. Sulpice to the
Italian Boulevards (the two diagonals), or take the "_Tous les
Boulevards_" and ride quite round the city for six sous the distance.
The "_fiacre_" is like our own hacks, except that you pay but "twenty
_sous_ the course," and fill the vehicle with your friends if you
please; and, more cheap and comfortable still, there is the universal
cabriolet, which for "fifteen _sous_ the course," or "twenty the
hour," will give you at least three times the value of your money,
with the advantage of seeing ahead and talking bad French with the
driver.
Everything in France is either _grotesque_ or _picturesque_. I have
been struck with it this morning, while sitting at my window, looking
upon the close inner court of the hotel. One would suppose that a
_pave_ between four high walls, would offer very little to seduce the
eye from its occupation; but on the contrary, one's whole time may be
occupied in watching the various sights presented in constant
succession. First comes the itinerant cobbler, with his seat and
materials upon his back, and coolly selecting a place against the
wall, opens his shop under your window, and drives his trade, most
industriously, for half an hour. If you have anything to mend, he is
too happy; if not he has not lost his time, for he pays no rent, and
is all the while at work. He packs up again, bows to the _concierge_,
as politely as his load will permit, and takes his departure, in the
hope to find your shoes more worn another day. Nothing could be more
striking than his whole appearance. He is met in the gate, perhaps,
by an old clothes man, who will buy or sell, and compliment you for
nothing, cheapening your coat by calling the Virgin to witness that
your shape is so genteel that it will not fit one man in a thousand;
or by a family of singers, with a monkey to keep time; or a regular
beggar, who, however, does not dream of asking charity till he has
done something to amuse you; after these, perhaps, will follow a
succession of objects singularly peculiar to this fantastic
metropolis; and if one could separate from the poor creatures the
knowledge of the cold and hunger they suffer, wandering about,
houseless, in the most inclement weather, it would be easy to imagine
it a diverting pantomime, and give them the poor pittance they ask, as
the price of an amused hour. An old man has just gone from the court
who comes regularly twice a week, with a long beard, perfectly white,
and a strange kind of an equipage. It is an organ, set upon a rude
carriage, with four small wheels, and drawn by a mule, of the most
diminutive size, looking (if it were not for the venerable figure
crouched upon the seat) like some roughly-contrived plaything. The
whole affair, harness and all, is evidently his own work; and it is
affecting to see the difficulty, and withal, the habitual apathy with
which the old itinerant fastens his rope-reins beside him, and
dismounts to grind his one--solitary--eternal tune, for charity.
Among the thousands of wretched objects in Paris (they make the heart
sick with their misery at every turn), there is, here and there, one
of an interesting character; and it is pleasant to select them, and
make a habit of your trifling gratuity. Strolling about, as I do,
constantly, and letting everybody and everything amuse me that will, I
have made several of these penny-a-day acquaintances, and find them
very agreeable breaks to the heartless solitude of a crowd. There is a
little fellow who stands by the gate of the Tuileries, opening to the
Place Vendome, who, with all the rags and dirt of a street-boy, begs
with an air of superiority that is absolutely patronizing. One feels
obliged to the little varlet for the privilege of giving to him--his
smile and manner are so courtly. His face is beautiful, dirty as it
is; his voice is clear, and unaffected, and his thin lips have an
expression of high-bred contempt, that amuses me a little, and puzzles
me a great deal. I think he must have gentleman's blood in his veins,
though he possibly came indirectly by it. There is a little Jewess
hanging about the Louvre, who begs with her dark eyes very eloquently;
and in the _Rue de la Paix_ there may be found at all hours, a
melancholy, sick-looking Italian boy, with his hand in his bosom,
whose native language and picture-like face are a diurnal pleasure to
me, cheaply bought with the poor trifle which makes him happy. It is
surprising how many devices there are in the streets for attracting
attention and pity. There is a woman always to be seen upon the
Boulevards, playing a solemn tune on a violin, with a child as pallid
as ashes, lying, apparently, asleep in her lap. I suspected, after
seeing it once or twice, that it was wax, and a day or two since I
satisfied myself of the fact, and enraged the mother excessively by
touching its cheek. It represents a sick child to the life, and any
one less idle and curious would be deceived. I have often seen people
give her money with the most unsuspecting look of sympathy, though it
would be natural enough to doubt the maternal kindness of keeping a
dying child in the open air in mid-winter. Then there is a woman
without hands, making braid with wonderful adroitness; and a man
without legs or arms, singing, with his hat set appealingly on the
ground before him; and cripples, exposing their abbreviated limbs,
and telling their stories over and over, with or without listeners,
from morning till night; and every description of appeal to the most
acute sympathies, mingled with all the gayety, show, and fashion, of
the most crowded promenade in Paris.
In the present dreadful distress of trade, there are other still more
painful cases of misery. It is not uncommon to be addressed in the
street by men of perfectly respectable appearance, whose faces bear
every mark of strong mental struggle, and often of famishing
necessity, with an appeal for the smallest sum that will buy food. The
look of misery is so general, as to mark the whole population. It has
struck me most forcibly everywhere, notwithstanding the gayety of the
national character, and, I am told by intelligent Frenchmen, it is
peculiar to the time, and felt and observed by all. Such things
startle one back to nature sometimes. It is difficult to look away
from the face of a starving man, and see the splendid equipages, and
the idle waste upon trifles, within his very sight, and reconcile the
contrast with any belief of the existence of human pity--still more
difficult, perhaps, to admit without reflection, the right of one
human being to hold in a shut hand, at will, the very life and breath
for which his fellow-creatures are perishing at his door. It is this
that is visited back so terribly in the horrors of a revolution.
LETTER XI.
FOYETIER--THE THRACIAN GLADIATOR--MADEMOISELLE MARS--DOCTOR
FRANKLIN'S RESIDENCE IN PARIS--ANNUAL BALL FOR THE POOR.
I had the pleasure to day of being introduced to the young sculptor
Foyetier, the author of the new statue on the terrace of the
Tuileries. Aside from his genius, he is interesting from a
circumstance connected with his early history. He was a herd-driver in
one of the provinces, and amused himself in his leisure moments with
the carving of rude images, which he sold for a sous or two on
market-days in the provincial town. The celebrated Dr. Gall fell in
with him accidentally, and felt of his head, _en passant_. The bump
was there which contains his present greatness, and the phrenologist
took upon himself the risk of his education in the arts. He is now the
first sculptor, beyond all competition, in France. His "_Spartacus_,"
the Thracian gladiator, is the admiration of Paris. It stands in front
of the palace, in the most conspicuous part of the regal gardens, and
there are hundreds of people about the pedestal at all hours of the
day. The gladiator has broken his chain, and stands with his weapon
in his hand, every muscle and feature breathing action, his body
thrown back, and his right foot planted powerfully for a spring. It is
a gallant thing. One's blood stirs to look at it.
_Foyetier_ is a young man, I should think about thirty. He is small,
very plain in appearance; but he has a rapid, earnest eye, and a mouth
of singular suavity of expression. I liked him extremely. His
celebrity seems not to have trenched a step on the nature of his
character. His genius is everywhere allowed, and he works for the king
altogether, his majesty bespeaking everything he attempts, even in the
model; but he is, certainly, of all geniuses, one of the most modest.
* * * * *
The celebrated Mars has come out from her retirement once more, and
commenced an engagement at the _Theatre Francais_. I went a short time
since to see her play in Tartuffe. This stage is the home of the true
French drama. Here Talma played when he and Mademoiselle Mars were the
delight of Napoleon and of France. I have had few gratifications
greater than that of seeing this splendid woman re-appear in the place
were she won her brilliant reputation. The play, too, was _Moliere's_,
and it was here that it was first performed. Altogether it was like
something plucked back from history; a renewal, as in a magic mirror,
of glories gone by.
I could scarce believe my eyes when she appeared as the "wife of
Argon." She looked about twenty-five. Her step was light and graceful;
Her voice was as unlike that of a woman of sixty as could well be
imagined; sweet, clear, and under a control which gives her a power
of expression I never had conceived before; her mouth had the
definite, firm play of youth; her teeth (though the dentist might do
that) were white and perfect, and her eyes can have lost none of their
fire, I am sure. I never saw so _quiet_ a player. Her gestures were
just perceptible, no more; and yet they were done so exquisitely at
the right moment--so unconsciously, as if she had not meant them, that
they were more forcible than even the language itself. She repeatedly
drew a low murmur of delight from the whole house with a single play
of expression across her face, while the other characters were
speaking, or by a slight movement of her fingers, in pantomimic
astonishment or vexation. It was really something new to me. I had
never before seen a first-rate female player in _comedy_. Leontine Fay
is inimitable in tragedy; but, if there be any comparison between
them, it is that this beautiful young creature overpowers the _heart_
with her nature, while Mademoiselle Mars satisfies the uttermost
demand of the _judgment_ with her art.
* * * * *
I yesterday visited the house occupied by Franklin while he was in
France. It is one of the most beautiful country residences in the
neighborhood of Paris, standing on the elevated ground of Passy, and
overlooking the whole city on one side, and the valley of the Seine
for a long distance toward Versailles on the other. The house is
otherwise celebrated. Madame de Genlis lived there while the present
king was her pupil; and Louis XV. occupied it six months for the
country air, while under the infliction of the gout--its neighborhood
to the palace probably rendering it preferable to the more distant
_chateaux_ of St. Cloud or Versailles. Its occupants would seem to
have been various enough, without the addition of a Lieutenant-General
of the British army, whose hospitality makes it delightful at present.
The lightning-rod, which was raised by Franklin, and which was the
first conductor used in France, is still standing. The gardens are
large, and form a sort of terrace, with the house on the front edge.
It must be one of the sweetest places in the world in summer.
* * * * *
The great annual ball for the poor was given at the _Academie Royale_,
a few nights since. This is attended by the king and royal family, and
is ordinarily the most splendid affair of the season. It is managed by
twenty or thirty lady-patronesses, who have the control of the
tickets; and, though by no means exclusive, it is kept within very
respectable limits; and, if one is content to float with the tide, and
forego dancing, is an unusually comfortable and well-behaved
spectacle.
I went with a large party at the early hour of eight. We fell into the
train of carriages, advancing slowly between files of dragoons, and
stood before the door in our turn in the course of an hour. The
staircases were complete orangeries, with immense mirrors at every
turn, and soldiers on guard, and servants in livery, from top to
bottom. The long saloon, lighted by ten chandeliers, was dressed and
hung with wreaths as a receiving-room; and passing on through the
spacious lobbies, which were changed into groves of pines and exotics,
we entered upon the grand scene. The _coup d'oeil_ would have
astonished Aladdin. The theatre, which is the largest in Paris, and
gorgeously built and ornamented, was thrown into one vast ball-room,
ascending gradually from the centre to platforms raised at either end,
one of which was occupied by the throne and seats for the king's
family and suite. The four rows of boxes were crowded with ladies, and
the house presented, from the floor to the _paradis_, one glittering
and waving wall of dress, jewelry, and feathers. An orchestra of near
a hundred musicians occupied the centre of the hall; and on either
side of them swept by the long, countless multitudes of people,
dressed with a union of taste and show; while, instead of the black
coats which darken the complexion of a party in a republican country,
every other gentleman was in a gay uniform; and polytechnic scholars,
with their scarlet-faced coats, officers of the "National Guard" and
the "line," gentlemen of the king's household, and foreign ministers,
and _attaches_, presented a variety of color and splendor which
nothing could exceed.
The theatre itself was not altered, except by the platform occupied by
the king; it is sufficiently splendid as it stands; but the stage,
whose area is much larger than that of the pit, was hung in rich
drapery as a vast tent, and garnished to profusion with flags and
arms. Along the sides, on a level with the lower row of boxes,
extended galleries of crimson velvet, festooned with flowers. These
were filled with ladies, and completed a circle about the house of
beauty and magnificence, of which the king and his dazzling suite
formed the _corona_. Chandeliers were hung close together from one end
of the hall to the other. I commenced counting them once or twice, but
some bright face flitting by in the dance interrupted me. An English
girl near me counted fifty-five, and I think there must have been
more. The blaze of light was almost painful. The air glittered, and
the fine grain of the most delicate complexions was distinctly
visible. It is impossible to describe the effect of so much light and
space and music crowded into one spectacle. The vastness of the hall,
so long that the best sight could not distinguish a figure at the
opposite extremity, and so high as to absorb and mellow the vibration
of a hundred instruments--the gorgeous sweep of splendor from one
platform to the other, absolutely drowning the eye in a sea of gay
colors, nodding feathers, jewelry, and military equipment--the
delicious music, the strange faces, dresses, and tongues, (one-half of
the multitude at least being foreigners), the presence of the king,
and the gallant show of uniforms in his conspicuous _suite_, combined
to make up a scene more than sufficiently astonishing. I felt the
whole night the smothering consciousness of senses too narrow--eyes,
ears, language, all too limited for the demand made upon them.
The king did not arrive till after ten. He entered by a silken curtain
in the rear of the platform on which seats were placed for his family.
The "_Vive le Roi_" was not so hearty as to drown the music, but his
majesty bowed some twenty times very graciously, and the good-hearted
queen curtsied, and kept a smile on her excessively plain face, till I
felt the muscles of my own ache for her. King Philippe looks anxious.
By the remarks of the French people about me when he entered, he has
reason for it. I observed that the polytechnic scholars all turned
their backs upon him; and one exceedingly handsome, spirited-looking
boy, standing just at my side, muttered a "_sacre!_" and bit his lip,
with a very revolutionary air, at the continuance of the acclamation.
His majesty came down, and walked through the hall about midnight. His
eldest son, the Duke of Orleans, a handsome, unoffending-looking youth
of eighteen, followed him, gazing round upon the crowd with his mouth
open, and looking very much annoyed at his part of the pageant. The
young duke has a good figure, and is certainly a very beautiful
dancer. His mouth is loose and weak, and his eyes are as opaque as
agates. He wore the uniform of the _Garde Nationale_, which does not
become him. In ordinary gentleman's dress, he is a very authentical
copy of a Bond-street dandy, and looks as little like a Frenchman as
most of Stultz's subjects. He danced all the evening, and selected,
very popularly, decidedly the most vulgar women in the room, looking
all the while as one who had been petted by the finest women in France
(Leontine Fay among the number), might be supposed to look, under such
an infliction. The king's second son, the Duke of Nemours, pursued the
same policy. He has a brighter face than his brother, with hair almost
white, and dances extremely well. The second daughter is also much
prettier than the eldest. On the whole, the king's family is a very
plain, though a very amiable one, and the people seem attached to
them.
These general descriptions, are, after all, very vague. Here I have
written half a sheet with a picture in my mind of which you are
getting no semblable idea. Language is a mere skeleton of such things.
The _Academie Royale_ should be borne over the water like the chapel
of Loretto, and set down in Broadway with all its lights, music, and
people, to give you half a notion of the "_Bal en faveur des
Pauvres_." And so it is with everything except the little histories of
one's own personal atmosphere, and that is the reason why egotism
should be held virtuous in a traveller, and the reason why one cannot
study Europe at home.
After getting our American party places, I abandoned myself to the
strongest current, and went in search of "lions." The first face that
arrested my eye was that of the Duchess D'Istria, a woman celebrated
here for her extraordinary personal beauty.
Directly opposite this lovely dutchess, in the other stage-box, sat
Donna Maria, the young Queen of Portugal, surrounded by her relatives.
The ex-empress, her mother, was on her right, her grandmother on her
left, and behind her some half dozen of her Portuguese cousins. She is
a little girl of twelve or fourteen, with a fat, heavy face, and a
remarkably pampered, sleepy look. She was dressed like an old woman,
and gaped incessantly the whole evening. The box was a perfect blaze
of diamonds. I never before realized the beauty of these splendid
stones. The necks, heads, arms, and waists of the ladies royal were
all streaming with light. The necklace of the empress mother
particularly flashed on the eye in every part of the house. By the
unceasing exclamations of the women, it was an unusually brilliant
show, even here. The little Donna has a fine, well-rounded chin; and
when she smiled in return to the king's bow, I thought I could see
more than a child's character in the expression of her mouth. I should
think a year or two of mental uneasiness might let out a look of
intelligence through her heavy features. She is likely to have it, I
think, with the doubtful fortunes that seem to beset her.