feel inclined to call me to account for it. But be I right or wrong in
this judgment, it is at least sincere, and herein lies its chief
value; for I am by no means sure that I shall be able to explain very
satisfactorily the grounds on which it is formed.
France has been called "the paradise of women;" and if consideration
and deference be sufficient to constitute a paradise, I think it may
be called so justly. I will not, however, allow that Frenchmen make
better husbands than Englishmen; but I suspect they make politer
husbands--
"Je ne sais pas, pour moi, si chacun me ressemble,
Mais j'entends là-dessous un million de mots:"
and, all pleasantry apart, I am of opinion that this more observant
tone or style, or whatever it may be termed, is very far from
superficial--at least in its effects. I should be greatly surprised to
hear from good authority that a French gentleman had ever been heard
to speak rudely to his wife.
Rousseau says, when he means to be what he himself calls
"_souverainement impertinent_," that "il est convenu qu'un homme ne
refusera rien à aucune femme, fût-ce même la sienne." But it is not
only in refusing her nothing that a French husband shows the
superiority which I attribute to him; I know many English husbands who
are equally indulgent; but, if I mistake not, the general
consideration enjoyed by Frenchwomen has its origin not in the
conjugal indulgence they enjoy, but in the domestic respect
universally shown them. What foundation there may be for the idea
which prevails amongst us, that there is less strictness of morality
among married women in France than in England, I will not attempt to
decide; but, judging from the testimonies of respect shown them by
fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons, I cannot but believe that,
spite of travellers' tales, innuendoes, and all the authority of _les
contes moraux_ to boot, there must be much of genuine virtue where
there is so much genuine esteem.
In a recent work on France, to which I have before alluded, a
comparison is instituted between the conversational powers of the sex
in England and in France; and such a picture is drawn of the frivolous
inanity of the author's fair countrywomen, as, were the work
considered as one of much authority in France, must leave the
impression with our neighbours that the ladies of England are _tant
soit peu Agnès_.
Now this judgment is, I think, as little founded in truth as that of
the traveller who accused us all of being brandy-drinkers. It is
indeed impossible to say what effect might have been produced upon the
ladies from whom this description was drawn, by the awful
consciousness that they were conversing with a person of overwhelming
ability. There is such a thing as being "blasted by excess of light;"
but where this unpleasant accident does not occur, I believe that
those who converse with educated Englishwomen will find them capable
of being as intellectual companions as any in the world.
Our countrywomen however, particularly the younger part of them,
labour under a great disadvantage. The majority of them I believe to
be as well, or perhaps better informed than the majority of
Frenchwomen; but, unfortunately, it frequently happens that they are
terrified at the idea of appearing too much so: the terror of being
called learned is in general much more powerful than that of being
classed as ignorant.
Happily for France, there is no _blue_ badge, no stigma of any kind
attached to the female possessors of talent and information. Every
Frenchwoman brings forward with equal readiness and grace all she
knows, all she thinks, and all she feels on every subject that may be
started; whereas with us, the dread of imputed blueism weighs down
many a bright spirit, and sallies of wit and fancy are withheld from
the fear of betraying either the reading or the genius with which many
a fair girl is endued who would rather be thought an idiot than a
BLUE.
This is, however, a very idle fear; and that it is so, a slight
glance upon society would show, if prejudice did not interfere to
blind us. It is possible that here and there a sneer or a shrug may
follow this opprobrious epithet of "blue;" but as the sneer and the
shrug always come from those whose suffrage is of the least importance
in society, their coming at all can hardly be a sufficient reason for
putting on a masquerade habit of ignorance and frivolity.
It is from this cause, if I mistake not, that the conversation of the
Parisian women takes a higher tone than that to which English females
venture to soar. Even politics, that fearful quicksand which engulfs
so many of our social hours, dividing our drawing-rooms into a
committee of men and a coterie of women,--even politics may be handled
by them without danger; for they fearlessly mix with that untoward
subject so much lively persiflage, so much acuteness, and such
unerring tact, that many a knotty point which may have made puzzled
legislators yawn in the Chamber, has been played with in the salon
till it became as intelligible as the light of wit could make it.
No one who is familiar with that delightful portion of French
literature contained in their letters and memoirs, which paint the
manners and the minds of those they treat of with more truth of
graphic effect than any other biography in the world,--no one
acquainted with the aspect of society as it is painted there, but must
be aware that the character of Frenchmen has undergone a great and
important change during the last century. It has become perhaps less
brilliant, but at the same time less frivolous; and if we are obliged
to confess that no star remains above the horizon of the same
magnitude as those which composed the constellation that blazed during
the age of Louis Quatorze and his successor, we must allow also that
it would be difficult to find a minister of state who should now write
to his friend as the Cardinal de Retz did to Boisrobert,--"Je me sauve
à la nage dans ma chambre, au milieu des parfums."
If, however, these same minute records can be wholly trusted, I should
say that no proportionate change has taken place among the women. I
often fancy I can trace the same "genre d'esprit" amongst them with
which Madame du Deffand has made us so well acquainted. Fashions must
change--and their fashions have changed, not merely in dress perhaps,
but in some things which appear to go deeper into character, or at
least into manners; but the essentials are all the same. A petite
maîtresse is a petite maîtresse still; and female wit--female French
wit--continues to be the same dazzling, playful, and powerful thing
that it ever was. I really do not believe that if Madame de Sévigné
herself were permitted to revisit the scene of her earthly brightness,
and to find herself in the midst of a Paris soirée to-morrow, that she
would find any difficulty in joining the conversation of those she
would find there, in the same tone and style that she enjoyed so
keenly in days of yore with Madame de la Fayette, Mademoiselle
Scuderie, or any other sister sparkler of that glorious _via
lactea_--provided indeed that she did not talk politics,--on that
subject she might not perhaps be well understood.
Ladies still write romances, and still write verses. They write
memoirs too, and are moreover quite as keen critics as ever they were;
and if they had not left off giving _petits soupers_, where they
doomed the poets of the day to oblivion or immortality according to
their will, I should say, that in no good gifts either of nature or of
art had they degenerated from their admired great-grandmothers.
It can hardly, I think, be accounted a change in their character, that
where they used to converse respecting a new comedy of Molière, they
now discuss the project of a new law about to be passed in the
Chamber. The reason for this is obvious: there is no longer a Molière,
but there is a Chamber; there are no longer any new comedies greatly
worth talking about, but there are abundance of new laws instead.
In short, though the subjects are changed, they are canvassed in the
same spirit; and however much the marquis may be merged in the
doctrinaire, the ladies at least have not left off being light,
bright, witty, and gay, in order to become advocates for the
"positif," in opposition to the "idéal." They still keep faithful to
their vocation of charming; and I trust they may contrive so far to
combat this growing passion for the "positif" in their countrymen, as
to prevent their turning every salon--as they have already turned the
Boulevards before Tortoni's--into a little Bourse.
I was so much struck by the truth and elegance of "a thought" apropos
to this subject, which I found the other day in turning over the
leaves of a French lady's album, that I transcribed it:--
"Proscrire les arts agréables, et ne vouloir que ceux qui sont
absolument utiles, c'est blâmer la Nature, qui produit les fleurs, les
roses, les jasmins, comme elle produit des fruits."
This sentiment, however, simple and natural as it is, appears in some
danger of being lost sight of while the mind is kept upon such a
forced march as it is at present: but the unnatural oblivion cannot
fall upon France while her women remain what they are. The graces of
life will never be sacrificed by them to the pretended pursuit of
science; nor will a purblind examination of political economy be ever
accepted in Paris as a beautiful specimen of light reading, and a
first-rate effort of female genius.
Yet nowhere are the higher efforts of the female mind more honoured
than in France. The memory of Madame de Staël seems enshrined in every
woman's heart, and the glory she has brought to her country appears to
shed its beams upon every female in it. I have heard, too, the name of
Mrs. Somerville pronounced with admiration and reverence by many who
confessed themselves unable to appreciate, or at least to follow, the
efforts of her extraordinary mind.
In speaking of the women of Paris, however, I must not confine myself
to the higher classes only; for, as we all know but too well, "les
dames de la Halle," or, as they are more familiarly styled, "les
poissardes," have made themselves important personages in the history
of Paris. It is not, however, to the hideous part which they took in
the revolution of Ninety-three that I would allude; the doing so would
be equally disagreeable and unnecessary, for the deeds of Alexander
are hardly better known than their infernal acts;--it is rather to the
singular sort of respect paid to them in less stormy times that I
would call your attention, because we have nothing analogous to it
with us. Upon all great public occasions, such as the accession of a
king, his restoration, or the like, these women are permitted to
approach the throne by a deputation, and kings and queens have
accepted their bouquets and listened to their harangues. The
newspapers in recording these ceremonious visitings never name these
poissardes by any lesser title than "les dames de la Halle;" a phrase
which could only be rendered into English by "the ladies of
Billingsgate."
These ladies have, too, a literature of their own, and have found
troubadours among the beaux-esprits of France to chronicle their
bons-mots and give immortality to their adventures in that singular
species of composition known by the name of "Chansons Grivoises."
When Napoleon returned from Elba, they paid their compliments to him
at the Tuileries, and sang "La Carmagnole" in chorus. One hundred days
after, they repeated the ceremony of a visit to the palace; but this
time the compliment was addressed to Louis Dix-huit, and the _refrain_
of the song with which they favoured him was the famous calembourg so
much in fashion at the time--
"Rendez-nous notre _père de Gand_."
Not only do these "dames" put themselves forward upon all political
occasions, but, if report say true, they have, _parfois_, spite of
their revolutionary ferocity, taken upon themselves to act as
conservators of public morals. When Madame la Comtesse de N***
and her friend Madame T*** appeared in the garden of the
Tuileries with less drapery than they thought decency demanded, les
dames de la Halle armed themselves with whips, and repairing in a body
to the promenade, actually flogged the audacious beauties till they
reached the shelter of their homes.
The influence and authority of these women among the men of their own
rank is said to be very great; and that through all the connexions of
life, as long as his mother lives, whatever be her rank, a Frenchman
repays her early care by affection, deference, and even by obedience.
"Consolez ma pauvre mère!" has been reported in a thousand instances
to have been the last words of French soldiers on the field of battle;
and whenever an aged female is found seated in the chimney-corner, it
is to her footstool that all coaxing petitions, whether for great or
small matters, are always carried.
I heard it gravely disputed the other day, whether the old ladies of
England or the old ladies of France have the most _bonheur en partage_
amongst them. Every one seemed to agree that it was a very difficult
thing for a pretty woman to grow old in any country--that it was
terrible to "devenir chenille après avoir _été_ papillon;" and that
the only effectual way of avoiding this shocking transition was, while
still a few years on the handsome side of forty, to abandon in good
earnest all pretensions to beauty, and claiming fame and name by the
perennial charm of wit alone, to bid defiance to time and wrinkles.
This is certainly the best parachute to which a drooping beauty can
trust herself on either side of the Channel: but for one who can avail
herself of it, there are a thousand who must submit to sink into
eternal oblivion without it; and the question still remains, which
nation best understands the art of submitting to this downfall
gracefully.
There are but two ways of rationally setting about it. The one is, to
jump over the Rubicon at once at sight of the first grey hair, and so
establish yourself betimes on a sofa, with all the comforts of
footstool and elbow-room; the other is, to make a desperate resolution
never to grow old at all. Nous autres Anglaises generally understand
how to do the first with a respectable degree of resignation; and the
French, by means of some invaluable secret which they wisely keep to
themselves, are enabled to approach very nearly to equal success in
the other.
LETTER LII.
La Sainte Chapelle.--Palais de Justice.--Traces of the
Revolution of 1830.--Unworthy use made of La Sainte
Chapelle.--Boileau.--Ancient Records.
A week or two ago we made a vain and unprofitable expedition into the
City for the purpose of seeing "La Sainte Chapelle;" sainte to all
good Catholics from its having been built by Louis Neuf (St. Louis)
expressly for the purpose of receiving all the ultra-extra-super-holy
relics purchased by St. Louis from Baldwin Emperor of Constantinople,
and almost equally sainte to us heretics from having been the scene of
Boileau's poem.
Great was our disappointment at being assured, by several flitting
officials to whom we addressed ourselves in and about Le Palais de
Justice, that admission was not to be obtained--that workmen were
employed upon it, and I know not what besides; all, however, tending
to prove that a long, lingering look at its beautiful exterior was all
we had to hope for.
In proportion to this disappointment was the pleasure with which I
received an offer from a new acquaintance to conduct us over the
Palais de Justice, and into the sacred precints of La Sainte Chapelle,
which in fact makes a part of it. My accidental introduction to M.
J***, who has not only shown us this, but many other things which
we should probably never have seen but for his kindness, has been one
of the most agreeable circumstances which have occurred to me in
Paris. I have seldom met a man so "rempli de toutes sortes
d'intelligences" as is this new Parisian acquaintance; and certainly
never received from any stranger so much amiable attention, shown in
so profitable a manner. I really believe he has a passe-partout for
everything that is most interesting and least easy of access in Paris;
and as he holds a high judicial situation, the Palais de Justice was
of course open to him even to its remotest recesses: and of all the
sight-seeing mornings I remember to have passed, the one which showed
me this interesting edifice, with the commentary of our
deeply-informed and most agreeable companion, was decidedly one of the
most pleasant. There is but one drawback to the pleasure of having met
such a man--and this is the fear that in losing sight of Paris we may
lose sight of him also.
The Palais de Justice is from its extent alone a very noble building;
but its high antiquity, and its connexion with so many points and
periods of history, render it one of the most interesting buildings
imaginable. We entered all the courts, some of which appeared to be in
full activity. They are in general large and handsome. The portrait of
Napoleon was replaced in one of them during the Three Days, and there
it still remains: the old chancellor d'Auguesseau hangs opposite to
him, being one of the few pictures permitted to retain their places.
The vacant spaces, and in some instances the traces of violence with
which others have been removed, indicate plainly enough that this
venerable edifice was not held very sacred by the patriots of 1830.
The capricious fury of the sovereign people during this reign of
confusion, if not of terror, has left vestiges in almost every part of
the building. The very interesting bas relief which I remember on the
pedestal of the fine statue of Malesherbes, the intrepid defender of
Louis Seize, has been torn away; and the _brute_ masonry which it has
left displayed, is as striking and appropriate a memento of the
spoilers, as the graphic group they displaced was of the scene it
represented. M. J*** told me the sculpture was not destroyed,
and would probably be replaced. I heartily hope, for the honour of
Frenchmen, that this may happen: but if it should not, I trust that,
for the sake of historic effect, the statue and its mutilated
pedestal will remain as they are--both the one and the other mark an
epoch in the history of France.
But it was in the obscurer parts of the building that I found the most
interest. In order to take a short cut to some point to which our kind
guide wished to lead us, we were twisted through one of the old--the
very old towers of this venerable structure. It had been, I think they
said, the kitchen of St. Louis himself; and the walls, as seen by the
enormous thickness pierced for the windows, are substantial enough to
endure another six hundred years at least.
In one of the numerous rooms which we entered, we saw an extremely
curious old picture, seized in the time of Louis Quinze from the
Jesuits, as containing proof of their treasonable disrespect for
kings: and certainly there is not wanting evidence of the fact; very
speaking portraits of Henry the Third and Henry the Fourth are to be
found most unequivocally on their way to the infernal regions. The
whole performance is one of the most interesting specimens of
Jesuitical ingenuity extant.
Having fully indulged our curiosity in the palace, we proceeded to the
chapel. It is exquisitely beautiful, and so perfect in its delicate
proportions, that the eye is satisfied, and dwells with full
contentment on the whole for many minutes before the judgment is at
leisure to examine and criticise the different parts of it. But even
when this first effect is over, the perfect elegance of this
diminutive structure still rests upon the mind, producing a degree of
admiration which seems disproportioned to its tiny dimensions.
It was built for a shrine in which to preserve relics; and Pierre de
Montreuil, its able architect, appears to have sought rather to render
it worthy by its richness and its grace to become the casket for those
holy treasures, than to give it the dignity of a church. That
beautiful miniature cathedral, St. George's Chapel at Windsor, is an
enormous edifice compared to this; but less light, less lofty in its
proportions--in short, less enchanting in its general effect, than the
lovely bijou of St. Louis.
Of all the cruel profanations I have ever witnessed, that of turning
this exquisite chef-d'oeuvre into a chest for old records is the
most unpardonable: as if Paris could not furnish four walls and a roof
for this purpose, without converting this precious _châsse_ to it! It
is indeed a pitiful economy; and were I the Archbishop of Paris, I
would besiege the Tuileries with petitions that these hideous presses
might be removed; and if it might not be restored to the use of the
church, that we might at least say of it--
---- "la Sainte Chapelle
Conservait du vieux tems l'oisiveté fidèle."
This would at least be better than seeing it converted into a cupboard
of ease to the overflowing records of the Palais de Justice. The
length of this pretty reliquaire exactly equals its height, which is
divided by a gallery into a lower and upper church, resembling in some
degree as to its arrangement the much older structure at
Aix-la-Chapelle,--the high minster there being represented by the
Sainte Couronne here.
As we stood in the midst of the floor of the church, M. J***
pointed to a certain spot--
"Et bientôt LE LUTRIN se fait voir à nos yeux."
He placed me to stand where that offensive mass of timber stood of
yore; and I could not help thinking that if the poor chantre hated the
sight of it as much as I did that of the ignoble cases containing the
old parchments, he was exceedingly right in doing his utmost to make
it disappear.
Boileau lies buried here. The spot must have been chosen in
consequence of the connexion he had established in the minds of all
men between himself and its holy precincts. But it was surely the most
lively and light-hearted connexion that ever was hallowed by so solemn
a result. One might fairly steal or parody Vanburgh's epitaph for
him--
"Rise graceful o'er him, roof! for he
Raised many a graceful verse to thee."
The preservation of the beautiful painted glass of the windows through
the two revolutions which (both of them) were so busy in labours of
metamorphosis and destruction in the immediate neighbourhood, not to
mention all the ordinary chances against the safety of so frail a
treasure during so many years, is little short of miraculous; and,
considering the extraordinary sanctity of the place, it is probably so
interpreted by _les fidèles_.