PARIS, _Jan._ 25, 1766.
I am much indebted to you for your kind letter and advice; and though it
is late to thank you for it, it is at least a stronger proof that I do
not forget it. However, I am a little obstinate, as you know, on the
chapter of health, and have persisted through this Siberian winter in
not adding a grain to my clothes, and going open-breasted without an
under waistcoat. In short, though I like extremely to live, it must be
in my own way, as long as I can: it is not youth I court, but liberty;
and I think making oneself tender is issuing a _general warrant_
against one's own person. I suppose I shall submit to confinement when I
cannot help it; but I am indifferent enough to life not to care if it
ends soon after my prison begins.
I have not delayed so long to answer your letter, from not thinking of
it, or from want of matter, but from want of time. I am constantly
occupied, engaged, amused, till I cannot bring a hundredth part of what
I have to say into the compass of a letter. You will lose nothing by
this: you know my volubility, when I am full of new subjects; and I have
at least many hours of conversation for you at my return. One does not
learn a whole nation in four or five months; but, for the time, few, I
believe, have seen, studied, or got so much acquainted with the French
as I have.
By what I said of their religious or rather irreligious opinions, you
must not conclude their people of quality atheists--at least, not the
men. Happily for them, poor souls! they are not capable of going so far
into thinking. They assent to a great deal, because it is the fashion,
and because they don't know how to contradict. They are ashamed to
defend the Roman Catholic religion, because it is quite exploded; but I
am convinced they believe it in their hearts. They hate the Parliaments
and the philosophers, and are rejoiced that they may still idolise
royalty. At present, too, they are a little triumphant: the Court has
shown a little spirit, and the Parliaments much less: but as the Duc de
Choiseul, who is very fluttering, unsettled, and inclined to the
philosophers, has made a compromise with the Parliament of Bretagne, the
Parliaments might venture out again, if, as I fancy will be the case,
they are not glad to drop a cause, of which they began to be a little
weary of the inconveniences.
The generality of the men, and more than the generality are dull and
empty. They have taken up gravity, thinking it was philosophy and
English, and so have acquired nothing in the room of their natural
levity and cheerfulness. However, as their high opinion of their own
country remains, for which they can no longer assign any reason, they
are contemptuous and reserved, instead of being ridiculously,
consequently pardonably, impertinent. I have wondered, knowing my own
countrymen, that we had attained such a superiority. I wonder no longer,
and have a little more respect for English _heads_ than I had.
The women do not seem of the same country: if they are less gay than
they were, they are more informed, enough to make them very conversable.
I know six or seven with very superior understandings; some of them with
wit, or with softness, or very good sense.
[Illustration: THOMAS GRAY, THE POET.
_From a drawing in the National Portrait Gallery by James Basire, after
a sketch by Gray's friend and biographer, the Rev. William Mason._]
Madame Geoffrin, of whom you have heard much, is an extraordinary woman,
with more common sense than I almost ever met with. Great quickness in
discovering characters, penetration in going to the bottom of them, and
a pencil that never fails in a likeness--seldom a favourable one. She
exacts and preserves, spite of her birth and their nonsensical
prejudices about nobility, great court and attention. This she acquires
by a thousand little arts and offices of friendship: and by a freedom
and severity, which seem to be her sole end of drawing a concourse to
her; for she insists on scolding those she inveigles to her. She has
little taste and less knowledge, but protects artisans and authors, and
courts a few people to have the credit of serving her dependents. She
was bred under the famous Madame Tencin,[1] who advised her never to
refuse any man; for, said her mistress, though nine in ten should not
care a farthing for you, the tenth may live to be an useful friend. She
did not adopt or reject the whole plan, but fully retained the purport
of the maxim. In short, she is an epitome of empire, subsisting by
rewards and punishments. Her great enemy, Madame du Deffand,[2] was for
a short time mistress of the Regent, is now very old and stoneblind, but
retains all her vivacity, wit, memory, judgment, passions, and
agreeableness. She goes to Operas, Plays, suppers, and Versailles; gives
suppers twice a week; has everything new read to her; makes new songs
and epigrams, ay, admirably, and remembers every one that has been made
these four-score years. She corresponds with Voltaire, dictates charming
letters to him, contradicts him, is no bigot to him or anybody, and
laughs both at the clergy and the philosophers. In a dispute, into which
she easily falls, she is very warm, and yet scarce ever in the wrong:
her judgment on every subject is as just as possible; on every point of
conduct as wrong as possible: for she is all love and hatred, passionate
for her friends to enthusiasm, still anxious to be loved, I don't mean
by lovers, and a vehement enemy, but openly. As she can have no
amusement but conversation, the least solitude and _ennui_ are
insupportable to her, and put her into the power of several worthless
people, who eat her suppers when they can eat nobody's of higher rank;
wink to one another and laugh at her; hate her because she has forty
times more parts--and venture to hate her because she is not rich.[3]
She has an old friend whom I must mention, a Monsieur Pondeveyle, author
of the "Fatpuni," and the "Complaisant," and of those pretty novels, the
"Comte de Cominge," the "Siege of Calais," and "Les Malheurs de
l'Amour." Would you not expect this old man to be very agreeable? He can
be so, but seldom is: yet he has another very different and very
amusing talent, the art of parody, and is unique in his kind. He
composes tales to the tunes of long dances: for instance, he has adapted
the Regent's "Daphnis and Chloe" to one, and made it ten times more
indecent; but is so old, and sings it so well, that it is permitted in
all companies. He has succeeded still better in _les caractères de la
danse_, to which he has adapted words that express all the characters of
love. With all this he has not the least idea of cheerfulness in
conversation; seldom speaks but on grave subjects, and not often on
them; is a humourist, very supercilious, and wrapt up in admiration of
his own country, as the only judge of his merit. His air and look are
cold and forbidding; but ask him to sing, or praise his works, his eyes
and smiles open and brighten up. In short, I can show him to you: the
self-applauding poet in Hogarth's Rake's Progress, the second print, is
so like his very features and very wig, that you would know him by it,
if you came hither--for he certainly will not go to you.
[Footnote 1: _"The famous Mme. Tencin._" "Infamous" would be more
appropriate. She had been the mistress of Dubois, and was the mother of
D'Alembert.]
[Footnote 2: His description of her on first making her acquaintance was
not altogether complimentary. In a letter of the preceding October he
calls her "an old blind debauchée of wit." In fact, she had been one of
the mistresses of the Regent, Duc d'Orléans, and at first his chief
inducement to court her society was to hear anecdotes of the Regent. But
gradually he became so enamoured of her society that he kept up an
intimacy with her till her death in 1783. There must be allowed to be
much delicate perception and delineation of character in this
description of the French fine ladies of the time.]
[Footnote 3: To the above portrait of Madame du Deffand it may be useful
to subjoin the able development of her character which appeared in the
_Quarterly Review_ for May, 1811, in its critique on her Letters to
Walpole:--"This lady seems to have united the lightness of the French
character with the solidity of the English. She was easy and volatile,
yet judicious and acute; sometimes profound and sometimes superficial.
She had a wit playful, abundant, and well-toned; an admirable conception
of the ridiculous, and great skill in exposing it; a turn for satire,
which she indulged, not always in the best-natured manner, yet with
irresistible effect; powers of expression varied, appropriate, flowing
from the source, and curious without research; a refined taste for
letters, and a judgment both of men and books in a high degree
enlightened and accurate."]
Madame de Mirepoix's understanding is excellent of the useful kind, and
can be so when she pleases of the agreeable kind. She has read, but
seldom shows it, and has perfect taste. Her manner is cold, but very
civil; and she conceals even the blood of Lorraine, without ever
forgetting it. Nobody in France knows the world better, and nobody is
personally so well with the King. She is false, artful, and insinuating
beyond measure when it is her interest, but indolent and a coward. She
never had any passion but gaming, and always loses. For ever paying
court, the sole produce of a life of art is to get money from the King
to carry on a course of paying debts or contracting new ones, which she
discharges as fast as she is able. She advertised devotion to get made
_dame du palais_ to the Queen; and the very next day this Princess of
Lorraine was seen riding backwards with Madame Pompadour in the latter's
coach. When the King was stabbed, and heartily frightened, the mistress
took a panic too, and consulted D'Argenson, whether she had not best
make off in time. He hated her, and said, By all means. Madame de
Mirepoix advised her to stay. The King recovered his spirits, D'Argenson
was banished,[1] and La Maréchale inherited part of the mistress's
credit.--I must interrupt my history of illustrious women with an
anecdote of Monsieur de Maurepas, with whom I am much acquainted, and
who has one of the few heads which approach to good ones, and who
luckily for us was disgraced, and the marine dropped, because it was his
favourite object and province. He employed Pondeveyle to make a song on
the Pompadour: it was clever and bitter, and did not spare even Majesty.
This was Maurepas absurd enough to sing at supper at Versailles.
Banishment ensued; and lest he should ever be restored, the mistress
persuaded the King that he had poisoned her predecessor Madame de
Chateauroux. Maurepas is very agreeable, and exceedingly cheerful; yet I
have seen a transient silent cloud when politics are talked of.
[Footnote 1: The Comte d'Argenson was Minister at War.]
Madame de Boufflers, who was in England, is a _savante_, mistress of the
Prince of Conti, and very desirous of being his wife. She is two women,
the upper and the lower. I need not tell you that the lower is gallant,
and still has pretensions. The upper is very sensible, too, and has a
measured eloquence that is just and pleasing--but all is spoiled by an
unrelaxed attention to applause. You would think she was always sitting
for her picture to her biographer.
Madame de Rochfort is different from all the rest. Her understanding is
just and delicate; with a finesse of wit that is the result of
reflection. Her manner is soft and feminine, and though a _savante_,
without any declared pretensions. She is the _decent_ friend of Monsieur
de Nivernois; for you must not believe a syllable of what you read in
their novels. It requires the greatest curiosity, or the greatest
habitude, to discover the smallest connexion between the sexes here. No
familiarity, but under the veil of friendship, is permitted, and Love's
dictionary is as much prohibited, as at first sight one should think his
ritual was. All you hear, and that pronounced with _nonchalance_, is,
that _Monsieur un tel_ has had _Madame une telle_.
The Duc de Nivernois has parts, and writes at the top of the mediocre,
but, as Madame Geoffrin says, is _manqué par tout; guerrier manqué,
ambassadeur manqué, homme d'affaires manqué_, and _auteur manque_--no,
he is not _homme de naissance manqué_. He would think freely, but has
some ambition of being governor to the Dauphin, and is more afraid of
his wife and daughter, who are ecclesiastic fagots. The former
out-chatters the Duke of Newcastle; and the latter, Madame de Gisors,
exhausts Mr. Pitt's eloquence in defence of the Archbishop of Paris.
Monsieur de Nivernois lives in a small circle of dependent admirers, and
Madame de Rochfort is high-priestess for a small salary of credit.
The Duchess of Choiseul, the only young one of these heroines, is not
very pretty, but has fine eyes, and is a little model in waxwork, which
not being allowed to speak for some time as incapable, has a hesitation
and modesty, the latter of which the Court has not cured, and the former
of which is atoned for by the most interesting sound of voice, and
forgotten in the most elegant turn and propriety of expression. Oh! it
is the gentlest, amiable, civil little creature that ever came out of a
fairy egg! so just in its phrases and thoughts, so attentive and
good-natured! Everybody loves it but its husband, who prefers his own
sister the Duchesse de Granmont, an Amazonian, fierce, haughty dame, who
loves and hates arbitrarily, and is detested. Madame de Choiseul,
passionately fond of her husband, was the martyr of this union, but at
last submitted with a good grace; has gained a little credit with him,
and is still believed to idolize him. But I doubt it--she takes too much
pains to profess it.
I cannot finish my list without adding a much more common character--but
more complete in its kind than any of the foregoing, the Maréchale de
Luxembourg. She has been very handsome, very abandoned, and very
mischievous. Her beauty is gone, her lovers are gone, and she thinks the
devil is coming. This dejection has softened her into being rather
agreeable, for she has wit and good-breeding; but you would swear, by
the restlessness of her person and the horrors she cannot conceal, that
she had signed the compact, and expected to be called upon in a week for
the performance.
I could add many pictures, but none so remarkable. In those I send you
there is not a feature bestowed gratis or exaggerated. For the beauties,
of which there are a few considerable, as Mesdames de Brionne, de
Monaco, et d'Egmont, they have not yet lost their characters, nor got
any.
You must not attribute my intimacy with Paris to curiosity alone. An
accident unlocked the doors for me. That _passe-par-tout_ called the
fashion has made them fly open--and what do you think was that
fashion?--I myself. Yes, like Queen Eleanor in the ballad, I sunk at
Charing Cross, and have risen in the Fauxbourg St. Germain. A
_plaisanterie_ on Rousseau, whose arrival here in his way to you brought
me acquainted with many anecdotes conformable to the idea I had
conceived of him, got about, was liked much more than it deserved,
spread like wild-fire, and made me the subject of conversation.
Rousseau's devotees were offended. Madame de Boufflers, with a tone of
sentiment, and the accents of lamenting humanity, abused me heartily,
and then complained to myself with the utmost softness. I acted
contrition, but had liked to have spoiled all, by growing dreadfully
tired of a second lecture from the Prince of Conti, who took up the
ball, and made himself the hero of a history wherein he had nothing to
do. I listened, did not understand half he said (nor he either), forgot
the rest, said Yes when I should have said No, yawned when I should have
smiled, and was very penitent when I should have rejoiced at my pardon.
Madame de Boufflers was more distressed, for he owned twenty times more
than I had said: she frowned, and made him signs; but she had wound up
his clack, and there was no stopping it. The moment she grew angry, the
lord of the house grew charmed, and it has been my fault if I am not at
the head of a numerous sect; but, when I left a triumphant party in
England, I did not come here to be at the head of a fashion. However, I
have been sent for about like an African prince, or a learned
canary-bird, and was, in particular, carried by force to the Princess of
Talmond,[1] the Queen's cousin, who lives in a charitable apartment in
the Luxembourg, and was sitting on a small bed hung with saints and
Sobieskis, in a corner of one of those vast chambers, by two blinking
tapers. I stumbled over a cat and a footstool in my journey to her
presence. She could not find a syllable to say to me, and the visit
ended with her begging a lap-dog. Thank the Lord! though this is the
first month, it is the last week of my reign; and I shall resign my
crown with great satisfaction to a _bouillie_ of chestnuts, which is
just invented, and whose annals will be illustrated by so many
indigestions, that Paris will not want anything else these three weeks.
I will enclose the fatal letter[2] after I have finished this enormous
one; to which I will only add, that nothing has interrupted my Sévigné
researches but the frost. The Abbé de Malesherbes has given me full
power to ransack Livry. I did not tell you, that by great accident, when
I thought on nothing less, I stumbled on an original picture of the
Comte de Grammont. Adieu! You are generally in London in March; I shall
be there by the end of it.[3]
[Footnote 1: The Princess of Talmond was born in Poland, and said to be
allied to the Queen, Marie Leczinska, with whom she came to France, and
there married a prince of the house of Bouillon.]
[Footnote 2: The letter from the King of Prussia to Rousseau.--WALPOLE.]
[Footnote 3: Gray, in reference to this letter, writes thus to Dr.
Wharton, on the 5th of March:--"Mr. Walpole writes me now and then a
long and lively letter from Paris, to which place he went the last
summer, with the gout upon him; sometimes in his limbs; often in his
stomach and head. He has got somehow well (not by means of the climate,
one would think) goes to all public places, sees all the best company,
and is very much in fashion. He says he sunk, like Queen Eleanor, at
Charing Cross, and has risen again at Paris. He returns again in April;
but his health is certainly in a deplorable state."--_Works by Mitford_,
vol. iv. p. 79.]
_SITUATION OF AFFAIRS IN ENGLAND--CARDINAL YORK--DEATH OF STANILAUS
LECZINSKI, EX-KING OF POLAND._