insatiable thirst for politics; and here, too, we could distinguish
the melancholy champion of the elder branch of the Bourbons, who is at
least sure to find the consolation of his faithful "Quotidienne," and
the sympathy of "La France." The sour republican stalks up, as usual,
to seize upon the "Réformateur;" while the comfortable doctrinaire
comes forth from the Café Véry, ruminating on the "Journal des
Débats," and the chances of his bargains at Tortoni's or La Bourse.
It was in a walk taken round three sides of the square that we marked
the figures I have mentioned, and many more too numerous to record, on
a day that we had fixed upon to gratify our curiosity by dining--not
at Véry's, or any other far-famed artist's, but tout bonnement at a
restaurant of quarante sous par tête. Having made our tour, we mounted
au second at numéro--I forget what, but it was where we had been
especially recommended to make this coup d'essai. The scene we entered
upon, as we followed a long string of persons who preceded us, was as
amusing as it was new to us all.
I will not say that I should like to dine three days in the week at
the Palais Royal for quarante sous par tête; but I will say, that I
should have been very sorry not to have done it once, and moreover,
that I heartily hope I may do it again.
The dinner was extremely good, and as varied as our fancy chose to
make it, each person having privilege to select three or four plats
from a carte that it would take a day to read deliberately. But the
dinner was certainly to us the least important part of the business.
The novelty of the spectacle, the number of strange-looking people,
and the perfect amenity and good-breeding which seemed to reign among
them all, made us look about us with a degree of interest and
curiosity that almost caused the whole party to forget the ostensible
cause of their visit.
There were many English, chiefly gentlemen, and several Germans with
their wives and daughters; but the majority of the company was French;
and from sundry little circumstances respecting taking the places
reserved for them, and different words of intelligence between
themselves and the waiters, it was evident that many among them were
not chance visitors, but in the daily habit of dining there. What a
singular mode of existence is this, and how utterly inconceivable to
English feelings!... Yet habit, and perhaps prejudice, apart, it is
not difficult to perceive that it has its advantages. In the first
place, there is no management in the world, not even that of Mrs.
Primrose herself, which could enable a man to dine at home, for the
sum of two francs, with the same degree of luxury as to what he eats,
that he does at one of these restaurans. Five hundred persons are
calculated upon as the daily average of company expected; and forty
pounds of ready money in Paris, with the skilful aid of French cooks,
will furnish forth a dinner for this number, and leave some profit
besides. Add to which, the sale of wine is, I believe, considerable.
Some part of the receipts, however, must be withdrawn as interest upon
the capital employed. The quantity of plate is very abundant, not only
in the apparently unlimited supply of forks and spoons, but in
furnishing the multitude of grim-looking silver bowls in which the
_potage_ is served.
On the whole, however, I can better understand the possibility of five
hundred dinners being furnished daily for two francs each, by one of
these innumerable establishments, than I can the marvel of five
hundred people being daily found by each of these to eat them.
Hundreds of these houses exist in Paris, and all of them are
constantly furnished with guests. But this manner of living, so
unnatural to us, seems not only natural, but needful to them. They do
it all so well--so pleasantly! Imagine for a moment the sort of tone
and style such a dining-room would take in London. I do not mean, if
limited to the same price, but set it greatly beyond the proportion:
let us imagine an establishment where males and females should dine at
five shillings a-head--what din, what unsocial, yet vehement
clattering, would inevitably ensue!--not to mention the utter
improbability that such a place, really and _bonâ fide_ open to the
public, should continue a reputable resort for ladies for a week after
its doors were open.
But here, everything was as perfectly respectable and well arranged as
if each little table had been placed with its separate party in a
private room at Mivart's. It is but fair, therefore, that while we hug
ourselves, as we are all apt to do, on the refinement which renders
the exclusive privacy of our own dining-rooms necessary to our
feelings of comfort, we should allow that equal refinement, though of
another kind, must exist among those who, when thrown thus
promiscuously together, still retain and manifest towards each other
the same deference and good-breeding which we require of those whom we
admit to our private circle.
At this restaurant, as everywhere else in Paris, we found it easy
enough to class our _gens_. I feel quite sure that we had around us
many of the employés du gouvernement actuel--several anciens
militaires of Napoleon's--some specimens of the race distinguished by
Louis Dix-huit and Charles Dix--and even, if I do not greatly mistake,
a few relics of the Convention, and of the unfortunate monarch who was
its victim.
But during this hour of rest and enjoyment all differences seem
forgotten; and however discordant may be their feelings, two Frenchmen
cannot be seated near each other at table, without exchanging
numberless civilities, and at last entering into conversation, so well
sustained and so animated, that instead of taking them for strangers
who had never met before, we, in our stately shyness, would be ready
to pronounce that they must be familiar friends.
Whether it be this _causant_, social temper which makes them prefer
thus living in public, or that thus living in public makes them
social, I cannot determine to my own satisfaction; but the one is not
more remarkable and more totally unlike our own manners than the
other, and I really think that no one who has not dined thus in Paris
can have any idea how very wide, in some directions, the line of
demarcation is between the two countries.
I have on former occasions dined with a party at places of much higher
price, where the object was to observe what a very good dinner a very
good cook could produce in Paris. But this experiment offered nothing
to our observation at all approaching in interest and nationality to
the dinner of quarante sous.
In the first place, you are much more likely to meet English than
French society at these costly repasts; and in the second, if you do
encounter at them a genuine native gourmet of la Grande Nation, he
will, upon this occasion, be only doing like ourselves,--that is to
say, giving himself un repas exquis, instead of regaling himself at
home with his family--
"Sur un lièvre flanqué de deux poulets étiques."
But at the humble restaurant of two francs, you have again a new page
of Paris existence to study,--and one which, while it will probably
increase your English relish for your English home, will show you no
unprofitable picture of the amiable social qualities of France. I
think that if we could find a people composed in equal proportions of
the two natures, they would be as near to social perfection as it is
possible to imagine.
The French are almost too amiable to every one they chance to sit
near. The lively smile, the kind empressement, the ready causerie,
would be more flattering did we not know that it was all equally at
the service of the whole world. Whereas we are more than equally wrong
in the other extreme; having the air of suspecting that every human
being who happens to be thrown into contact with us, before we know
his birth, parentage, and education, is something very dangerous, and
to be guarded against with all possible care and precaution. Query--Do
not the Germans furnish something very like this juste milieu?
Having concluded our unexpensive repast with the prescribed tasse de
café noir, we again sallied forth to take the tour of the Palais
Royal, in order to occupy the time till the opening of the Théâtre du
Vaudeville, with which, as we were so very close to it, we determined
to finish the evening.
We returned, as we came, through the noble Galerie d'Orléans, which
was now crowded with the assembled loungers of all the numerous
restaurans. It is a gay and animated scene at any time of the day; but
at this particular hour, just before the theatres open, and just after
the gay people have all refreshed their animal spirits, Paris itself
seems typified by the aspect of the lively, laughing, idle throng
assembled there.
One reason, I believe, why Paris is so much more amusing to a
looker-on than London, is, that it contains so many more people, in
proportion to its population, who have nothing in the world to do but
to divert themselves and others. There are so many more idle men here,
who are contented to live on incomes that with us would be considered
as hardly sufficient to supply a lodging; small rentiers, who prefer
being masters of their own time and amusing themselves with a little,
to working very hard and being very much ennuyés with a great deal of
money. I am not quite sure that this plan answers well when youth is
past--at least for the individuals themselves: it is probable, I
think, that as the strength, and health, and spirits fade away,
something of quieter and more substantial comfort must often be wished
for, when perhaps it is too late to obtain it; but for others--for all
those who form the circle round which the idle man of pleasure skims
thus lightly, he is a never-failing resource. What would become of all
the parties for amusement which take place morning, noon, and night in
Paris, if this race were extinct? Whether they are married or single,
they are equally eligible, equally necessary, equally welcome wherever
pleasure makes the business of the hour. With us, it is only a small
and highly-privileged class who can permit themselves to go wherever
and whenever pleasure beckons; but in France, no lady arranging a
fête, let it be of what kind it may, has need to think twice and
thrice before she can answer the important but tormenting question
of--"But what men can we get?"
The Vaudeville was very full, but we contrived to get a good box au
second, from whence we saw, greatly to our delectation and amusement,
three pretty little pieces,--"Les Gants Jaunes," "Le Premier Amour,"
and "Elle est Folle;" which last was of the larmoyante school, and
much less to my taste than the lively nonsense of the two former; yet
it was admirably well played too. But I always go to a vaudeville with
the intention of laughing; and if this purpose fail, I am
disappointed.
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.
We were last night at a small party where there was neither dancing,
music, cards, nor--(wonderful to say!) politics to amuse or occupy us:
nevertheless, it was one of the most agreeable _soirées_ at which I
have been present in Paris. The conversation was completely on
literary subjects, but totally without the pretension of a literary
society. In fact, it was purely the effect of accident; and it was
just as likely that we might have passed the evening in talking of
pictures, or music, or rocks and rivers, as of books. But Fate decreed
that so it should be; and the consequence was, that we had the
pleasure of hearing three Frenchmen and two Frenchwomen talk for three
hours of the literature of their country. I do not mean to assert that
no other person spoke--but the frais de la conversation were certainly
furnished by the five natives.
One of the gentlemen, and that too the oldest man in company, was more
tolerant towards the present race of French novel-writers than any
person of his age and class that I have yet conversed with; but
nevertheless, his approval went no farther than to declare that he
thought the present mode of following human nature with a microscope
into all the recesses to which passion, and even vice, could lead it,
was calculated to make a better novelist than the fashion which
preceded it, of looking at all things through a magnifying medium, and
of straining and striving, in consequence, to make that appear great,
which was by its nature essentially the reverse.
The Vicomte d'Arlincourt was the author he named to establish the
truth of his proposition: he would not admit him to be an exaggeration
of the school which has passed away, but only the perfection of it.
"I remember," said he, "to have seen at the Louvre, many years ago, a
full-length portrait of this gentleman, which I thought at the time
was as perfect a symbol of what is called in France le style
romantique, as it was well possible to conceive. He was standing erect
on the rocky point of a precipice, with eye inspired, and tablets in
his hand: a foaming torrent rolled its tortured waters at his feet,
whilst he, calm and sublime, looked not 'comme une jeune beauté qu'on
arrache au sommeil,' but very like a young incroyable snatched from a
fashionable salon to meditate upon the wild majesty of nature, with
all the inspiring adjuncts of tempest, wildness, and solitude. He
appeared dressed in an elegant black coat and waistcoat, black silk
stockings, and dancing pumps. It would be lost labour," he continued,
"should I attempt to give you a more just idea of his style of writing
than the composition of this portrait conveys. It is in vain that M.
le Vicomte places himself amidst rocks and cataracts--he is still M.
le Vicomte; and his silk stockings and dancing pumps will remain
visible, spite of all the froth and foam he labours to raise around
him."
"It was not D'Arlincourt, however," said M. de C***, "who has
either the honour or dishonour of having invented this _style
romantique_--but a much greater man: it was Châteaubriand who first
broke through all that was left of classic restraint, and permitted
his imagination to run wild among everything in heaven and earth."
"You cannot, however, accuse him of running this wild race with his
imagination en habit bourgeois," said the third gentleman: "his style
is extravagant, but never ludicrous; Châteaubriand really has, what
D'Arlincourt affected to have, a poetical and abounding fancy, and a
fecundity of imagery which has often betrayed him into bad taste from
its very richness; but there is nothing strained, forced, and
unnatural in his eloquence,--for eloquence it is, though a soberer
imagination and a severer judgment might have kept it within more
reasonable bounds. After all that can be said against his taste,
Châteaubriand is a great man, and his name will live among the
literati of France; but God forbid that any true prophet should
predict the same of his imitators!"
"And God forbid that any true prophet should predict the same of the
school that has succeeded them!" said Madame V***--a delightful
old woman, who wears her own grey hair, and does not waltz. "I have
sometimes laughed and sometimes yawned over the productions of the
_école D'Arlincourt_," she added; "but I invariably turn with disgust
and indignation from those of the domestic style which has succeeded
to it."
"Invariably?" ... said the old gentleman interrogatively.
"Yes, invariably; because, if I see any symptom of talent, I lament
it, and feel alarmed for the possible mischief which may ensue. I can
never wish to see high mental power, which is the last and best gift
of Heaven, perverted so shamelessly."
"Come, come, dear lady," replied the advocate of what Goethe
impressively calls 'la littérature du désespoir,' you must not
overthrow the whole fabric because some portion of it is faulty. The
object of our tale-writers at present is, beyond all doubt, to paint
men as they are: if they succeed, their labours cannot fail of being
interesting--and I should think they might be very useful too."
"Fadaise que tout cela!" exclaimed the old lady eagerly. "Before men
can paint human nature profitably, they must see it as it really is,
my good friend--and not as it appears to these misérables in their
baraques and greniers. We have nothing to do with such scenes as they
paint; and they have nothing to do (God help them!) with literary
labours. Have you got Bernardin de Saint Pierre, ma chère?" said she,
addressing the lady of the house. The little volume was immediately
handed to her from a chiffonnière that stood behind us. "Now this,"
she continued, having found the passage she sought,--"this is what I
conceive to be the legitimate object of literature;" and she read
aloud the following passage:--
"Les lettres sont un secours du Ciel. Ce sont des rayons de cette
sagesse qui gouverne l'univers, que l'homme, inspiré par un art
céleste, a appris à fixer sur la terre.... Elles calment les passions;
elles répriment les vices; elles excitent les vertus par les exemples
augustes des gens de bien qu'elles célèbrent, et dont elles nous
présentent les images toujours honorées."
"Eh bien! a-t-il raison, ce Bernardin?" said she, laying aside her
spectacles and looking round upon us. Every one admired the passage.
"Is this the use your French romancers make of letters?" she
continued, looking triumphantly at their advocate.
"Not exactly," he replied, laughing,--"or at least not always: but I
could show you passages in Michel Raymond...."
"Bah!" exclaimed the old lady, interrupting him; "I will have nothing
to do with his passages. I think it is Chamfort who says, that "un sot
qui a un moment d'esprit, étonne et scandalise comme des chevaux de
fiacre au galop." I don't like such unexpected jerks of
sublimity--they startle more than they please me."
The conversation then rambled on to Shakspeare, and to the
mischief--such was the word--to the mischief his example, and the
passionate admiration expressed for his writings, had done to the
classic purity of French literature. This phrase, however, was not
only cavilled at, but in true French style was laughed to death by the
rest of the party. The word "classic" was declared too rococo for use,
and Shakspeare loudly proclaimed to be only defective as a model
because too mighty to imitate.
I have, however, some faint misgivings as to the perfect sincerity of
this verdict,--and this chiefly because there was but one Frenchman
present who affected to know anything about him excepting through the
medium of translation. Now, notwithstanding that the talent shown by
M. Ducis in the translation of some passages is very considerable, we
all know that Shakspeare may be very nearly as fairly judged from the
Italian "Otello" as the "French Hamlet." The party were however quite
sincere, I am sure, in the feeling they expressed of reverence for the
unequalled bard, founded upon the rank he held in the estimation of
his countrymen; this being, as the clear-headed old lady observed, the
only sure criterion, for foreigners, of the station which he ought to
hold among the poets of the earth.
Then followed some keen enough observations--applicable to any one but
Shakspeare--of the danger there might be, that in mixing tragedy and
comedy together, farce might unfortunately be the result; or, if the
"fusion," as it has been called, of tragedy and comedy into one were
very skilfully performed, the sublime and prodigious monster called
melodrame might be hoped for, as the happiest product that could be
expected.
It being thus civilly settled that our Shakspeare might be as wild as
he chose, but that it would be advisable for other people to take
care how they attempted to follow him, the party next fell into a
review, more individual and particular than I was well able to follow,
or than I can now repeat, of many writers of verses and of novels
that, I was fain to confess, I had never heard of before. One or two
of the novel-writers were declared to be very successful imitators of
the style and manner of Sir Walter Scott: and when this was stated, I
was, to say the truth, by no means sorry to plead total and entire
ignorance of their name and productions; for, having, as I fear,
manifested a little national warmth on the subject of Shakspeare, I
should have been sorry to start off in another tirade concerning Sir
Walter Scott, which I might have found it difficult to avoid, had I
known exactly what it was which they ventured to compare to him.
I do not quite understand how it happens that the Parisians are so
much better acquainted with the generality of our light literature,
than we are with the generality of theirs. This is the more
unaccountable, from the fact so universally known, that for one French
person who reads English, there are at least ten English who read
French. It is, however, impossible to deny that such is the fact. I am
sure I have heard the names of two or three dozen authors, since I
have been here, of whose existence, or of that of their works,
neither I, nor any of my literary friends, I believe, have had the
least knowledge; and yet we have considered ourselves quite _au
courant du jour_ in such matters, having never missed any opportunity
of reading every French book that came in our way, and moreover of
sedulously consulting the Foreign Quarterly. In canvassing this
difference between us, one of the party suggested that it might
perhaps arise from the fact that no work which was popular in England
ever escaped being reprinted on the Continent,--that is to say, either
at Paris or Brussels. Though this is done solely as a sort of
piratical speculation, for the purpose of inducing all the travelling
English to purchase new books for four francs here, instead of giving
thirty shillings for them at home, it is nevertheless a natural
consequence of this manoeuvre, that the names of English books are
familiarly known here even before they have been translated.
Many of our lady authors have the honour apparently of being almost as
well known at Paris as at home. I had the pleasure of hearing Miss
Mitford spoken of with enthusiasm; and one lady told me, that, judging
her from her works, she would rather become acquainted with her than
with any author living.
Miss Landon is also well known and much admired. Madame Tastu told me
she had translated many of her compositions, and thought very highly
of them. In short, English literature and English literati are at
present very hospitably treated in France.
I was last night asked innumerable questions about many books, and
many people, whose _renommée_ I was surprised to find had crossed the
Channel; and having communicated pretty nearly all the information I
possessed upon the subject, I began to question in my turn, and heard
abundance of anecdotes and criticisms, many of them given with all the
sparkling keenness of French satire.
Many of les petits ridicules that we are accustomed to hear quizzed at
home seem to exist in the same manner, and spite of the same light
chastisement, here. The manner, for example, of making a very little
wit and wisdom go a great way, by means of short lines and long stops,
does not appear to be in any degree peculiar to our island. As a
specimen of this, a quotation from a new romance by Madame Girardin
(ci-devant Mademoiselle Delphine Gay) was shown me in a newspaper. I
will copy it for you as it was printed, and I think you will allow
that our neighbours at least equal us in this ingenious department of
literary composition.
"Pensez-vous Qu'Arthur voulût revoir Mademoiselle de Sommery?"
"NON: Au lieu de l'aimer, _Il la détestait_!"
"OUI, Il la détestait!"
* * * * *
I think our passion for novelty is pretty strong; but if the
information which I received last night respecting the same imperious
besoin here was not exaggerated by the playful spirit of the party who
were amusing themselves by describing its influence, we are patient
and tame in our endurance of old "by-gones," in comparison to the
Parisians. They have, indeed, a saying which in few words paints this
craving for novelty, as strongly as I could do, did I torment my
memory to repeat to you every word said by my lively friends last
night:
"Il nous faut du nouveau, n'en fût-il plus au monde."