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Preparing for publication, by the same Author,
In 3 vols. post 8vo. with 15 Characteristic Engravings.
THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES
OF
JONATHAN JEFFERSON WHITLAW;
OR,
SCENES ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
PARIS AND THE PARISIANS,
IN 1835.
VOL. 2.
[Illustration: MUSEUM DES CURIOSITES HISTORIQUES
LE PUBLIC EST PRIÉ DE
NE TOUCHER À AUCUN
DE CES OBJETS.
Drawn & Etched by A. Hervieu.]
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET,
Publisher in Ordinary to His Majesty.
1835.
PARIS
AND
THE PARISIANS
IN 1835.
BY FRANCES TROLLOPE,
AUTHOR OF "DOMESTIC MANNERS OF THE AMERICANS,"
"TREMORDYN CLIFF," &c.
"Le pire des états, c'est l'état populaire."--CORNEILLE.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET,
Publisher in Ordinary to His Majesty.
1836.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY,
Dorset Street, Fleet Street.
CONTENTS
TO
THE SECOND VOLUME.
LETTER XLIII.
Peculiar Air of Frenchwomen.--Impossibility that an
Englishwoman should not be known for such in Paris.--Small
Shops.--Beautiful Flowers, and pretty arrangement of
them.--Native Grace.--Disappearance of Rouge.--Grey
Hair.--Every article dearer than in London.--All temptations
to smuggling removed. Page 1
LETTER XLIV.
Exclusive Soirées.--Soirée Doctrinaire.--Duc de
Broglie.--Soirée Républicaine.--Soirée Royaliste.--Partie
Impériale.--Military Greatness.--Dame de l'Empire. 11
LETTER XLV.
L'Abbé Lacordaire.--Various Statements respecting
him.--Poetical description of Notre Dame.--The Prophecy of a
Roman Catholic.--Les Jeunes Gens de Paris.--Their
omnipotence. 22
LETTER XLVI.
La Tour de Nesle. 37
LETTER XLVII.
Palais Royal.--Variety of Characters.--Party of
English.--Restaurant.--Galerie d'Orléans.--Number of
Loungers.--Convenient abundance of Idle Men.--Théâtre du
Vaudeville. 49
LETTER XLVIII.
Literary Conversation.--Modern Novelists.--Vicomte
d'Arlincourt.--His Portrait.--Châteaubriand.--Bernardin de
Saint Pierre.--Shakspeare.--Sir Walter Scott.--French
familiarity with English Authors.--Miss Mitford.--Miss
Landon.--Parisian passion for Novelty.--Extent of general
Information. 62
LETTER XLIX.
Trial by Jury.--Power of the Jury in France.--Comparative
insignificance of that vested in the Judge.--Virtual
Abolition of Capital Punishments.--Flemish Anecdote. 75
LETTER L.
English Pastry-cooks.--French horror of English
Pastry.--Unfortunate experiment upon a Muffin.--The Citizen
King. 85
LETTER LI.
Parisian Women.--Rousseau's failure in attempting to
describe them.--Their great influence in Society.--Their
grace in Conversation.--Difficulty of growing old.--Do the
ladies of France or those of England manage it best? 92
LETTER LII.
La Sainte Chapelle.--Palais de Justice.--Traces of the
Revolution of 1830.--Unworthy use made of La Sainte
Chapelle.--Boileau.--Ancient Records. 105
LETTER LIII.
French ideas of England.--Making love.--Precipitate retreat
of a young Frenchman.--Different methods of arranging
Marriages.--English Divorce.--English Restaurans. 116
LETTER LIV.
Mixed Society.--Influence of the English Clergy and their
Families.--Importance of their station in Society. 132
LETTER LV.
Le Grand Opéra.--Its enormous Expense.--Its Fashion.--Its
acknowledged Dulness.--'La Juive.'--Its heavy Music.--Its
exceeding Splendour.--Beautiful management of the
Scenery.--National Music. 143
LETTER LVI.
The Abbé Deguerry.--His eloquence.--Excursion across the
water.--Library of Ste. Geneviève.--Copy-book of the
Dauphin.--St. Etienne du Mont.--Pantheon. 156
LETTER LVII.
Little Suppers.--Great Dinners.--Affectation of
Gourmandise.--Evil effects of "dining out."--Evening
Parties.--Dinners in private under the name of
Luncheons.--Late Hours. 166
LETTER LVIII.
Hôpital des Enfans Trouvés.--Its doubtful advantages.--Story
of a Child left there. 177
LETTER LIX.
Procès Monstre.--Dislike of the Prisoners to the ceremony of
Trial.--Société des Droits de l'Homme.--Names given to the
Sections.--Kitchen and Nursery Literature.--Anecdote of
Lagrange.--Republican Law. 201
LETTER LX.
Memoirs of M. Châteaubriand.--The Readings at
L'Abbaye-aux-Bois.--Account of these in the French
Newspapers and Reviews.--Morning at the Abbaye to hear a
portion of these Memoirs.--The Visit to Prague. 212
LETTER LXI.
Jardin des Plantes.--Not equal in beauty to our Zoological
Gardens.--La Salpêtrière.--Anecdote.--Les
Invalides.--Difficulty of finding English Colours
there.--The Dome. 232
LETTER LXII.
Expedition to Montmorency.--Rendezvous in the Passage
Delorme.--St. Denis.--Tomb prepared for Napoleon.--The
Hermitage.--Dîner sur l'herbe. 241
LETTER LXIII.
George Sand. 258
LETTER LXIV.
"Angelo Tyran de Padoue."--Burlesque at the Théâtre du
Vaudeville.--Mademoiselle Mars.--Madame Dorval.--Epigram. 270
LETTER LXV.
Boulevard des Italiens.--Tortoni's.--Thunder-storm.--Church
of the Madeleine.--Mrs. Butler's "Journal." 292
LETTER LXVI.
A pleasant Party.--Discussion between an Englishman and a
Frenchman.--National Peculiarities. 302
LETTER LXVII.
Chamber of Deputies.--Punishment of Journalists.--Institute
for the Encouragement of Industry.--Men of Genius. 313
LETTER LXVIII.
Walk to the Marché des Innocens.--Escape of a Canary
Bird.--A Street Orator.--Burying-place of the Victims of
July. 323
LETTER LXIX.
A Philosophical Spectator.--Collection of Baron
Sylvestre.--Hôtel des Monnaies.--Musée d'Artillerie. 335
LETTER LXX.
Concert in the Champs Elysées.--Horticultural
Exhibition.--Forced Flowers.--Republican Hats.--Carlist
Hats--Juste-Milieu Hats.--Popular Funeral. 347
LETTER LXXI.
Minor French Novelists. 360
LETTER LXXII.
Breaking-up of the Paris Season.--Soirée at Madame
Récamier's.--Recitation.--Storm.--Disappointment.
--Atonement.--Farewell. 371
POSTSCRIPT 379
EMBELLISHMENTS
TO
THE SECOND VOLUME.
Soirée Page 20
Le Roi Citoyen 88
Prêtres de la Jeune France 158
Lecture à l'Abbaye-aux-Bois 228
Boulevard des Italiens 294
"V'là les restes de notre Révolution de Juillet" 328
PARIS
AND THE PARISIANS
IN 1835.
LETTER XLIII.
Peculiar Air of Frenchwomen.--Impossibility that an
Englishwoman should not be known for such in Paris.--Small
Shops.--Beautiful Flowers, and pretty arrangement of
them.--Native Grace.--Disappearance of Rouge.--Grey
Hair.--Every article dearer than in London.--All
temptations to smuggling removed.
Considering that it is a woman who writes to you, I think you will
confess that you have no reason to complain of having been overwhelmed
with the fashions of Paris: perhaps, on the contrary, you may feel
rather disposed to grumble because all I have hitherto said on the
fertile subject of dress has been almost wholly devoted to the
historic and fanciful costume of the republicans. Personal appearance,
and all that concerns it, is, however, a very important feature in
the daily history of this showy city; and although in this respect it
has been made the model of the whole world, it nevertheless contrives
to retain for itself a general look, air, and effect, which it is
quite in vain for any other people to attempt imitating. Go where you
will, you see French fashions; but you must go to Paris to see how
French people wear them.
The dome of the Invalides, the towers of Notre Dame, the column in the
Place Vendôme, the windmills of Montmartre, do not come home to the
mind as more essentially belonging to Paris, and Paris only, than does
the aspect which caps, bonnets, frills, shawls, aprons, belts,
buckles, gloves,--and above, though below, all things else--which
shoes and stockings assume, when worn by Parisian women in the city of
Paris.
It is in vain that all the women of the earth come crowding to this
mart of elegance, each one with money in her sack sufficient to cover
her from head to foot with all that is richest and best;--it is in
vain that she calls to her aid all the _tailleuses_, _coiffeuses_,
_modistes_, _couturières_, _cordonniers_, _lingères_, and _friseurs_
in the town: all she gets for her pains is, when she has bought, and
done, and put on all and everything they have prescribed, that, in the
next shop she enters, she hears one _grisette_ behind the counter
mutter to another, "Voyez ce que désire cette dame anglaise;"--and
that, poor dear lady! before she has spoken a single word to betray
herself.
Neither is it only the natives who find us out so easily--that might
perhaps be owing to some little inexplicable freemasonry among
themselves; but the worst of all is, that we know one another in a
moment. "There is an Englishman,"--"That is an Englishwoman," is felt
at a glance, more rapidly than the tongue can speak it.
That manner, gait, and carriage,--that expression of movement, and, if
I may so say, of limb, should be at once so remarkable and so
impossible to imitate, is very singular. It has nothing to do with the
national differences in eyes and complexion, for the effect is felt
perhaps more strongly in following than in meeting a person; but it
pervades every plait and every pin, every attitude and every gesture.
Could I explain to you what it is which produces this effect, I should
go far towards removing the impossibility of imitating it: but as this
is now, after twenty years of trial, pretty generally allowed to be
impossible, you will not expect it of me. All I can do, is to tell you
of such matters appertaining to dress as are open and intelligible to
all, without attempting to dive into that very occult part of the
subject, the effect of it.
In milliners' phrase, the ladies dress much _less_ in Paris than in
London. I have no idea that any Frenchwoman, after her morning
dishabille is thrown aside, would make it a practice, during "the
season," to change her dress completely four times in the course of
the day, as I have known some ladies do in London. Nor do I believe
that the most _précieuses_ in such matters among them would deem it an
insufferable breach of good manners to her family, did she sit down to
dinner in the same apparel in which they had seen her three hours
before it.
The only article of female luxury more generally indulged in here than
with us, is that of cashmere shawls. One, at the very least, of these
dainty wrappers makes a part of every young lady's _trousseau_, and
is, I believe, exactly that part of the _présent_ which, as Miss
Edgeworth says, often makes a bride forget the _futur_.
In other respects, what is necessary for the wardrobe of a French
woman of fashion, is necessary also for that of an English one; only
jewels and trinkets of all kinds are more frequently worn with us than
with them. The dress that a young Englishwoman would wear at a dinner
party, is very nearly the same as a Frenchwoman would wear at any ball
but a fancy one; whereas the most elegant dinner costume in Paris is
exactly the same as would be worn at the French Opera.
There are many extremely handsome "_magasins de nouveautés_" in every
part of the town, wherein may be found all that the heart of woman can
desire in the way of dress; and there are smart _coiffeuses_ and
_modistes_ too, who know well how to fabricate and recommend every
production of their fascinating art: but there is no Howell and
James's wherein to assemble at a given point all the fine ladies of
Paris; no reunions of tall footmen are to be seen lounging on benches
outside the shops, and performing to the uninitiated the office of
signs, by giving notice how many purchasers are at that moment engaged
in cheapening the precious wares within. The shops in general are very
much smaller than ours,--or when they stretch into great length, they
have uniformly the appearance of warehouses. A much less quantity of
goods of all kinds is displayed for purposes of show and
decoration,--unless it be in china shops, or where or-molu ornaments,
protected by glass covers, form the principal objects: here, or indeed
wherever the articles sold can be exhibited without any danger of loss
from injury, there is very considerable display; but, on the whole,
there is much less appearance of large capital exhibited in the shops
here than in London.
One great source of the gay and pretty appearance of the streets, is
the number and elegant arrangement of the flowers exposed for sale.
Along all the Boulevards, and in every brilliant Passage (with which
latter ornamental invention Paris is now threaded in all directions),
you need only shut your eyes in order to fancy yourself in a delicious
flower-garden; and even on opening them again, if the delusion
vanishes, you have something almost as pretty in its place.
Notwithstanding the multitudinous abominations of their streets--the
prison-like locks on the doors of their _salons_, and the odious
common stair which must be climbed ere one can get to them--there is
an elegance of taste and love of the graceful about these people which
is certainly to be found nowhere else. It is not confined to the
spacious hotels of the rich and great, but may be traced through every
order and class of society, down to the very lowest.
The manner in which an old barrow-woman will tie up her sous' worth of
cherries for her urchin customers might give a lesson to the most
skilful decorator of the supper-table. A bunch of wild violets, sold
at a price that may come within reach of the worst-paid _soubrette_ in
Paris, is arranged with a grace that might make a duchess covet them;
and I have seen the paltry stock-in-trade of a florist, whose only
pavilion was a tree and the blue heavens, set off with such felicity
in the mixture of colours, and the gradations of shape and form, as
made me stand to gaze longer and more delightedly than I ever did
before Flora's own palace in the King's Road.
After all, indeed, I believe that the mystical peculiarity of dress of
which I have been speaking wholly arises from this innate and
universal instinct of good taste. There is a fitness, a propriety, a
sort of harmony in the various articles which constitute female
attire, which may be traced as clearly amongst the cotton _toques_,
with all their variety of brilliant tints, and the 'kerchief and apron
to match, or rather to accord, as amongst the most elegant bonnets at
the Tuileries. Their expressive phrase of approbation for a
well-dressed woman, "_faite à peindre_," may often be applied with
quite as much justice to the peasant as to the princess; for the same
unconscious sensibility of taste will regulate them both.
It is this national feeling which renders their stage groups, their
corps _de ballet_, and all the _tableaux_ business of their theatres,
so greatly superior to all others. On these occasions, a single
blunder in colour, contrast, or position, destroys the whole harmony,
and the whole charm with it: but you see the poor little girls hired
to do angels and graces for a few sous a night, fall into the
composition of the scene with an instinct as unerring, as that which
leads a flight of wild geese to cleave the air in a well-adjusted
triangular phalanx, instead of scattering themselves to every point
of the compass; as, _par exemple_, our _figurantes_ may be often seen
to do, if not kept in order by the ballet-master as carefully as a
huntsman whistles in his pack.
It is quite a relief to my eyes to find how completely rouge appears
to be gone out of fashion here. I will not undertake to say that no
bright eyes still look brighter from having a touch of red skilfully
applied beneath them: but if this be done, it is so well done as to be
invisible, excepting by its favourable effect; which is a prodigious
improvement upon the fashion which I well remember here, of larding
cheeks both young and old to a degree that was quite frightful.
Another improvement which I very greatly admire is, that the majority
of old ladies have left off wearing artificial hair, and arrange their
own grey locks with all the neatness and care possible. The effect of
this upon their general appearance is extremely favourable: Nature
always arranges things for us much better than we can do it for
ourselves; and the effect of an old face surrounded by a maze of
wanton curls, black, brown, or flaxen, is infinitely less agreeable
than when it is seen with its own "sable silvered" about it.
I have heard it observed, and with great justice, that rouge was only
advantageous to those who did not require it: and the same may be said
with equal truth of false hair. Some of the towering pinnacles of
shining jet that I have seen here, certainly have exceeded in quantity
of hair the possible growth of any one head: but when this fabric
surmounts a youthful face which seems to have a right to all the
flowing honours that the friseur's art can contrive to arrange above
it, there is nothing incongruous or disagreeable in the effect; though
it is almost a pity, too, to mix anything approaching to deceptive art
with the native glories of a young head. For which sentiment
_messieurs les fabricans_ of false hair will not thank me;--for having
first interdicted the use of borrowed tresses to the old ladies, I now
pronounce my disapproval of them for the young.
_Au reste_, all I can tell you farther respecting dress is, that our
ladies must no longer expect to find bargains here in any article
required for the wardrobe; on the contrary, everything of the kind is
become greatly dearer than in London: and what is at least equally
against making such purchases here is, that the fabrics of various
kinds which we used to consider as superior to our own, particularly
those of silks and gloves, are now, I think, decidedly inferior; and
such as can be purchased at the same price as in England, if they can
be found at all, are really too bad to use.
The only foreign bargains which I long to bring home with me are in
porcelain: but this our custom-house tariff forbids, and very
properly; as, without such protection, our Wedgewoods and Mortlakes
would sell but few ornamental articles; for not only are their prices
higher, but both their material and the fashioning of it are in my
opinion extremely inferior. It is really very satisfactory to one's
patriotic feelings to be able to say honestly, that excepting in
these, and a few other ornamental superfluities, such as or-molu and
alabaster clocks, etcætera, there is nothing that we need wish to
smuggle into our own abounding land.
LETTER XLIV.
Exclusive Soirées.--Soirée Doctrinaire.--Duc de
Broglie.--Soirée Républicaine.--Soirée Royaliste.--Partie
Impériale.--Military Greatness.--Dame de l'Empire.
Though the _salons_ of Paris probably show at the present moment the
most mixed society that can be found mingled together in the world,
one occasionally finds oneself in the midst of a set evidently of one
stamp, and indeed proclaiming itself to be so; for wherever this
happens, the assembly is considered as peculiarly chosen and select,
and as having all the dignity of exclusiveness.
The picture of Paris as it is, may perhaps be better caught at a
glance at a party collected together without any reference to politics
or principles of any kind; but I have been well pleased to find myself
on three different occasions admitted to _soirées_ of the exclusive
kind.
At the first of these, I was told the names of most of the company by
a kind friend who sat near me, and thus became aware that I had the
honour of being in company with most of King Philippe's present
ministry. Three or four of these gentlemen were introduced to me, and
I had the advantage of seeing _de près_, during their hours of
relaxation, the men who have perhaps at this moment as heavy a weight
of responsibility upon their shoulders as any set of ministers ever
sustained.
Nevertheless, nothing like gloom, preoccupation, or uneasiness,
appeared to pervade them; and yet that chiefest subject of anxiety,
the _Procès Monstre_, was by no means banished from their discourse.
Their manner of treating it, however, was certainly not such as to
make one believe that they were at all likely to sink under their
load, or that they felt in any degree embarrassed or distressed by it.
Some of the extravagances of _les accusés_ were discussed gaily
enough, and the general tone was that of men who knew perfectly well
what they were about, and who found more to laugh at than to fear in
the opposition and abuse they encountered. This light spirit however,
which to me seemed fair enough in the hours of recreation, had better
not be displayed on graver occasions, as it naturally produces
exasperation on the part of the prisoners, which, however little
dangerous it may be to the state, is nevertheless a feeling which
should not be unnecessarily excited. In that amusing paper or
magazine--I know not which may be its title--called the "Chronique de
Paris," I read some days ago a letter describing one of the _séances_
of the Chamber of Peers on this _procès_, in which the gaiety
manifested by M. de Broglie is thus censured:--
"J'ai fait moi-même partie de ce public privilégié que les accusés ne
reconnaissent pas comme un vrai public, et j'ai pu assister jeudi à
cette dramatique audience où la voix tonnante d'un accusé lisant une
protestation, a couvert la voix du ministère public. J'étais du nombre
de ceux qui ont eu la fièvre de cette scène, et je n'ai pu comprendre,
au milieu de l'agitation générale, qu'un homme aussi bien élevé que M.
de Broglie (je ne dis pas qu'un ministre) trouvât seul qu'il y avait
là sujet de rire en lorgnant ce vrai Romain, comparable à ces tribuns
qui, dans les derniers temps de la république, faisaient trembler les
patriciens sur leurs chaises curules."
"_Ce vrai Romain_," however, rather deserved to be scourged than
laughed at; for never did any criminal when brought to the bar of his
country insult its laws and its rulers more grossly than the prisoner
Beaune on this occasion. If indeed the accounts which reach us by the
daily papers are not exaggerated, the outrageous conduct of the
accused furnishes at every sitting sufficient cause for anger and
indignation, however unworthy it may be of inspiring anything
approaching to a feeling of alarm: and the calm, dignified, and
temperate manner in which the Chamber of Peers has hitherto conducted
itself may serve, I think, as an example to many other legislative
assemblies.
The ministers of Louis-Philippe are very fortunate that the mode of
trial decided on by them in this troublesome business is likely to be
carried through by the upper house in a manner so little open to
reasonable animadversion. The duty, and a most harassing one it is,
has been laid upon them, as many think, illegally; but the task has
been imposed by an authority which it is their duty to respect, and
they have entered upon it in a spirit that does them honour.
The second exclusive party to which I was fortunate enough to be
admitted, was in all respects quite the reverse of the first. The fair
mistress of the mansion herself assured me that there was not a single
doctrinaire present.
Here, too, the eternal subject of the _Procès Monstre_ was discussed,
but in a very different tone, and with feelings as completely as
possible in opposition to those which dictated the lively and
triumphant sort of persiflage to which I had before listened.
Nevertheless, the conversation was anything but _triste_, as the party
was in truth particularly agreeable; but, amidst flashes of wit,
sinister sounds that foreboded future revolutions grumbled every now
and then like distant thunder. Then there was shrugging of shoulders,
and shaking of heads, and angry taps upon the snuff-box; and from
time to time, amid the prattle of pretty women, and the well-turned
_gentillesses_ of those they prattled to, might be heard such phrases
as, "Tout n'est pas encore fini".... "Nous verrons ... nous
verrons".... "S'ils sont arbitraires!" ... and the like.
The third set was as distinct as may be from the two former. This
reunion was in the quartier St. Germain; and, if the feeling which I
know many would call prejudice does not deceive me, the tone of
first-rate good society was greatly more conspicuous here than at
either of the others. By all the most brilliant personages who adorned
the other two _soirées_ which I have described, I strongly suspect
that the most distinguished of this third would be classed as
_rococo_; but they were composed of the real stuff that constitutes
the true patrician, for all that. Many indeed were quite of the old
régime, and many others their noble high-minded descendants: but
whether they were old or young,--whether remarkable for having played
a distinguished part in the scenes that have been, or for sustaining
the chivalric principles of their race, by quietly withdrawing from
the scenes that are,--in either case they had that air of inveterate
superiority which I believe nothing on earth but gentle blood can
give.
There is a fourth class still, consisting of the dignitaries of the
Empire, which, if they ever assemble in distinct committee, I have yet
to become acquainted with. But I suspect that this is not the case:
one may perhaps meet them more certainly in some houses than in
others; but, unless it be around the dome of the Invalides, I do not
believe that they are to be found anywhere as a class apart.
Nothing, however, can be less difficult than to trace them: they are
as easily discerned as a boiled lobster among a panier full of such as
are newly caught.
That amusing little vaudeville called, I think, "La Dame de l'Empire,"
or some such title, contains the best portrait of a whole _clique_,
under the features of an individual character, of any comedy I know.
None of the stormy billows which have rolled over France during the
last forty years have thrown up a race so strongly marked as those
produced by the military era of the Empire. The influence of the
enormous power which was then in action has assuredly in some
directions left most noble vestiges. Wherever science was at work,
this power propelled it forward; and ages yet unborn may bless for
this the fostering patronage of Napoleon: some midnight of devastation
and barbarism must fall upon the world before what he has done of this
kind can be obliterated.
But the same period, while it brought forth from obscurity talent and
enterprise which without its influence would never have been greeted
by the light of day, brought forward at the same time legions of men
and women to whom this light and their advanced position in society
are by no means advantageous in the eyes of a passing looker-on.
I have heard that it requires three generations to make a gentleman.
Those created by Napoleon have not yet fairly reached a second; and,
with all respect for talent, industry, and valour be it spoken, the
necessity of this slow process very frequently forces itself upon
one's conviction at Paris.
It is probable that the great refinement of the post-imperial
aristocracy of France may be one reason why the deficiencies of those
now often found mixed up with them is so remarkable. It would be
difficult to imagine a contrast in manner more striking than that of a
lady who would be a fair specimen of the old Bourbon _noblesse_, and a
bouncing _maréchale_ of Imperial creation. It seems as if every
particle of the whole material of which each is formed gave evidence
of the different birth of the spirit that dwells within. The sound of
the voice is a contrast; the glance of the eye is a contrast; the
smile is a contrast; the step is a contrast. Were every feature of a
_dame de l'Empire_ and a _femme noble_ formed precisely in the same
mould, I am quite sure that the two would look no more alike than
Queen Constance and Nell Gwyn.
Nor is there at all less difference in the two races of gentlemen. I
speak not of the men of science or of art; their rank is of another
kind: but there are still left here and there specimens of decorated
greatness which look as if they must have been dragged out of the
guard-room by main force; huge moustached militaires, who look at
every slight rebuff as if they were ready to exclaim, "Sacré nom de
D***! je suis un héros, moi! Vive l'Empereur!"
A good deal is sneeringly said respecting the parvenus fashionables of
the present day: but station, and place, and court favour, must at any
rate give something of reality to the importance of those whom the
last movement has brought to the top; and this is vastly less
offensive than the empty, vulgar, camp-like reminiscences of Imperial
patronage which are occasionally brought forward by those who may
thank their sabre for having cut a path for them into the salons of
Paris. The really great men of the Empire--and there are certainly
many of them--have taken care to have other claims to distinction
attached to their names than that of having been dragged out of heaven
knows what profound obscurity by Napoleon: I may say of such, in the
words of the soldier in Macbeth--
"If I say sooth, I must report they were
As cannon overcharged with double cracks."
As for the elderly ladies, who, from simple little bourgeoises
demoiselles, were in those belligerent days sabred and trumpeted into
maréchales and duchesses, I must think that they make infinitely worse
figures in a drawing-room, than those who, younger in years and newer
in dignity, have all their blushing honours fresh upon them. Besides,
in point of fact, the having one Bourbon prince instead of another
upon the throne, though greatly to be lamented from the manner in
which it was accomplished, can hardly be expected to produce so
violent a convulsion among the aristocracy of France, as must of
necessity have ensued from the reign of a soldier of fortune, though
the mightiest that ever bore arms.
Many of the noblest races of France still remain wedded to the soil
that has been for ages native to their name. Towards these it is
believed that King Louis-Philippe has no very repulsive feelings; and
should no farther changes come upon the country--no more immortal days
arise to push all men from their stools, it is probable that the
number of these will not diminish in the court circles.
Meanwhile, the haut-ton born during the last revolution must of
course have an undisputed _entrée_ everywhere; and if by any external
marks they are particularly brought forward to observation, it is
only, I think, by a toilet among the ladies more costly and less
simple than that of their high-born neighbours; and among the
gentlemen, by a general air of prosperity and satisfaction, with an
expression of eye sometimes a little triumphant, often a little
patronizing, and always a little busy.
It was a duchess, and no less, who decidedly gave me the most perfect
idea of an Imperial parvenue that I have ever seen off the stage. When
a lady of this class attains so very elevated a rank, the perils of
her false position multiply around her. A quiet bourgeoise turned into
a noble lady of the third or fourth degree is likely enough to look a
little awkward; but if she has the least tact in the world, she may
remain tranquil and _sans ridicule_ under the honourable shelter of
those above her. But when she becomes a duchess, the chances are
terribly against her: "Madame la Duchesse" must be conspicuous; and if
in addition to mauvais ton she should par malheur be a bel esprit,
adding the pretension of literature to that of station, it is likely
that she will be very remarkable indeed.
[Illustration: Drawn & Etched by A. Hervieu.
SOIREE.
London. Published by Richard Bentley. 1835.]
My parvenue duchess _is_ very remarkable indeed. She steps out like a
corporal carrying a message: her voice is the first, the last, and
almost the only thing heard in the salon that she honours with her
presence,--except it chance, indeed, that she lower her tone
occasionally to favour with a whisper some gallant _décoré_, military,
scientific or artistic, of the same standing as herself; and moreover,
she promenades her eyes over the company as if she had a right to
bring them all to roll-call.
Notwithstanding all this, the lady is certainly a person of talent;
and had she happily remained in the station in which both herself and
her husband were born, she might not perhaps have thought it necessary
to speak quite so loud, and her bons mots would have produced
infinitely greater effect. But she is so thoroughly out of place in
the grade to which she has been unkindly elevated, that it seems as if
Napoleon had decided on her fate in a humour as spiteful as that of
Monsieur Jourdain, when he said--
"Votre fille sera marquise, en dépit de tout le monde: et si vous me
mettez en colère, je la ferai duchesse."
LETTER XLV.
L'Abbé Lacordaire.--Various Statements respecting
him.--Poetical description of Notre Dame.--The prophecy of
a Roman Catholic.--Les Jeunes Gens de Paris--Their
omnipotence.
The great reputation of another preacher induced us on Sunday to
endure two hours more of tedious waiting before the mass which
preceded the sermon began. It is only thus that a chair can be hoped
for when the Abbé Lacordaire mounts the pulpit of Notre Dame. The
penalty is really heavy; but having heard this celebrated person
described as one who "appeared sent by Heaven to restore France to
Christianity"--as "a hypocrite that set Tartuffe immeasurably in the
background"--as "a man whose talent surpassed that of any preacher
since Bossuet"--and as "a charlatan who ought to harangue from a tub,
instead of from the _chaire de Notre Dame de Paris_,"--I determined
upon at least seeing and hearing him, however little I might be able
to decide on which of the two sides of the prodigious chasm that
yawned between his friends and enemies the truth was most likely to
be found. There were, however, several circumstances which lessened
the tedium of this long interval: I might go farther, and confess that
this period was by no means the least profitable portion of the four
hours which we passed in the church.
On entering, we found the whole of the enormous nave railed in, as it
had been on Easter Sunday for the concert (for so in truth should that
performance be called); but upon applying at the entrance to this
enclosure, we were told that no ladies could be admitted to that part
of the church--but that the side aisles were fully furnished with
chairs, and afforded excellent places.
This arrangement astonished me in many ways:--first, as being so
perfectly un-national; for go where you will in France, you find the
best places reserved for the women,--at least, this was the first
instance in which I ever found it otherwise. Next, it astonished me,
because at every church I had entered, the congregations, though
always crowded, had been composed of at least twelve women to one man.
When, therefore, I looked over the barrier upon the close-packed,
well-adjusted rows of seats prepared to receive fifteen hundred
persons, I thought that unless all the priests in Paris came in person
to do honour to their eloquent confrère, it was very unlikely that
this uncivil arrangement should be found necessary. There was no
time, however, to waste in conjecture; the crowd already came rushing
in at every door, and we hastened to secure the best places that the
side aisles afforded. We obtained seats between the pillars
immediately opposite to the pulpit, and felt well enough contented,
having little doubt that a voice which had made itself heard so well
must have power to reach even to the side aisles of Notre Dame.
The first consolation which I found for my long waiting, after placing
myself in that attitude of little ease which the straight-backed chair
allowed, was from the recollection that the interval was to be passed
within the venerable walls of Notre Dame. It is a glorious old church,
and though not comparable in any way to Westminster Abbey, or to
Antwerp, or Strasburg, or Cologne, or indeed to many others which I
might name, has enough to occupy the eye very satisfactorily for a
considerable time. The three elegant rose-windows, throwing in their
coloured light from north, west, and south, are of themselves a very
pretty study for half an hour or so; and besides, they brought back,
notwithstanding their miniature diameter of forty feet, the remembrance
of the magnificent circular western window of Strasburg--the
recollection of which was almost enough to while away another long
interval. Then I employed myself, not very successfully, in labouring
to recollect the quaint old verses which I had fallen upon a few days
before, giving the dimensions of the church, and which I will herewith
transcribe for your use and amusement, in case you should ever find
yourself sitting as I was, _bolt upright_, as we elegantly express
ourselves when describing this ecclesiastical-Parisian attitude, while
waiting the advent of the Abbé Lacordaire.
"Si tu veux savoir comme est ample
De Notre Dame le grand temple,
Il y a, dans oeuvre, pour le seur,
Dix et sept toises de hauteur,
Sur la largeur de vingt-quatre,
Et soixante-cinq, sans rebattre,
A de long; aux tours haut montées
Trente-quatre sont comptées;
Le tout fondé sur pilotis--
Aussi vrai que je te le dis."
While repeating this poetical description, you have only to remember
that _une toise_ is the same as a fathom,--that is to say, six feet;
and then, as you turn your head in all directions to look about you,
you will have the satisfaction of knowing exactly how far you can see
in each.
I had another source of amusement, and by no means a trifling one, in
watching the influx of company. The whole building soon contained as
many human beings as could be crammed into it; and the seats, which we
thought, as we took them, were very so-so places indeed, became
accomodations for which to be most heartily thankful. Not a pillar
but supported the backs of as many men as could stand round it; and
not a jutting ornament, the balustrade of a side altar, or any other
"point of 'vantage," but looked as if a swarm of bees were beginning
to hang upon it.
But the sight which drew my attention most was that displayed by the
exclusive central aisle. When told that it was reserved for gentlemen,
I imagined of course that I should see it filled by a collection of
staid-looking, middle-aged, Catholic citizens, who were drawn together
from all parts of the town, and perhaps the country too, for the
purpose of hearing the celebrated preacher: but, to my great
astonishment, instead of this I saw pouring in by dozens at a time,
gay, gallant, smart-looking young men, such indeed as I had rarely
seen in Paris on any other religious occasion. Amongst these was a
sprinkling of older men; but the great majority were decidedly under
thirty. The meaning of this phenomenon I could by no means understand;
but while I was tormenting myself to discover some method of obtaining
information respecting it, accident brought relief to my curiosity in
the shape of a communicative neighbour.
In no place in the world is it so easy, I believe, to enter into
conversation with strangers as in Paris. There is a courteous
inclination to welcome every attempt at doing so which pervades all
ranks, and any one who wishes it may easily find or make opportunities
of hearing the opinions of all classes. The present time, too, is
peculiarly favourable for this; a careless freedom in uttering
opinions of all kinds being, I think, the most remarkable feature in
the manners of Paris at the present day.
I have heard that it is difficult to get a tame, flat, short,
matter-of-fact answer from a genuine Irishman;--from a genuine
Frenchman it is impossible: let his reply to a question which seeks
information contain as little of it as the dry Anglicism "I don't
know," it is never given without a tone or a turn of phrase that not
only relieves its inanity, but leaves you with the agreeable
persuasion that the speaker would be more satisfactory if he could,
and moreover that he would be extremely happy to reply to any further
questions you may wish to ask, either on the same, or any other
subject whatever.
It was in consequence of my moving my chair an inch and a half to
accommodate the long limbs of a grey-headed neighbour, that he was
induced to follow his "Milles pardons, madame!" with an observation on
the inconvenience endured on the present occasion by the appropriation
of all the best places to the gentlemen. It was quite contrary, he
added, to the usual spirit of Parisian arrangements; and yet, in fact,
it was the only means of preventing the ladies suffering from the
tremendous rush of _jeunes gens_ who constantly came to hear the Abbé
Lacordaire.
"I never saw so large a proportion of young men in any congregation,"
said I, hoping he might explain the mystery to me. What I heard,
however, rather startled than enlightened me.
"The Catholic religion was never so likely to be spread over the whole
earth as it is at present," he replied. "The kingdom of Ireland will
speedily become fully reconciled to the see of Rome. Le Sieur
O'Connell desires to be canonized. Nothing, in truth, remains for that
portion of your country to do, but to follow the example we set during
our famous Three Days, and place a prince of its own choosing upon the
throne."
I am persuaded that he thought we were Irish Roman Catholics: our
sitting with such exemplary patience to wait for the preaching of this
new apostle was not, I suppose, to be otherwise accounted for. I said
nothing to undeceive him, but wishing to bring him back to speak of
the congregation before us, I replied,
"Paris at least, if we may judge from the vast crowd collected here,
is more religious than she has been of late years."
"France," replied he with energy, "as you may see by looking at this
throng, is no longer the France of 1823, when her priests sang
canticles to the tune of "_Ça ira_." France is happily become most
deeply and sincerely Catholic. Her priests are once more her orators,
her magnates, her highest dignitaries. She may yet give cardinals to
Rome--and Rome may again give a minister to France."
I knew not what to answer: my silence did not seem to please him, and
I believe he began to suspect he had mistaken the party altogether,
for after sitting for a few minutes quite silent, he rose from the
place into which he had pushed himself with considerable difficulty,
and making his way through the crowd behind us, disappeared; but I saw
him again, before we left the church, standing on the steps of the
pulpit.
The chair he left was instantly occupied by another gentleman, who had
before found standing-room near it. He had probably remarked our
sociable propensities, for he immediately began talking to us.
"Did you ever see anything like the fashion which this man has
obtained?" said he. "Look at those _jeunes gens_, madame! ... might
one not fancy oneself at a première représentation?"
"Those must be greatly mistaken," I replied, "who assert that the
young men of Paris are not among her _fidèles_."
"Do you consider their appearing here a proof that they are
religious?" inquired my neighbour with a smile.
"Certainly I do, sir," I replied: "how can I interpret it otherwise?"
"Perhaps not--perhaps to a stranger it must have this appearance; but
to a man who knows Paris...." He smiled again very expressively, and,
after a short pause, added--"Depend upon it, that if a man of equal
talent and eloquence with this Abbé Lacordaire were to deliver a
weekly discourse in favour of atheism, these very identical young men
would be present to hear him."
"Once they might," said I, "from curiosity: but that they should
follow him, as I understand they do, month after month, if what he
uttered were at variance with their opinions, seems almost
inconceivable."
"And yet it is very certainly the fact," he replied: "whoever can
contrive to obtain the reputation of talent at Paris, let the nature
of it be of what kind it may, is quite sure that _les jeunes gens_
will resort to hear and see him. They believe themselves of
indefeasible right the sole arbitrators of intellectual reputation;
and let the direction in which it is shown be as foreign as may be to
their own pursuits, they come as a matter of prescriptive right to
put their seal upon the aspirant's claim, or to refuse it."
"Then, at least, they acknowledge that the Abbé's words have power, or
they would not grant their suffrage to him."
"They assuredly acknowledge that his words have eloquence; but if by
power, you mean power of conviction, or conversion, I do assure you
that they acknowledge nothing like it. Not only do I believe that
these young men are themselves sceptics, but I do not imagine that
there is one in ten of them who has the least faith in the Abbé's own
orthodoxy."
"But what right have they to doubt it?... Surely he would hardly be
permitted to preach at Notre Dame, where the archbishop himself sits
in judgment on him, were he otherwise than orthodox?"
"I was at school with him," he replied: "he was a fine sharp-witted
boy, and gave very early demonstrations of a mind not particularly
given either to credulity, or subservience to any doctrines that he
found puzzling."
"I should say that this was the greatest proof of his present
sincerity. He doubted as a boy--but as a man he believes."
"That is not the way the story goes," said he. "But hark! there is the
bell: the mass is about to commence."
He was right: the organ pealed, the fine chant of the voices was heard
above it, and in a few minutes we saw the archbishop and his splendid
train escorting the Host to its ark upon the altar.
During the interval between the conclusion of the mass and the arrival
of the Abbé Lacordaire in the pulpit, my sceptical neighbour again
addressed me.
"Are you prepared to be very much enchanted by what you are going to
hear?" said he.
"I hardly know what to expect," I replied: "I think my idea of the
preacher was higher when I came here, than since I have heard you
speak of him."
"You will find that he has a prodigious flow of words, much vehement
gesticulation, and a very impassioned manner. This is quite sufficient
to establish his reputation for eloquence among _les jeunes gens_."
"But I presume you do not yourself subscribe to the sentence
pronounced by these young critics?"
"Yes, I do,--as far, at least, as to acknowledge that this man has not
attained his reputation without having displayed great ability. But
though all the talent of Paris has long consented to receive its crown
of laurels from the hands of her young men, it would be hardly
reasonable to expect that their judgment should be as profound as
their power is great."
"Your obedience to this beardless synod is certainly very
extraordinary," said I: "I cannot understand it."
"I suppose not," said he, laughing; "it is quite a Paris fashion; but
we all seem contented that it should be so. If a new play appears, its
fate must be decided by _les jeunes gens_; if a picture is exhibited,
its rank amidst the works of modern art can only be settled by them:
does a dancer, a singer, an actor, or a preacher appear--a new member
in the tribune, or a new prince upon the throne,--it is still _les
jeunes gens_ who must pass judgment on them all; and this judgment is
quoted with a degree of deference utterly inconceivable to a
stranger."