voice near us: "le voilà!" I glanced my eye towards the pulpit, but it
was still empty; and on looking round me, I perceived that all eyes
were turned in the direction of a small door in the north aisle,
almost immediately behind us. "Il est entré là!" said a young woman
near us, in a tone that seemed to indicate a feeling deeper than
respect, and, in truth, not far removed from adoration. Her eyes were
still earnestly fixed upon the door, and continued to be so, as well
as those of many others, till it reopened and a slight young man in
the dress of a priest prepared for the _chaire_ appeared at it. A
verger made way for him through the crowd, which, thick and closely
wedged as it was, fell back on each side of him, as he proceeded to
the pulpit, with much more docility than I ever saw produced by the
clearing a passage through the intervention of a troop of horse.
Silence the most profound accompanied his progress; I never witnessed
more striking demonstrations of respect: and yet it is said that
three-fourths of Paris believe this man to be a hypocrite.
As soon as he had reached the pulpit, and while preparing himself by
silent prayer for the duty he was about to perform, a movement became
perceptible at the upper part of the choir; and presently the
archbishop and his splendid retinue of clergy were seen moving in a
body towards that part of the nave which is immediately in front of
the preacher. On arriving at the space reserved for them, each
noiselessly dropped into his allotted seat according to his place and
dignity, while the whole congregation respectfully stood to watch the
ceremony, and seemed to
"Admirer un si bel ordre, et reconnaître l'église."
It is easier to describe to you everything which preceded the sermon,
than the sermon itself. This was such a rush of words, such a burst
and pouring out of passionate declamation, that even before I had
heard enough to judge of the matter, I felt disposed to prejudge the
preacher, and to suspect that his discourse would have more of the
flourish and furbelow of human rhetoric than of the simplicity of
divine truth in it.
His violent action, too, disgusted me exceedingly. The rapid and
incessant movement of his hands, sometimes of one, sometimes of both,
more resembled that of the wings of a humming-bird than anything else
I can remember: but the _hum_ proceeded from the admiring
congregation. At every pause he made, and like the claptraps of a bad
actor, they were frequent, and evidently faits exprès: a little gentle
laudatory murmur ran through the crowd.
I remember reading somewhere of a priest nobly born, and so anxious to
keep his flock in their proper place, that they might not come
"between the wind and his nobility," that his constant address to them
when preaching was, "Canaille Chrétienne!" This was bad--very bad,
certainly; but I protest, I doubt if the Abbé Lacordaire's manner of
addressing his congregation as "Messieurs" was much less unlike the
fitting tone of a Christian pastor. This mundane apostrophe was
continually repeated throughout the whole discourse, and, I dare say,
had its share in producing the disagreeable effect I experienced from
his eloquence. I cannot remember having ever heard a preacher I less
liked, reverenced, and admired, than this new Parisian saint. He made
very pointed allusions to the reviving state of the Roman Catholic
Church in Ireland, and anathematized pretty cordially all such as
should oppose it.
In describing the two hours' prologue to the mass, I forgot to mention
that many young men--not in the reserved places of the centre aisle,
but sitting near us, beguiled the tedious interval by reading. Some of
the volumes they held had the appearance of novels from a circulating
library, and others were evidently collections of songs, probably less
spiritual than _spirituels_.
The whole exhibition certainly showed me a new page in the history of
_Paris as it is_, and I therefore do not regret the four hours it cost
me: but once is enough--I certainly will never go to hear the Abbé
Lacordaire again.
LETTER XLVI.
La Tour de Nesle.
It is, I believe, nearly two years ago since the very extraordinary
drama called "La Tour de Nesle" was sent me to read, as a specimen of
the outrageous school of dramatic extravagance which had taken
possession of all the theatres in Paris; but I certainly did not
expect that it would keep its place as a favourite spectacle with the
people of this great and enlightened capital long enough for me to see
it, at this distance of time, still played before a very crowded
audience.
That this is a national disgrace, is most certain: but the fault is
less attributable to the want of good taste, than to the lamentable
blunder which permits every species of vice and abomination to be
enacted before the eyes of the people, without any restraint or check
whatever, under the notion that they are thereby permitted to enjoy a
desirable privilege and a noble freedom. Yet in this same country it
is illegal to sell a deleterious drug! There is no logic in this.
It is however an undeniable fact, as I think I have before stated,
that the best class of Parisian society protest against this
disgusting license, and avoid--upon principle loudly proclaimed and
avowed--either reading or seeing acted these detestable compositions.
Thus, though the crowded audiences constantly assembled whenever they
are brought forward prove but too clearly that such persons form but a
small minority, their opinion is nevertheless sufficient, or ought to
be so, to save the country from the disgrace of admitting that such
things are good.
We seem to pique ourselves greatly on the superiority of our taste in
these matters; but let us pique ourselves rather on our theatrical
censorship. Should the clamours and shoutings of misrule lead to the
abolition of this salutary restraint, the consequences would, I fear,
be such as very soon to rob us of our present privilege of abusing our
neighbours on this point.
While things do remain as they are, however, we may, I think, smile a
little at such a judgment as Monsieur de Saintfoix passes upon our
theatrical compositions, when comparing them to those of France.
"Les actions de nos tragédies," says he, "sont pathétiques et
terribles; celles des tragédies angloises sont atroces. On y met sous
les yeux du spectateur les objets les plus horribles; un mari qui
discourt avec sa femme, qui la caresse et l'étrangle."
Might one not think that the writer of this passage had just arrived
from witnessing the famous scene in the "Monomane," only he had
mistaken it for English? But he goes on--
"Une fille toute sanglante...." (Triboulet's daughter Blanche, for
instance.)--"Après l'avoir violée...."
He then proceeds to reason upon the subject, and justly enough, I
think--only we should read England for France, and France for England.
"Il n'est pas douteux que les arts agréables ne réussissent chez un
peuple qu'autant qu'ils en prennent le génie, et qu'un auteur
dramatique ne sauroit espérer de plaire si les objets et les images
qu'il présente ne sont pas analogues au caractère, au naturel, et au
goût de la nation: on pourroit donc conclure de la différence des deux
théâtres, que l'âme d'un ANGLAIS est sombre, féroce, sanguinaire; et
que celle d'un FRANÇAIS est vive, impatiente, emportée, mais généreuse
même dans sa haine; idolatrant l'honneur"--(just like Buridan in this
same drama of the Tour de Nesle--this popular production of _la Jeune
France_--_la France régénérée_)--"idolatrant l'honneur, et ne cessant
jamais de l'apercevoir, malgré le trouble et toute la violence des
passions."
Though it is impossible to read this passage without a smile, at a
time when it is so easy for the English to turn the tables against
this patriotic author, one must sigh too, while reflecting on the
lamentable change which has taken place in the moral feeling of
revolutionised France since the period at which it was written.
What would Saintfoix say to the notion that Victor Hugo had "heaved
the ground from beneath the feet of Corneille and Racine"? The
question, however, is answered by a short sentence in his "Essais
Historiques," where he thus expresses himself:--
"Je croirois que la décadence de notre nation seroit prochaine, si les
hommes de quarante ans n'y regardoient pas CORNEILLE comme le plus
grand génie qui ait jamais été."
If the spirit of the historian were to revisit the earth, and float
over the heads of a party of Parisian critics while pronouncing
sentence on his favourite author, he might probably return to the
shades unharmed, for he would only hear "Rococo! Rococo! Rococo!"
uttered as by acclamation; and unskilled to comprehend the new-born
eloquence, he would doubtless interpret it as a _refrain_ to express
in one pithy word all reverence, admiration, and delight.
But to return to "La Tour de Nesle." The story is taken from a passage
in Brantôme's history "des Femmes Galantes," where he says, "qu'une
reine de France"--whom however he does not name, but who is said to
have been Marguérite de Bourgogne, wife of Louis Dix--"se tenoit là (à
la Tour de Nesle) d'ordinaire, laquelle fesant le guet aux passans, et
ceux qui lui revenoient et agréoient le plus, de quelque sorte de gens
que ce fussent, les fesoit appeler et venir à soy, et après ... les
fesoit précipiter du haut de la tour en bas, en l'eau, et les fesoit
noyer. Je ne veux pas," he continues, "assurer que cela soit vrai,
mais le vulgaire, au moins la plupart de Paris, l'affirme, et n'y a si
commun qu'en lui montrant la tour seulement, et en l'interrogeant, que
de lui-même ne le die."
This story one might imagine was horrible and disgusting enough; but
MM. Gaillardet et ***** (it is thus the authors announce themselves)
thought otherwise, and accordingly they have introduced her majesty's
sisters, the ladies Jeanne and Blanche of Burgundy, who were both
likewise married to sons of Philippe-le-Bel, the brothers of Louis
Dix, to share her nocturnal orgies. These "imaginative and powerful"
scenic historians also, according to the fashion of the day among the
theatrical writers of France, add incest to increase the interest of
the drama.
This is enough, and too much, as to the plot; and for the execution of
it by the authors, I can only say that it is about equal in literary
merit to the translations of an Italian opera handed about at the
Haymarket. It is in prose--and, to my judgment, very vulgar prose; yet
it is not only constantly acted, but I am assured that the sale of it
has been prodigiously great, and still continues to be so.
That a fearful and even hateful story, dressed up in all the
attractive charm of majestic poetry, and redeemed in some sort by the
noble sentiments of the personages brought into the scenes of which it
might be the foundation--that a drama so formed might captivate the
imagination even while it revolted the feelings, is very possible,
very natural, and nowise disgraceful either to the poet, or to those
whom his talent may lead captive. The classic tragedies which long
served as models to France abound in fables of this description.
Alfieri, too, has made use of such, following with a poet's wing the
steady onward flight of remorseless destiny, yet still sublime in
pathos and in dignity, though appalling in horror. In like manner, the
great French dramatists have triumphed by the power of their genius,
both over the disgust inspired by these awful classic mysteries, and
the unbending strictness of the laws which their antique models
enforced for their composition.
If we may herein deem the taste to have been faulty, the grace, the
majesty, the unswerving dignity of the tragic march throughout the
whole action--the lofty sentiments, the bursts of noble passion, and
the fine drapery of stately verse in which the whole was clothed, must
nevertheless raise our admiration to a degree that may perhaps almost
compete with what we feel for the enchanting wildness and unshackled
nature of our native dramas.
But what can we think of those who, having ransacked the pages of
history to discover whatever was most revolting to the human soul,
should sit down to arrange it in action, detailed at full length, with
every hateful circumstance exaggerated and brought out to view for the
purpose of tickling the curiosity of his countrymen and countrywomen,
and by that means beguiling them into the contemplation of scenes that
Virtue would turn from with loathing, and before which Innocence must
perish as she gazes? No gleam of goodness throughout the whole for the
heart to cling to,--no thought of remorseful penitence,--no spark of
noble feeling; nothing but vice,--low, grovelling, brutal vice,--from
the moment the curtain rises to display the obscene spectacle, to that
which sees it fall between the fictitious infamy on one side, and the
real impurity left on the other!
As I looked on upon the hideous scene, and remembered the classic
horrors of the Greek tragedians, and of the mighty imitators who have
followed them, I could not help thinking that the performance of MM.
Gaillardet et ***** was exceedingly like that of a monkey mimicking
the operations of a man. He gets hold of the same tools, but turns the
edges the wrong way; and instead of raising a majestic fabric in
honour of human genius, he rolls the materials in mud, begrimes his
own paws in the slimy cement, and then claws hold of every unwary
passenger who comes within his reach, and bespatters him with the
rubbish he has brought together. Such monkeys should be chained, or
they will do much mischief.
It is hardly possible that such dramas as the "Tour de Nesle" can be
composed with the intention of producing a great tragic effect; which
is surely the only reason which can justify bringing sin and misery
before the eyes of an audience. There is in almost every human heart a
strange love for scenes of terror and of woe. We love to have our
sympathies awakened--our deepest feelings roused; we love to study in
the magic mirror of the scene what we ourselves might feel did such
awful visitations come upon us; and there is an unspeakable interest
inspired by looking on, and fancying that were it so with us, we might
so act, so feel, so suffer, and so die. But is there in any land a
wretch so lost, so vile, as to be capable of feeling sympathy with any
sentiment or thought expressed throughout the whole progress of this
"Tour de Nesle"? God forbid!
I have heard of poets who have written under the inspiration of brandy
and laudanum--the exhalations from which are certainly not likely to
form themselves into images of distinctness or beauty; but the
inspiration that dictated the "Tour de Nesle" must have been something
viler still, though not less powerful. It must, I think, have been the
cruel calculation of how many dirty francs might be expressed from the
pockets of the idle, by a spectacle new from its depth of atrocity,
and attractive from its newness.
But, setting aside for a moment the sin and the scandal of producing
on a public stage such a being as the woman to whom MM. Gaillardet et
***** have chosen to give the name of Marguérite de Bourgogne, it is
an object of some curiosity to examine the literary merits of a piece
which, both on the stage and in the study, has been received by so
many thousands--perhaps millions--of individuals belonging to "_la
grande nation_" as a work deserving their patronage and support--or at
least as deserving their attention and attendance for years; years,
too, of hourly progressive intellect--years during which the march of
mind has outdone all former marches of human intelligence--years
during which Young France has been labouring to throw off her ancient
coat of worn-out rococoism, and to clothe herself in new-fledged
brightness. During these years she has laid on one shelf her
once-venerated Corneille,--on another, her almost worshipped Racine.
Molière is named but as a fine antique; and Voltaire himself, spite of
his strong claims upon their revolutionary affections, can hardly be
forgiven for having said of the two whom Victor Hugo is declared to
have overthrown, that "Ces hommes enseignèrent à la nation, à penser,
à sentir, à s'exprimer; leurs auditeurs, instruits par eux seuls,
devinrent enfin des juges sévères pour eux mêmes qui les avaient
éclairés." Let any one whose reason is not totally overthrown by the
fever and delirium of innovation read the "Tour de Nesle," and find
out if he can any single scene, speech, or phrase deserving the
suffrage which Paris has accorded to it. Has the dialogue either
dignity, spirit, or truth of nature to recommend it? Is there a single
sentiment throughout the five acts with which an honest man can
accord? Is there even an approach to grace or beauty in the
_tableaux_? or skill in the arrangement of the scenes? or keeping of
character among the demoniacal _dramatis personæ_ which MM. Gaillardet
et ***** have brought together? or, in short, any one merit to
recommend it--except only its superlative defiance of common decency
and common sense?
If there be any left among the men of France; I speak not now of her
boys, the spoilt grandchildren of the old revolution;--but if there be
any left among her men, as I in truth believe there are, who deprecate
this eclipse of her literary glory, is it not sad that they should be
forced to permit its toleration, for fear they should be sent to Ham
for interfering with the liberty of the press?
It is impossible to witness the representation of one of these
infamous pieces without perceiving, as you glance your eye around the
house, who are its patrons and supporters. At no great distance from
us, when we saw the "Tour de Nesle," were three young men who had all
of them a most thoroughly "_jeunes gens_" and republican cast of
countenance, and tournure of person and dress. They tossed their heads
and snuffed the theatrical air of "_la Jeune France_," as if they felt
that they were, or ought to be, her masters: and it is a positive fact
that nothing pre-eminently absurd or offensive was done or said upon
the stage, which this trio did not mark with particular admiration and
applause.
There was, however, such a saucy look of determination to do what they
knew was absurd, that I gave them credit for being aware of the
nonsense of what they applauded, from the very fact that they did
applaud it.
It is easy enough sometimes to discover "le vrai au travers du
ridicule;" and these silly boys were not, I am persuaded, such utter
blockheads as they endeavoured to appear. It is a bad and mischievous
tone, however; and the affecting a vice where you have it not, is
quite as detestable a sort of hypocrisy as any other.
Some thousand years hence perhaps, if any curious collectors of rare
copies should contrive among them to preserve specimens of the French
dramas of the present day, it may happen that while the times that are
gone shall continue to be classed as the Iron, the Golden, the Dark,
and the Augustan ages, this day of ours may become familiar in all
men's mouths as the Diabolic age,--unless, indeed, some charitable
critic shall step forward in our defence, and bestow upon it the
gentler appellation of "the Idiot era."
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.
Though, as a lady, you may fancy yourself quite beyond the possibility
of ever feeling any interest in the Palais Royal, its restaurans, its
trinket-shops, ribbon-shops, toy-shops &c. &c. &c. and all the world
of misery, mischief, and good cheer which rises _étage_ after _étage_
above them; I must nevertheless indulge in a little gossip respecting
it, because few things in Paris--I might, I believe, say nothing--can
show an aspect so completely un-English in all ways as this singular
region. The palace itself is stately and imposing, though not
externally in the very best taste. Corneille, however, says of it,--
"L'univers entier ne peut voir rien d'égal
Au superbe dehors du Palais Cardinal,"
as it was called from having been built and inhabited by the Cardinal
de Richelieu. But it is the use made of the space which was originally
the Cardinal's garden, which gives the place its present interest.
All the world--men, women and children, gentle and simple, rich and
poor,--in short, I suppose every living soul that enters Paris, is
taken to look at the Palais Royal. But though many strangers linger
there, alas! all too long, there are many others who, according to my
notions, do not linger there long enough. The quickest eye cannot
catch at one glance, though that glance be in activity during a tour
made round the whole enclosure, all the national characteristic,
picturesque, and comic groups which float about there incessantly
through at least twenty hours of the twenty-four. I know that the
Palais Royal is a study which, in its higher walks and profoundest
depths, it would be equally difficult, dangerous, and disagreeable to
pursue: but with these altitudes and profundities I have nothing to
do; there are abundance of objects to be seen there, calculated and
intended to meet the eyes of all men, and women too, which may furnish
matter for observation, without either diving or climbing in pursuit
of knowledge that, after all, would be better lost than found.
But one should have the talent of Hogarth to describe the different
groups, with all their varied little episodes of peculiarity, which
render the Palais Royal so amusing. These groups are, to be sure, made
up only of Parisians, and of the wanderers who visit _la belle ville_
in order to see and be seen in every part of it; yet it is in vain
that you would seek elsewhere the same odd selection of human beings
that are to be found sans faute in every corner of the Palais Royal.
How it happens I know not, but so it is, that almost every person you
meet here furnishes food for speculation. If it be an elegant
well-appointed man of fashion, the fancy instantly tracks him to a
_salon de jeu_; and if you are very good-natured, your heart will ache
to think how much misery he is likely to carry home with him. If it be
a low, skulking, semi-genteel _moustache_, with large, dark, deep-set
eyes rolling about to see whom he can devour, you are as certain that
he too is making for a salon, as that a man with a rod and line on his
shoulder is going to fish. That pretty _soubrette_, with her neat
heels and smart silk apron, who has evidently a few francs tied up in
the corner of the handkerchief which she holds in her hand--do we not
know that she is peering through the window of every trinket-shop to
see where she can descry the most tempting gold ear-rings, for the
purchase of which a quarter's wages are about to be dis-kerchiefed?
We must not overlook, and indeed it would not be easy to do so, that
well-defined domestic party of our country-folks who have just turned
into the superb Galerie d'Orléans. Father, mother, and daughters--how
easy to guess their thoughts, and almost their words! The portly
father declares that it would make a capital Exchange: he has not yet
seen La Bourse. He looks up to its noble height--then steps forward a
pace or two, and measures with his eye the space on all sides--then
stops, and perhaps says to the stately lady on his arm, (whose eyes
meanwhile are wandering amidst shawls, gloves, Cologne bottles, and
Sèvres china, first on one side and then on the other,)--"This is not
badly built; it is light and lofty--and the width is very considerable
for so slight-looking a roof; but what is it compared to
Waterloo-bridge!"
Two pretty girls, with bright cheeks, dove-like eyes, and "tresses
like the morn," falling in un-numbered ringlets, so as almost to hide
their curious yet timid glances, precede the parent pair; but, with
pretty well-taught caution, pause when they pause, and step on when
they step on. But they can hardly look at anything; for do they not
know, though their downcast eyes can hardly be said to see it, that
those youths with coal-black hair, favoris and imperials, are spying
at them with their lorgnettes?