scene. That Mademoiselle Mars felt weighed down by the part, I am
quite certain;--it was like watching the painful efforts of a
beautiful racer pushed beyond its power--distressed, yet showing its
noble nature to the last. But even her exquisite acting made the
matter worse: to hear the voice of Mars uttering expressions of love,
while the ruffian she addresses grows more murderous as she grows more
tender, produced an effect at once so hateful and so absurd, that one
knows not whether to laugh or storm at it. But, what was the most
terrible of all, was to see Mars exerting her matchless powers to draw
forth tears, and then to look round the house and see that she was
rewarded by--a smile!
After Tisbe is stabbed, Catarina of course comes to life; and the
whole farce concludes by the dying Tisbe's telling the lovers that she
had ordered horses for them; adding tenderly, "Elle est
déliée--(how?)--morte pour le podesta, vivante pour toi. Trouves-tu
cela bien arrangé ainsi?" Then Rodolpho says to Catarina, "Par qui
as-tu été sauvée?"
"LA TISBE (_in reply_).
"Par moi, pour toi!"
M. Hugo, in a note at the end of the piece, apologises for not
concluding with these words--"Par moi, pour toi," which he seems to
think particularly effective: nevertheless, for some reason which he
does not very clearly explain, he concludes thus;--
"LA TISBE.
"Madame, permettez-moi de lui dire encore une fois, Mon Rodolpho.
Adieu, mon Rodolpho! partez vite à présent. Je meurs. Vivez. Je te
bénis!"
* * * * *
It is impossible in thus running through the piece to give you any
adequate idea of the loose, weak, trumpery style in which it is
written. It really seems as if the author were determined to try how
low he might go before the boys and grisettes who form the chorus of
his admirers shall find out that he is quizzing them. One peculiarity
in the plot of "this fine tragedy" is, that the hero Angelo never
appears, nor is even alluded to, after the scene in which he
commissions la Tisbe to administer the poison to Madame. His sudden
disappearance is thus commented upon at the Vaudeville. The Tyrant
there makes his appearance after it is all over, exclaiming--
"Je veux en être, moi ... l'on osera peut-être
Finir un mélodrame en absence du traître?
Suis-je un hors-d'oeuvre, un inutile article,
Une cinquième roue ajoutée au tricycle?"
In the preface to this immortal performance there is this passage:--
"Dans l'état où sont aujourd'hui toutes ces questions profondes qui
touchent aux racines même de la société, il semblait depuis long-tems
à l'auteur de ce drame qu'il pourrait y avoir utilité et grandeur"
(utilité et grandeur!) "à développer sur le théâtre quelque chose de
pareil à l'idée que voici...."
And then follows what he calls his idea: but this preface must be read
from beginning to end, if you wish to see what sort of stuff it is
that humbug and impudence can induce the noisiest part of a population
to pronounce "fine!" But you must hear one sentence more of this
precious preface, for fear "the work" may not fall into your hands.
"Le drame, comme l'auteur de cet ouvrage le voudrait faire, doit
donner à la foule une philosophie; aux idées, une formule; à la
poésie, des muscles, du sang, et de la vie; à ceux qui pense, une
explication désintéressée; aux âmes altérées un breuvage, aux plaies
secrètes un baume--à chacun un conseil, à tous une loi." (!!!!)
He concludes thus:--
"Au siècle où nous vivons, l'horizon de l'art est bien élargi.
Autrefois le poète disait, le public; aujourd'hui le poète dit, le
peuple."
Is it possible to conceive affected sublimity and genuine nonsense
carried farther than this? Let us not, however, sit down with the
belief that the capital of France is quite in the condition he
describes;--let us not receive it quite as gospel that the raptures,
the sympathy of this "foule sympathique et éclairée," that he talks
of, in his preface to "Angelo," as coming nightly to the theatre to do
him honour, exists--or at least that it exists beyond the very narrow
limits of his own clique. The men of France do not sympathise with
Victor Hugo, whatever the boys may do. He has made himself a name, it
is true,--but it is not a good one; and in forming an estimate of the
present state of literature in France, we shall greatly err if we
assume as a fact that Hugo is an admired writer.
I would not be unjustly severe on any one; but here is a gentleman who
in early life showed considerable ability;--he produced some light
pieces in verse, which are said to be written with good moral
feeling, and in a perfectly pure and correct literary taste. We have
therefore a right to say that M. Hugo turned his talents thus against
his fellow-creatures, not from ignorance--not from simple folly--but
upon calculation. For is it possible to believe that any man who has
once shown by his writings a good moral feeling and a correct taste,
can expose to the public eye such pieces as "Lucrèce Borgia," "Le Roi
s'amuse," "Angelo," and the rest--in good faith, believing the doing
so to be, as he says, "une tâche sainte?" Is this possible?... and if
it be not, what follows?... Why, that the author is making a job of
corrupting human hearts and human intellects. He has found out that
the mind of man, particularly in youth, eagerly seeks excitement of
any kind: he knows that human beings will go to see their fellows
hanged or guillotined by way of an amusement, and on this knowledge he
speculates.
But as the question relates to France, we have not hitherto treated it
fairly. I am persuaded that had our stage no censorship, and were
dramas such as those of Dumas and Victor Hugo to be produced, they
would fill the theatres at least as much as they do here. Their very
absurdity--the horror--nay, even the disgust they inspire, is quite
enough to produce this effect; but it would be unwise to argue thence
that such trash had become the prevailing taste of the people.
That the speculation, as such, has been successful, I have no doubt.
This play, for instance, has been very generally talked of, and many
have gone to see it, not only on its own account, but in order to
behold the novel spectacle of Mademoiselle Mars _en lutte_ with an
actress from La Porte St. Martin. As for Madame Dorval, I imagine she
must be a very effective melodramatic performer when seen in her
proper place; but, however it may have flattered her vanity, I do not
think it can have added to her fame to bring her into this dangerous
competition. As an actress, she is, I think, to Mademoiselle Mars much
what Victor Hugo is to Racine,--and perhaps we shall hear that she has
"heaved the ground from under her."
Among various stories floating about on the subject of the new play
and its author, I heard one which came from a gentleman who has long
been in habits of intimacy with M. Hugo. He went, as in duty bound, to
see the tragedy, and had immediately afterwards to face his friend.
The embarrassment of the situation required to be met by presence of
mind and a _coup de main_: he showed himself, however, equal to the
exigency; he spoke not a word, but rushing towards the author, threw
his arms round him, and held him long in a close and silent embrace.
Another pleasantry on the same subject reached me in the shape of four
verses, which are certainly droll enough; but I suspect that they must
have been written in honour, not of "Angelo," but of some one of the
tragedies in verse--"Le Roi s'amuse," perhaps, for they mimic the
harmony of some of the lines to be found there admirably.
"Où, ô Hugo! huchera-t-on ton nom?
Justice encore rendu, que ne t'a-t-on?
Quand donc au corps qu'académique on nomme,
Grimperas-tu de roc en roc, rare homme?"
And now farewell to Victor Hugo! I promise to trouble you with him no
more; but the consequence which has been given to his name in England,
has induced me to speak thus fully of the estimation in which I find
him held in France.
"RARE HOMME!"
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Vent-hole.
LETTER LXV.
Boulevard des Italiens.--Tortoni's.--Thunder-storm.--Church
of the Madeleine.--Mrs. Butler's "Journal."
All the world has been complaining of the tremendous heat of the
weather here. The thermometer stands at.... I forget what, for the
scale is not my scale; but I know that the sun has been shining
without mercy during the last week, and that all the world declare
that they are baked. Of all the cities of the earth to be baked in,
surely Paris is the best. I have been reading that beautiful story of
George Sand's about nothing at all, called "Lavinia," and chose for my
study the deepest shade of the Tuileries Garden. If we could but have
sat there all day, we should have felt no inconvenience from the sun,
but, on the contrary, only have watched him from hour to hour
caressing the flowers, and trying in vain to find entrance for one of
his beams into the delightful covert we had chosen: but there were
people to be seen, and engagements to be kept; and so here we are at
home again, looking forward to a large party for the evening!
The Boulevard as we came along was prettier than ever;--stands of
delicious flowers tempting one at every step--a rose, and a bud, and
two bits of mignonette, and a sprig of myrtle, for five sous; but all
arranged so elegantly, that the little bouquet was worth a dozen tied
up less tastefully. I never saw so many sitters in a morning; the
people seemed as if they were reposing from necessity--as if they sat
because they could walk no farther. As we passed Tortoni's, we were
amused by a group, consisting of a very pretty woman and a very pretty
man, who were seated on two chairs close together, and flirting
apparently very much to their own satisfaction; while the third figure
in the group, a little Savoyard, who had probably begun by asking
charity, seemed spell-bound, with his eyes fixed on the elegant pair
as if studying a scene for the _gaie science_, of which, as he carried
a mandoline, I presume he was a disciple. We were equally entertained
by the pertinacious staring of the little minstrel, and the utter
indifference to it manifested by the objects of his admiration.
A few steps farther, our eyes were again arrested by an exquisite, who
had taken off his hat, and was deliberately combing his coal-black
curls as he walked. In a brother beau, I doubt not he would have
condemned such a degree of _laisser-aller_; but in himself, it only
served to relever the beauty of his forehead and the general grace of
his movements. I was glad that no fountain or limpid lake opened
beneath his feet,--the fate of Narcissus would have been inevitable.
Last night we had intended to make a farewell visit to the
Feydeau,--Feydeau no longer, however,--to the Opéra Comique, I should
say. But fortunately we had not secured a box, and therefore enjoyed
the privilege of changing our minds,--a privilege ever dear, but in
such weather as this inestimable. Instead of going to the theatre, we
remained at home till it began to grow dark and cool--cooler at least
by some degrees, but still most heavily sultry. We then sallied forth
to eat ices at Tortoni's. All Paris seemed to be assembled upon the
Boulevard to breathe: it was like a very crowded night at Vauxhall,
and hundreds of chairs seemed to have sprung up from the ground to
meet the exigences of the moment, for double rows of sitters occupied
each side of the pavement.
[Illustration: Drawn & Etched by A. Hervieu.
BOULEVARD DES ITALIENS.
London. Published by Richard Bentley. 1835.]
Frenchwomen are so very lovely in their evening walking-dress, that I
would rather see them thus than when full-dressed at parties. A
drawing-room full of elegantly-dressed women, all looking prepared for
a bal paré, is no unusual sight for English eyes; but truth obliges me
to confess that it would be in vain at any imaginable evening
promenade in London to look for such a spectacle as the Italian
Boulevard showed us last night. It is the strangest thing in the world
that it should be so--for it is certain that neither the bonnets, nor
the pretty faces they shelter, are in any way inferior in England to
any that can be seen elsewhere; but Frenchwomen have more the habit
and the _knack_ of looking elegantly-dressed without being
full-dressed. It is impossible to enter into detail in order to
explain this--nothing less skilful than a milliner could do this; and
I think that even the most skilful of the profession would not find it
easy: I can only state the fact, that the general effect of an evening
promenade in Paris is more elegant than it is in London.
We were fortunate enough to secure the places of a large party that
were leaving a window in the upper room at Tortoni's as we entered it:
and here again is a scene as totally un-English as that of a
restaurant in the Palais Royal. Both the rooms above, as well as those
below, were quite full of gay company, each party sitting round their
own little marble table, with the large _carafe_ of ice--for so it may
well be called, for it only melts as you want it--the very sight of
which, even if you venture not to drain a draught from the slowly
yielding mass, creates a feeling of delicious coldness. Then the
incessant entrées of party-coloured pyramids, with their
accompaniment of gaufres,--the brilliant light within, the humming
crowd without,--the refreshing coolness of the delicate regale, and
the light gaiety which all the world seem to share at this pleasant
hour of perfect idleness,--all are incontestably French, and, more
incontestably still, not English.
While we were still at our window, amused by all within and all
without, we were started by some sharp flashes of lightning which
began to break through a heavy cloud of most portentous blackness that
I had been for some time admiring, as forming a beautiful contrast to
the blaze of light on the Boulevard. No rain was as yet falling, and I
proposed to my party a walk towards the Madeleine, which I thought
would give us some fine effects of light and darkness on such a night
as this. The proposal was eagerly accepted, and we wandered on till we
left the crowd and the gas behind us. We walked to the end of the Rue
Royale, and then turned round slowly and gradually to approach the
church. The effect was infinitely finer than anything I had
anticipated: the moon was only a few days past the full; and even when
hid behind the heavy clouds that were gathering together as it seemed
from all parts of the sky, gave light enough for us dimly, yet
distinctly, to discern the vast and beautiful proportions of the
magnificent portico. It looked like the pale spectre of a Grecian
temple. With one accord we all paused at the point where it was most
perfectly and most beautifully visible; and I assure you, that with
the heavy ominous mass of black clouds above and behind it--with the
faint light of the "inconstant moon," now for a moment brightly
visible, and now wholly hid behind a driving cloud, reflected from its
columns, it was the most beautiful object of art that I ever looked
at.
It was some time before we could resolve to leave it, quite sure as we
were that it never could be our chance to behold it in such perfection
again; and while we stayed, the storm advanced rapidly towards us,
adding the distant rumbling of its angry voice to enhance the effect
of the spectacle. Yet still we lingered; and were rewarded for our
courage by seeing the whole of the vast edifice burst upon our sight
in such a blaze of sudden brightness, that when it passed away, I
thought for an instant that I was struck blind. Another flash
followed--another and another. The spectacle was glorious; but the
danger of being drenched to the skin became every moment more
imminent, and we hastily retreated to the Boulevard. As we emerged
from the gloom of the Madeleine Boulevard to the glaring gas-light
from the cafés which illuminated the Italian, it seemed as if we had
got into another atmosphere and another world. No rain had as yet
fallen; and the crowd, thicker than ever, were still sitting and
lounging about, apparently unconscious of the watery danger which
threatened them. So great is the force of example, that, before we got
to the end of the promenade, we seemed unconscious of it too, for we
turned with the rest. But we were soon punished for our folly: the
dark canopy burst asunder, and let down upon us as pelting a shower as
ever drove feathers and flowers, and ribbons and gauze, to every point
of the compass in search of shelter.
I have sometimes wondered at the short space of time it required to
clear a crowded theatre of its guests; but the vanishing of the crowd
from the Boulevard was more rapid still. What became of them all,
Heaven knows; but they seemed to melt and dissolve away as the rain
fell upon them. We took shelter in the Passage de l'Opéra; and after a
few minutes the rain ceased, and we got safely home.
In the course of our excursion we encountered an English friend, who
returned home with us; and though it was eleven o'clock, he looked
neither shocked nor surprised when I ordered tea, but even consented
to stay and partake of it with us. Our tea-table gossip was concerning
a book that all the world--all the English world at least--had been
long eagerly looking for, and which we had received two days before.
Our English friend had made it his travelling-companion, and having
just completed the perusal of it, could talk of nothing else. This
book was Mrs. Butler's "Journal." Happily for the tranquillity of our
tea-table, we were all perfectly well agreed in opinion respecting it:
for, by his account, parties for and against it have been running very
strong amongst you. I confess I heard this with astonishment; for it
appears to me that all that can be said against the book lies so
completely on the surface, that it must be equally visible to all the
world, and that nobody can fail to perceive it. But these obvious
defects once acknowledged--and they must be acknowledged by all, I
should have thought that there was no possibility left for much
difference of opinion,--I should have thought the genius of its author
would then have carried all before it, leaving no one sufficiently
cold-blooded and reasonable to remember that it contained any faults
at all.
It is certainly possible that my familiarity with the scenes she
describes may give her spirited sketches a charm and a value in my
eyes that they may not have for those who know not their truth. But
this is not all their merit: the glow of feeling, the warm eloquence,
the poetic fervour with which she describes all that is beautiful, and
gives praise to all that is good, must make its way to every heart,
and inspire every imagination with power to appreciate the graphic
skill of her descriptions even though they may have no power to judge
of their accuracy.
I have been one among those who have deeply regretted the loss, the
bankruptcy, which the stage has sustained in the tragic branch of its
business by the secession of this lady: but her book, in my opinion,
demonstrates such extraordinary powers of writing, that I am willing
to flatter myself that we shall have gained eventually rather than
lost by her having forsaken a profession too fatiguing, too exhausting
to the spirits, and necessarily occupying too much time, to have
permitted her doing what now we may fairly hope she will do,--namely,
devote herself to literature. There are some passages of her
hastily-written, and too hastily-published journal, which evidently
indicate that her mind was at work upon composition. She appears to
judge herself and her own efforts so severely, that, when speaking of
the scenes of an unpublished tragedy, she says "they are not
bad,"--which is, I think, the phrase she uses: I feel quite persuaded
that they are admirable. Then again she says, "Began writing a
novel...." I would that she would finish it too!--and as I hold it to
be impossible that such a mind as hers can remain inactive, I comfort
myself with the belief that we shall soon again receive some token of
her English recollections handed to us across the Atlantic. That her
next production will be less _faulty_ than her last, none can doubt,
because the blemishes are exactly of a nature to be found in the
journal of a heedless young traveller, who having caught, in passing,
a multitude of unseemly phrases, puts them forth in jest,
unmindful--much too unmindful certainly--of the risk she ran that they
might be fixed upon her as her own genuine individual style of
expression. But we have only to read those passages where she
certainly is not jesting--where poetry, feeling, goodness, and piety
glow in every line--to know what her language is _when she is in
earnest_. On these occasions her power of expression is worthy of the
thoughts of which it is the vehicle,--and I can give it no higher
praise.
LETTER LXVI.
A pleasant Party.--Discussion between an Englishman and a
Frenchman.--National Peculiarities.
I told you yesterday that, notwithstanding the tremendous heat of the
weather, we were going to a large party in the evening. We
courageously kept the engagement; though, I assure you, I did it in
trembling. But, to our equal surprise and satisfaction, the rooms of
Mrs. M---- proved to be deliciously cool and agreeable. Her
receiving-apartment consists of three rooms. The first was surrounded
and decorated in all possible ways with a profusion of the most
beautiful flowers, intermixed with so many large glass vases for gold
fish, that I am sure the air was much cooled by evaporation from the
water they contained. This room was lighted wholly by a large lamp
suspended from the ceiling, which was enclosed in a sort of gauze
globe, just sufficiently thick to prevent any painful glare of light,
but not enough so to injure the beautiful effect always produced by
the illumination of flowers. The large croisées were thrown open, with
very slight muslin curtains over them; and the whole effect of the
room--its cool atmosphere, its delicious fragrance, and its subdued
light--was so enchanting, that it was not without difficulty we passed
on to pay our compliments to Mrs. M----, who was in a larger but much
less fascinating apartment.
There were many French persons present, but the majority of the
company was English. Having looked about us a little, we retreated to
the fishes and the myrtles; and as there was a very handsome man
singing buffa songs in one of the other rooms, with a score of very
handsome women looking at and listening to him, the multitude
assembled there; and we had the extreme felicity of finding fresh air
and a sofa _à notre disposition_, with the additional satisfaction of
accepting or refusing ices every time the trays paraded before us. You
will believe that we were not long left without companions, in a
position so every way desirable: and in truth we soon had about us a
select committee of superlatively agreeable people; and there we sat
till considerably past midnight, with a degree of enjoyment which
rarely belongs to hours devoted to a very large party in very hot
weather.
And what did we talk about?--I think it would be easier to enumerate
the subjects we did not touch upon than those we did. Everybody
seemed to think that it would be too fatiguing to run any theme far;
and so, rather in the style of idle, pampered lap-dogs, than of
spirited pointers and setters, we amused ourselves by skittishly
pursuing whatever was started, just as it pleased us, and then turned
round and reposed till something else darted into view. The whole
circle, consisting of seven persons, were English with the exception
of one; and that one was--he must excuse me, for I will not name
him--that one was a most exceedingly clever and superlatively
agreeable young Frenchman.
As we had snarled and snapped a little here and there in some of our
gambols after the various objects which had passed before us, this
young man suggested the possibility of his being _de trop_ in the
coterie. "Are you not gênés," said he, "by my being here to listen to
all that you and yours may be disposed to say of us and ours?... Shall
I have the amiability to depart?"
A general and decided negative was put upon this proposition; but one
of the party moved an amendment. "Let us," said he, "agree to say
everything respecting France and the French with as much unreserve as
if you were on the top of Notre Dame; and do you, who have been for
three months in England, treat us exactly in the same manner; and see
what we shall make of each other. We are all much too languid to
suffer our patriotism to mount up to 'spirit-boil,' and so there is no
danger whatever that we should quarrel."