called,--that is to say, the society of the educated ladies and
gentlemen of France,--is the most graceful, animated, and fascinating
in the world; I think, nevertheless, that it is not as perfect as it
might be, were a little more exclusiveness permitted in the formation
of it.
No one can be really well acquainted with good society in this country
without being convinced that there are both men and women to be found
in it who to the best graces add the best virtues of social life; but
it is equally impossible to deny, that admirable as are some
individuals of the circle, they all exercise a degree of toleration to
persons less estimable, which, when some well-authenticated anecdotes
are made known to us, is, to say the least of it, very startling to
the feelings of those who are not to this easy manner either born or
bred.
To look into the hearts of all who form either a Parisian or a London
lady's visiting list, in order to discover of what stuff each
individual be made, would not perhaps be very wise, and is luckily
quite impossible. Nothing at all approaching to such a scrutiny can be
reasonably wished or expected from those who open their doors for the
reception of company; but where society is perfectly well ordered, no
one of either sex, I think, whose outward and visible conduct has
brought upon them the eyes of all and the reprobation of the good,
should be admitted.
That such are admitted much more freely in France than in England,
cannot be denied; and though there are many who conscientiously keep
aloof from such intercourse, and more who mark plainly enough that
there is a distance in spirit even where there is vicinity of person,
still I think it is greatly to be regretted that such a leven of
disunion should ever be suffered to insinuate itself into meetings
which would be so infinitely more agreeable as well as more
respectable without it.
One reason, I doubt not, why there is less exclusiveness and severity
of selection in the forming a circle here is, that there are no
individuals, or rather no class of individuals, in the wide circle
which constitutes what is called _en grand_ the society of Paris, who
could step forward with propriety and say, "_This may not be_."
With us, happily, the case is as yet different. The clergy of England,
their matronly wives and highly-educated daughters, form a distinct
caste, to which there is nothing that answers in the whole range of
continental Europe. In this caste, however, are mingled a portion of
every other; yet it has a dignity and aristocracy of its own: and in
this aristocracy are blended the high blood of the noble, the learning
which has in many instances sufficed to raise to a level with it the
obscure and needy, and the piety which has given station above either
to those whose unspotted lives have marked them out as pre-eminent in
the holy profession they have chosen.
While such men as these mingle freely in society, as they constantly
do in England, and bring with them the females who form their
families, there is little danger that notorious vice should choose to
obtrude itself.
It will hardly be denied, I believe, that many a frail fair one, who
would boldly push her way among ermine and coronets where the mitre
was not, would shrink from parading her doubtful honours where it was:
and it is equally certain, that many a thoughtless, easy, careless
giver of fine parties has been prevented from filling up her
constellation of beauties because "It is impossible to have Lady This,
or Mrs. That, when the bishop and his family are expected."
Nor is this wholesome influence confined to the higher ranks
alone;--the rector of the parish--nay, even his young curate, with a
smooth cheek and almost unrazored chin, will in humbler circles
produce the same effect. In short, wherever an English clergyman or an
English clergyman's family appears, there decency is in presence, and
the canker of known and tolerated vice is not.
Whenever we find ourselves weary of this restraint, and anxious to mix
(unshackled by the silent rebuke of such a presence) with whatever may
be most attractive to the eye or amusing to the spirit, let the stamp
of vice be as notorious upon it as it may, whenever we reach this
state, it will be the right and proper time to pass the Irish Church
Bill.
These meditations have been thrust upon me by the reply I received in
answer to a question which I addressed to a lady of my acquaintance at
a party the other evening.
"Who is that very elegant-looking woman?" said I.
"It is Madame de C***," was the reply. "Have you never met her
before? She is very much in society; one sees her everywhere."
I replied, that I had seen her once or twice before, but had never
learned her name; adding, that it was not only her name I was anxious
to learn, but something about her. She looked like a personage, a
heroine, a sybil: in short, it was one of those heads and busts that
one seems to have the same right to stare at, as at a fine picture or
statue; they appear a part of the decorations, only they excite a
little more interest and curiosity.
"Can you not tell me something of her character?" said I: "I never saw
so picturesque a figure; I could fancy that the spirit of Titian had
presided at her toilet."
"It was only the spirit of coquetry, I suspect," answered my friend
with a smile. "But if you are so anxious to know her, I can give you
her character and history in very few words:--she is rich, high-born,
intellectual, political, and unchaste."
I do not think I started; I should be shocked to believe myself so
unfit for a salon as to testify surprise thus openly at anything; but
my friend looked at me and laughed.
"You are astonished at seeing her here? But I have told you that you
may expect to meet her everywhere; except, indeed, chez moi, and at a
few exceedingly rococo houses besides."
As the lady I was talking to happened to be an Englishwoman, though
for many years a resident in Paris, I ventured to hint the surprise I
felt that a person known to be what she described Madame de C***
should be so universally received in good society.
"It is very true," she replied: "it is surprising, and more so to me
perhaps than to you, because I know thoroughly well the irreproachable
character and genuine worth of many who receive her. I consider this,"
she continued, "as one of the most singular traits in Parisian
society. If, as many travellers have most falsely insinuated, the
women of Paris were generally corrupt and licentious, there would be
nothing extraordinary in it: but it is not so. Where neither the
husband, the relatives, the servants, nor any one else, has any wish
or intention of discovering or exposing the frailty of a wife, it is
certainly impossible to say that it may not often exist without being
either known or suspected: but with this, general society cannot
interfere; and those whose temper or habits of mind lead them to
suspect evil wherever it is possible that it may be concealed, may
often lose the pleasure of friendship founded on esteem, solely
because it is possible that some hidden faults may render their
neighbour unworthy of it. That such tempers are not often to be found
in France, is certainly no proof of the depravity of national manners;
but where notorious irregularity of conduct has brought a woman fairly
before the bar of public opinion, it does appear to me very
extraordinary that such a person as our hostess, and very many others
equally irreproachable, should receive her."
"I presume," said I, "that Madame de C*** is not the only person
towards whom this remarkable species of tolerance is exercised?"
"Certainly not. There are many others whose _liaisons_ are as well
known as hers, who are also admitted into the best society. But
observe--I know no instance where such are permitted to enter within
the narrower circle of intimate domestic friendship. No one in Paris
seems to think that they have any right to examine into the private
history of all the _élégantes_ who fill its salons; but I believe they
take as good care to know the _friends_ whom they admit to the
intimacy of their private hours as we do. There, however, this species
of decorum ends; and they would no more turn back from entering a room
where they saw Madame de C***, than a London lady would drive
away from the opera because she saw the carriage of Lady ---- at the
door."
"There is no parallel, however, between the cases," said I.
"No, certainly," she replied; "but it is not the less certain that the
Parisians appear to think otherwise."
Now it appears evident to me, that all this arises much less from
general licentiousness of morals than from general easiness of temper.
SANS SOUCI is the darling device of the whole nation: and how can this
be adhered to, if they set about the very arduous task of driving out
of society all those who do not deserve to be in it? But while feeling
sincerely persuaded, as I really do, that this difference in the
degree of moral toleration practised by the two countries does not
arise from any depravity in the French character, I cannot but think
that our mode of proceeding in this respect is infinitely better. It
is more conducive, not only to virtue, but to agreeable and
unrestrained intercourse; and for this reason, if for no other, it is
deeply our interest to uphold with all possible reverence and dignity
that class whose presence is of itself sufficient to guarantee at
least the reputation of propriety, in every circle in which they
appear.
Though not very german to Paris and the Parisians, which I promised
should make the subjects of my letters as long as I remained among
them, I cannot help observing how utterly this most important
influence would be destroyed in the higher circles--which will ever
form the model of those below them--if the riches, rank, and worldly
honours of this class are wrested from them. It is indeed very certain
that a clergyman, whether bishop, priest, or deacon, may perform the
duty of a minister in the desk, at the altar, or in the pulpit, though
he has to walk home afterwards to an humble dwelling and an humble
meal: he may perform this duty well, and to the entire satisfaction of
the rich and great, though his poverty may prevent him from ever
taking his place among them; but he may not--he can not, while such is
the station allotted him, produce that effect on society, and exert
that influence on the morals of the people, which he would do were his
temporal place and power such as to exalt him in the eyes even of the
most worldly.
Amidst all the varieties of cant to which it is the destiny of the
present age to listen, there is none which I endure with so little
patience as that which preaches the "_humility of the church_." Were
there the shadow of reason or logic in the arguments for the
degradation of the clergy drawn from the Scriptures, they must go the
length of showing that, in order to follow the example of the great
Master, they must all belong to the class of carpenters and fishermen.
Could we imagine another revelation of the Divinity accorded to man,
it would be natural enough to conceive that the rich gift of direct
inspiration should be again given to those who had neither learning,
knowledge, pride, nor power of any kind, to combat or resist, to
explain or to weaken, the communication which it was their duty
simply to record and spread abroad. But the eternal word of God once
delivered, does it follow that those who are carefully instructed in
all the various learning which can assist in giving strength and
authority to the propagation of it should alone, of all the sons of
men, be for ever doomed to the lower walks of social life in order to
imitate the humility of the Saviour of the world?
I know not if there be more nonsense or blasphemy in this. The taking
the office of preaching his own blessed will to man was an act of
humility in God; but the taking upon themselves to instruct their
fellow-men in the law thus solemnly left us, is a great assumption of
dignity in men,--and where the offices it imposes are well performed,
it becomes one of the first duties of the believers in the doctrine
they have made it their calling to expound, to honour them with such
honour as mortals can understand and value. If any one be found who
does not perform the duties of this high calling in the best manner
which his ability enables him to do, let him be degraded as he
deserves; but while he holds it, let him not be denied the dignity of
state and station to which all his fellow-citizens in their different
walks aspire, in order forsooth to _keep him humble_! Humble
indeed--yea, humbled to the dust, will our long-venerated church and
its insulted ministers be, if its destiny and their fortune be left
at the mercy of those who have lately undertaken to legislate for
them. I often feel a sort of vapourish, vague uncertainty of
disbelief, as I read the records of what has been passing in the House
of Commons on this subject. I cannot _realise_ it, as the Americans
say, that the majority of the English parliament should consent to be
led blind-fold upon such a point as this, by a set of low-born,
ignorant, bullying papists. I hope, when I return to England, I shall
awake and find that it is not so.
And now forgive me for this long digression: I will write to you
to-morrow upon something as essentially French as possible, to make up
for it.
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.
Can I better keep the promise I gave you yesterday than by writing you
a letter of and concerning le grand opéra? Is there anything in the
world so perfectly French as this? Something like their pretty opéra
comique may exist elsewhere; we have our comic opera, and Italy has
her buffa; the opéra Italien, too, may be rather more than rivalled at
the Haymarket: but where out of Paris are we to look for anything like
the Académie Royale de Musique? ... le grand opéra? ... l'opéra par
excellence?--I may safely answer, nowhere.
It is an institution of which the expenses are so enormous, that
though it is more constantly and fully attended perhaps than any other
theatre in the world, it could not be sustained without the aid of
funds supplied by the government. The extraordinary partiality for
this theatre seems to have existed among the higher classes, without
any intermission from change of fashion, occasional inferiority of the
performances, or any other cause, from the time of Louis Quatorze to
the present. That immortal monarch, whose whim was power, and whose
word was law, granted a patent privilege to this establishment in
favour of the musical Abbé Perrin, but speedily revoked it, to bestow
one more ample still on Lulli. In this latter act, it is ordained that
"_tous gentilshommes et demoiselles puissent chanter aux dites pièces
et représentations de notre dite Académie Royale sans que pour ça ils
soient censés déroger au dit titre de noblesse et à leurs
priviléges_."
This was a droll device to exalt this pet plaything of the fashionable
world above all others. Voltaire fell into the mode like the rest of
the fine folks, and thus expressed his sensibility to its
attractions:--
"Il faut se rendre à ce palais magique,
Où les beaux vers, la danse, la musique,
L'art de charmer les yeux par les couleurs,
L'art plus heureux de séduire les coeurs,
De cent plaisirs font un plaisir unique."
But the most incomprehensible part of the business is, that with all
this enthusiasm, which certainly rather goes on increasing than
diminishing, every one declares that he is _ennuyé à la mort_ at le
grand opéra.
I do not mean that their being ennuyés is incomprehensible--Heaven
knows that I understand that perfectly: but why, when this is avowed,
they should continue to persecute themselves by going there two or
three times in every week, I cannot comprehend.
If attendance at the opera were here, as it is with us, a sort of
criterion of the love of music and _other fine arts_, it would be much
less difficult to understand: but this is far from being the case, as
both the Italian and the comic operas have more perfect orchestras.
The style and manner of singing, too, are what no genuine lover of
music could ever be brought to tolerate. When the remembrance of a
German or Italian opera comes across one while listening to the dry,
heavy recitative of the Academy, it produces a feeling of impatience
difficult to conceive by those who have never experienced it.
If, however, instead of being taken in by the name of opera, and
expecting the musical treat which that name seems to promise, we go to
this magnificent theatre for the purpose of seeing the most superb and
the best-fancied decorations in the world, we shall at least not be
disappointed, though before the end of the entertainment we may
probably become heartily weary of gazing at and admiring the dazzling
pageant. I told you just now what Voltaire said of the opera, either
when he was particularly enchanted by some reigning star--the adorable
Sophie Arnould perhaps--or else when he chose to be particularly
à-la-mode: but he seems more soberly in earnest, I think, when he says
afterwards, "L'opéra n'est qu'un rendezvous publique, où l'on
s'assemble à certains jours, sans trop savoir pourquoi: c'est une
maison où tout le monde va, quoiqu'on pense mal du maître, et qu'il
soit assez ennuyeux."
That little phrase, "où tout le monde va," contains, I suspect after
all, the only true solution of the mystery. "Man is a gregarious
animal," say the philosophers; and it is therefore only in conformity
to this well-known law of his nature that hes and shes flock by
thousands to be pent up together, in defiance of most _triste musique_
and a stifling atmosphere, within the walls of this beautiful
puppet-show.
That it is beautiful, I am at this moment particularly willing to
avouch, as we have just been regaling ourselves, or rather our eyes,
with as gorgeous a spectacle there as it ever entered into the heart
of a carpenter to _étaler_ on the stage of a theatre. This splendid
show is known by the name of "La Juive;" but it should rather have
been called "Le Cardinal," for a personage of no less dignity is
decidedly its hero. M. Halévy is the composer, and M. Scribe the
author of the "paroles."
M. Scribe stands so high as a dramatic composer, that I suppose he
may sport a little with his fame without running much risk of doing it
an injury: but as the Académie Royale has the right of drawing upon
the Treasury for its necessities, it is to be hoped that the author of
"Bertrand et Raton" is well paid for lending his name to the pegs on
which ermine and velvet, feathers and flowers, cardinals' hats and
emperors' mantles, are hung up to view for the amusement of all who
may be curious in such matters. I suspect, however, that the
composition of this piece did not cost the poet many sleepless nights:
perhaps he remembered that excellent axiom of the Barbier de
Seville,--"Ce qui ne vaut pas la peine d'être dit, on le chante;" and
under this sentence I think such verses as the following, which
strongly remind one of the famous Lilliputian ode in the Bath Guide,
may fairly enough be condemned to music.
"Fille chère
Près d'un père
Viens mourir;
Et pardonne
Quand il donne
La couronne
Du martyr!
Plus de plainte--
Vaine crainte
Est éteinte
En mon coeur;
Saint délire!
Dieu m'inspire,
Et j'expire
Vainqueur."
Unhappily, however, the music is at least as worthless as the rhymes.
There is one passage, nevertheless, that is singularly impressive and
beautiful. This is the chorus at the opening of the second act, where
a party of Jews assembled to eat the passover chant a grace in these
words:--
"Oh! Dieu de nos pères!
Toi qui nous éclaires,
Parmi nous descends!"
&c. &c. &c.
This is very fine, but perhaps it approaches rather too closely to the
"Dieu d'Israël" in Méhul's opera of "Joseph" to be greatly vaunted on
the score of originality.
Yet, with all these "points of 'vantage" at which it may be hostilely
attacked, "La Juive" draws thousands to gaze at its splendour every
time it is performed. Twice we attempted to get in without having
secured places, and were told on both occasions that there was not
even standing-room for gentlemen.
Among its attractions are two which are alike new to me as belonging
to an opera: one is the performance of the "Te Deum laudamus," and the
other the entrance of Franconi's troop of horse.
But, after all, it was clear enough that, whatever may have been the
original object of this institution, with its nursery academies of
music and dancing, its royal patronage and legalised extravagance,
its present glory rests almost wholly on the talents of the Taglioni
family, and with the sundry MM. décorateurs who have imagined and
arranged the getting up this extraordinary specimen of scenic
magnificence, as well as the many others of the same kind which have
preceded it.
I have seen many very fine shows of the kind in London, but certainly
never anything that could at all be compared with this. Individual
scenes--as, for instance, that of the masqued ball in "Gustavus"--may
equal, by the effect of the first coup-d'oeil, any scene in "La
Juive"; but it is the extraordinary propriety and perfection of all
the accessaries which make this part of the performance worthy of a
critical study from the beginning to the end of it. I remember reading
in some history of Paris, that it was the fashion to be so _précieuse_
as to the correctness of the costumes of the French opera, that the
manager could not venture to bring out "Les Trois Sultanes" without
sending to Constantinople to obtain the dresses. A very considerable
portion of the same spirit has evidently been at work to render the
appearance of a large detachment of the court of Rome and the whole
court of the Emperor Sigismund _comme il faut_ upon the scene.
But, with all a woman's weakness at my heart in favour of velvet,
satin, gold tissue, and ermine, I cannot but confess that these
things, important as they are, appear but secondary aids in the
magical scenic effects of "La Juive." The arrangement and management
of the scenery were to me perfectly new. The coulisses have vanished,
side scenes are no more,--and, what is more important still, these
admirable mechanists have found the way of throwing across the stage
those accidental masses of shadow by aid of which Nature produces her
most brilliant effects; so that, instead of the aching eyes having to
gaze upon a blaze of reflected light, relieved only by an occasional
dip of the foot-lights and a sudden paling of gas in order to enact
night, they are now enchanted and beguiled by exactly such a mixture
of light and shade as an able painter would give to a picture.
How this is effected, Heaven knows! There are, I am very sure, more
things at present above, about, and underneath the opera stage, than
are dreamed of in any philosophy, excepting that of a Parisian
carpenter. In the first scene of the "Juive," a very noble-looking
church rears its sombre front exactly in the centre of the stage,
throwing as fine, rich, deep a shadow on one side of it as Notre Dame
herself could do. In another scene, half the stage appears to be sunk
below the level of the eye, and is totally lost sight of, a low
parapet wall marking the boundary of the seeming river.
Our box was excellently situated, and by no means distant from the
stage; yet we often found it impossible to determine at what point, in
different directions, the boards ended and the scenery began. The
arrangement of the groups too, not merely in combinations of grace and
beauty, but in such bold, easy, and picturesque variety, that one
might fancy Murillo had made the sketches for them, was another source
of wonder and admiration; and had all these pretty sights been shown
us in the course of two acts instead of five, I am sure we should have
gone home quite delighted and in the highest possible good-humour. But
five acts of raree-show is too much; and accordingly we yawned, and
talked of Grétry, Méhul, Nicolo, and I know not whom beside;--in
short, became as splenetic and pedantic as possible.