tender hand of affection is so often seen to pillow its loved victim
where the fumes of charcoal shall soon extinguish a life too precious
to be prolonged in a world where laws still exist, and where man must
live, and woman too, by the sweat of their brows?
It was some time after the conversation in which I received this
sketch, that I fell into company with an Englishman who enjoys the
reputation of high cultivation and considerable talent, and who
certainly is not without that species of power in conversation which
is produced by the belief that hyperbole is the soul of eloquence, and
the stout defence of a paradox the highest proof of intellectual
strength.
To say I _conversed_ with this gifted individual would hardly be
correct; but I listened to him, and gained thereby additional
confirmation of a fact which I had repeatedly heard insisted on in
Paris, that admiration for the present French school of décousu
writing is manifested by critics of a higher class in England than
could be found to tolerate it in France.
"Have you read the works of the _young men_ of France?" was the
comprehensive question by which this gentleman opened the flood-gates
of the eloquence which was intended to prove, that without having
studied well the bold and sublime compositions which have been put
forth by this class, no one had a right to form a judgment of the
existing state of human intelligence.
For myself, I confess that my reading in this line, though greatly
beyond what was agreeable to my taste, has never approached anything
that deserved the name of study; and, indeed, I should as soon have
thought of forming an estimate of the "existing state of human
intelligence" from the height to which the boys of Paris made their
kites mount from the top of Montmartre, as from the compositions to
which he alluded: but, nevertheless, I listened to him very
attentively; and I only wish that my memory would serve me, that I
might repeat to you all the fine things he said in praise of a
multitude of authors, of whom, however, it is more than probable you
never heard, and of works that it is hardly possible you should have
ever seen.
It would be difficult to give you any just idea of the energy and
enthusiasm which he manifested on this subject. His eyes almost
started from his head, and the blood rushed over his face and temples,
when one of the party hinted that the taste in which most of these
works were composed was not of the most classic elegance, nor their
apparent object any very high degree of moral utility.
It is a well-known fact that people are seldom angry when they are
quite in the right; and I believe it is equally rare to see such an
extremity of vehemence as this individual displayed in asserting the
high intellectual claims of his favourites exhibited on any question
where reason and truth are on the side espoused by the speaker. I
never saw the veins of the forehead swell in an attempt to prove that
"Hamlet" was a fine tragedy, or that "Ivanhoe" was a fine romance; but
on this occasion most of the company shrank into silence before the
impassioned pleadings of this advocate for ... modern French
historiettes.
In the course of the discussion many _young_ names were cited; and
when a few very palpable hits were made to tell on the literary
reputations of some among them, the critic seemed suddenly determined
to shake off all slighter skirmishing, and to defend the broad
battle-field of the cause under the distinguished banner of M. Balzac
himself. And here, I confess, he had most decidedly the advantage of
me; for my acquaintance with the writings of this gentleman was
exceedingly slight and superficial,--whereas he appeared to have
studied every line he has ever written, with a feeling of reverence
that seemed almost to bear a character of religious devotion. Among
many of his works whose names he cited with enthusiasm, that entitled
"La Peau de Chagrin" was the one which evidently raised his spirit to
the most exalted pitch. It is difficult to imagine admiration and
delight expressed more forcibly; and as I had never read a single line
of this "Peau de Chagrin," my preconceived notions of the merit of M.
Balzac's compositions really gave way before his enthusiasm; and I not
only made a silent resolution to peruse this incomparable work with as
little delay as possible, but I do assure you that I really and truly
expected to find in it some very striking traits of genius, and a
perfection of natural feeling and deep pathos which could not fail to
give me pleasure, whatever I might think of the tone of its principles
or the correctness of its moral tendency.
Early then on the following morning I sent for "La Peau de
Chagrin."... I have not the slightest wish or intention of entering
into a critical examination of its merits; it would be hardly
possible, I think, to occupy time more unprofitably: but as every
author makes use of his preface to speak in his own person, whatever
one finds written there assuming the form of a literary dictum may be
quoted with propriety as furnishing the best and fairest testimony of
his opinions, and I will therefore take the liberty of transcribing a
few short sentences from the preface of M. Balzac, for the purpose of
directing your attention to the theory upon which it is his intention
to raise his literary reputation.
The preface to "La Peau de Chagrin" appears to be written chiefly for
the purpose of excusing the licentiousness of a former work entitled
"La Physiologie du Mariage." In speaking of this work he says, frankly
enough certainly, that it was written as "une tentative faite pour
retourner à la littérature fine, vive, railleuse et gaie du
dix-huitième siècle, où les auteurs ne se tenaient pas toujours droits
et raides.... L'auteur de ce livre cherche à favoriser la réaction
littéraire que préparent certains bons esprits.... Il ne comprend pas
la pruderie, l'hypocrisie de nos moeurs, et refuse, du reste, aux
gens blasés le droit d'être difficiles."
This is telling his readers fairly enough what they have to expect;
and if after this they will persist in plunging headlong into the mud
which nearly a century of constantly-increasing refinement has gone
far to drag us out of ... why they must.
As another reason why his pen has done ... what it has done, M. Balzac
tells us that it is absolutely necessary to have something in a
_genre_ unlike anything that the public has lately been familiar
with. He says that the reading world (which is in fact all the world)
"est las aujourd'hui" ... of a great many different styles of
composition which he enumerates, summing up all with ... "et
l'Histoire de France, Walter-Scottée.... Que nous reste-t-il donc?" he
continues. "Si le public condamne les efforts des écrivains qui
essaient de remettre en honneur la littérature _franche_ de nos
ancêtres...."
As another specimen of the theories of these new immortals, let me
also quote the following sentence:--"Si Polyeucte n'existait pas, plus
d'un poète moderne est capable de _refaire_ Corneille."
Again, as a reason for going back to the tone of literature which he
has chosen, he says,--"Les auteurs ont souvent raison dans leurs
impertinences contre le tems présent. Le monde nous demande de belles
peintures--où en seraient les types? Vos habits mesquins--vos
révolutions manquées--vos bourgeois discoureurs--votre religion
morte--vos pouvoirs éteints--vos rois en demi-solde--sont-ils donc si
poétiques qu'il faille vous les transfigurer?... Nous ne pouvons
aujourd'hui que nous moquer--la raillerie est toute la littérature des
sociétés expirantes."
M. Balzac concludes this curious essay on modern literature
thus:--"Enfin, le tems présent marche si vite--la vie intellectuelle
déborde partout avec tant de force, que plusieurs idées ont vieilli
pendant que l'auteur imprimait son ouvrage."
This last phrase is admirable, and gives the best and clearest idea of
the notions of the school on the subject of composition that I have
anywhere met with. Imagine Shakspeare and Spenser, Swift and Pope,
Voltaire and Rousseau, publishing a work with a similar prefatory
apology!... But M. Balzac is quite right. The ideas that are generated
to-day will be old to-morrow, and dead and buried the day after. I
should indeed be truly sorry to differ from him on this point; for
herein lies the only consolation that the wisdom of man can suggest
for the heavy calamity of witnessing the unprecedented perversion of
the human understanding which marks the present hour. IT WILL NOT
LAST: Common Sense will reclaim her rights, and our children will
learn to laugh at these spasmodic efforts to be great and original as
cordially as Cervantes did at the chronicles of knight-errantry which
turned his hero's brain.
LETTER LXXII.
Breaking-up of the Paris season.--Soirée at Madame
Récamier's.--Recitation.--Storm.--Disappointment.--Atonement.
--Farewell.
My letters from Paris, my dear friend, must now be brought to a
close--and perhaps you will say that it is high time it should be so.
The summer sun has in truth got so high into the heavens, that its
perpendicular beams are beginning to make all the gay folks in Paris
fret--or, at any rate, run away. Everybody we see is preparing to be
off in some direction or other,--some to the sea, some to philosophise
under the shadow of their own vines, and some, happier than all the
rest, to visit the enchanting watering-places of lovely Germany.
We too have at length fixed the day for our departure, and this is
positively the last letter you will receive from me dated from the
beauteous capital of the Great Nation. It is lucky for our
sensibilities, or for our love of pleasure, or for any other feeling
that goes to make up the disagreeable emotion usually produced by
saying farewell to scenes where we have been very happy, that the
majority of those whose society made them delightful are going to say
farewell to them likewise: leaving Paris a month ago would have been a
much more dismal business to us than leaving it now.
Our last soirée has been passed at the Abbaye-aux-Bois; and often as I
have taken you there already, I must describe this last evening,
because the manner in which we passed it was more essentially
un-English than any other.
About ten days before this our farewell visit, we met, at one of
Madame Récamier's delightful reception-nights, a M. Lafond, a tragic
actor of such distinguished merit, that even in the days of Talma he
contrived, as I understand, to obtain a high reputation in Paris,
though I do not believe his name is much known to us;--in fact, the
fame of Talma so completely overshadowed every other in his own walk,
that few actors of his day were remembered in England when the subject
of the French drama was on the tapis.
On the evening we met this gentleman at the Abbaye-aux-Bois, he was
prevailed upon by our charming hostess (to whom I suspect that nobody
can be found tough enough to pronounce a refusal of anything she asks)
to recite a very spirited address from the pen of Casimir Delavigne to
the people of Rouen, which M. Lafond had publicly spoken in the
theatre of that city when the statue of Racine, who was native to it,
was erected there.
The verses are good, full of fervour, spirit and true poetical
feeling, and the manner in which they were spoken by M. Lafond gave
them their full effect. The whole scene was, indeed, striking and
beautiful. A circle of elegant women,--among whom, by the way, was a
niece of Napoleon's,--surrounded the performer: the gentlemen were
stationed in groups behind them; while the inspired figure of Gérard's
Corinne, strongly brought forward from the rest of the picture by a
very skilful arrangement of lamps concealed from the eye of the
spectator, really looked like the Genius of Poetry standing apart in
her own proper atmosphere of golden light to listen to the honours
rendered to one of her favourite sons.
I was greatly delighted; and Madame Récamier, who perceived the
pleasure which this recitation gave me, proposed to me that I should
come to her on a future evening to hear M. Lafond read a play of
Racine's.
No proposition could have been more agreeable to us all. The party was
immediately arranged; M. Lafond promised to be punctually there at the
hour named, and we returned home well pleased to think that the last
soirée we should pass in Paris would be occupied so delightfully.
Last night was the time fixed for this engagement. The morning was
fair, but there was no movement in the air, and the heat was intense.
As the day advanced, thick clouds came to shelter us from the sun
while we set forth to make some of our last farewell calls; but they
brought no coolness with them, and their gloomy shade afforded little
relief from the heavy heat that oppressed us: on the contrary, the
sultry weight of the atmosphere seemed to increase every moment, and
we were soon driven home by the ominous blackness which appeared to
rest on every object, giving very intelligible notice of a violent
summer-storm.
It was not, however, till late in the evening that the full fury of
this threatened deluge fell upon Paris; but about nine o'clock it
really seemed as if an ocean had broken through the dark canopy above
us, so violent were the torrents of rain which then fell in one vast
waterspout upon her roofs.
We listened to the rushing sound with very considerable uneasiness,
for our anxious thoughts were fixed upon our promised visit to the
Abbaye-aux-Bois; and we immediately gave orders that the porter's
scout--a sturdy little personage well known to be good at need--should
be despatched without a moment's delay for a fiacre: and you never, I
am sure, saw a more blank set of faces than those exhibited in our
drawing-room when the tidings reached us that not a single voiture
could be found!
After a moment's consultation, it was decided that the experienced
porter himself should be humbly requested to run the risk of being
drowned in one direction, while his attendant satellite again dared
the same fate in another. This prompt and spirited decision produced
at length the desired effect; and after another feverish half-hour of
expectation, we had the inexpressible delight of finding ourselves
safely enveloped in cloaks, which rendered it highly probable we might
be able to step from the vehicle without getting wet to the skin, and
deposited in the corners of one of those curiously-contrived swinging
machines, whose motion is such that nothing but long practice or the
most vigilant care can enable you to endure without losing your
balance, and running a very dangerous tilt against the head of your
opposite neighbour with your own.
I never quitted the shelter of a roof in so unmerciful a night. The
rain battered the top of our vehicle as if enraged at the opposition
it presented to its impetuous descent upon the earth. The thunder
roared loud above the rattling and creaking of all the crazy wheels we
met, as well as the ceaseless grinding of those which carried us; and
the lightning flashed with such rapidity and brightness, that the
very mud we dashed through seemed illuminated.
The effect of this storm as we passed the Pont Neuf was really
beautiful. One instant our eyes looked out upon the thickest darkness;
and the next, the old towers of Notre Dame, the pointed roofs of the
Palais de Justice, and the fine bold elevation of St. Jacques, were
"instant seen and instant gone." One bright blue flash fell full, as
we dashed by it, on the noble figure of Henri Quatre, and the statua
gentilissima, horse and all, looked as ghastly and as spectre-like as
heart could wish.
At length we reached the lofty iron grille of the venerable Abbaye.
The ample court was filled with carriages: we felt that we were late,
and hastening up the spacious stairs, in a moment found ourselves in a
region as different as possible from that we had left. Instead of
darkness, we were surrounded by a flood of light; rain and the howling
blast were exchanged for smiles and gentle greetings; and the growling
thunder of the storm, for the sweet voice of Madame Récamier, which
told us however that M. Lafond was not yet arrived.
As the party expected was a large one, it was Miss C----'s noble
saloon that received us. It was already nearly full, but its stately
monastic doors still continued to open from time to time for the
reception of new arrivals--yet still M. Lafond came not.
At length, when disappointment was beginning to take place of
expectation, a note arrived from the tragedian to Madame Récamier,
stating that the deluge of rain which had fallen rendered the streets
of Paris utterly impassable without a carriage, and the same cause
made it absolutely impossible to procure one; ergo, we could have no
M. Lafond--no Racine.
Such a contre-tems as this, however, is by no means very difficult to
bear at the Abbaye-aux-Bois. But Madame Récamier appeared very sorry
for it, though nobody else did; and admirable as M. Lafond's reading
is known to be, I am persuaded that the idea of her being vexed by his
failing to appear caused infinitely more regret to every one present
than the loss of a dozen tragedies could have done. And then it was
that the spirit of genuine French _amabilité_ shone forth; and in
order to chase whatever was disagreeable in this change in the
destination of our evening's occupations, one of the gentlemen present
most good-humouredly consented to recite some verses of his own,
which, both from their own merit, and from the graceful and amiable
manner in which they were given, were well calculated to remove every
shadow of dissatisfaction from all who heard them.
This example was immediately followed in the same delightful spirit by
another, who in like manner gave us more than one proof of his own
poetic power, as well as of that charming national amenity of manner
which knows so well how to round and polish every rough and jutting
corner which untoward accidents may and must occasionally throw across
the path of life.
One of the pieces thus recited was an extremely pretty legend, called,
if I mistake not, "Les Soeurs Grises," in which there is a sweet and
touching description of a female character made up of softness,
goodness, and grace. As this description fell trait by trait from the
lips of the poet, many an eye turned involuntarily towards Madame
Récamier; and the Duchesse d'Abrantes, near whom I was sitting, making
a slight movement of the hand in the same direction, said in a half
whisper,--
"C'est bien elle!"
* * * * *
On the whole, therefore, our disappointment was but lightly felt; and
when we rose to quit this delightful Abbaye-aux-Bois for the last
time, all the regret of which we were conscious arose from
recollecting how doubtful it was whether we should ever find ourselves
within its venerable walls again.
POSTSCRIPT.
The letters which are herewith presented to the public contain nothing
beyond passing notices of such objects as chiefly attracted my
attention during nine very agreeable weeks passed amidst the
care-killing amusements of Paris. I hardly know what they contain; for
though I have certainly been desirous of giving my correspondent, as
far as I was able, some idea of Paris at the present day, I have been
at least equally anxious to avoid everything approaching to so
presumptuous an attempt as it would have been to give a detailed
history of all that was going on there during the period of our stay.
These letters, therefore, have been designedly as unconnected as
possible: I have in this been _décousu_ upon principle, and would
rather have given a regular journal, after the manner of Lloyd's List,
noting all the diligences which have come in and gone out of "la belle
ville" during my stay there, than have attempted to analyse and define
the many unintelligible incongruities which appeared to me to mark the
race and mark the time.
But though I felt quite incapable of philosophically examining this
copious subject, or, in fact, of going one inch beneath the surface
while describing the outward aspect of all around me, I cannot but
confess that the very incongruity which I dared not pretend to analyse
appeared to me by far the most remarkable feature in the present state
of the country.
There has, I know, always been something of this kind attributed to
the French character. Splendour and poverty--grace and grimace--delicacy
and filth--learning and folly--science and frivolity, have often been
observed among them in a closeness of juxta-position quite unexampled
elsewhere; but of late it has become infinitely more conspicuous,--or
rather, perhaps, this want of consistency has seemed to embrace
objects of more importance than formerly. Heretofore, though it was
often suspected in graver matters, it was openly demonstrated only on
points which concerned the externals of society rather than the vital
interests of the country; but from the removal of that restraint which
old laws, old customs, and old authority imposed upon the public acts
of the people, the unsettled temper of mind which in time past showed
itself only in what might, comparatively speaking, be called trifles,
may in these latter days be traced without much difficulty in affairs
of much greater moment.
No one of any party will now deny, I believe, that many things which
by their very nature appear to be incompatible have been lately seen
to exist in Paris, side by side, in a manner which certainly resembled
nothing that could be found elsewhere.
As instances of this kind pressed upon me, I have sometimes felt as if
I had got behind the scenes of a theatre, and that all sorts of
materials, for all sorts of performances, were jumbled together around
me, that they might be ready at a moment's notice if called for. Here
a crown--there a cap of liberty. On this peg, a mantle embroidered
with fleurs-de-lis; on that, a tri-coloured flag. In one corner, all
the paraphernalia necessary to deck out the pomp and pageantry of the
Catholic church; and in another, all the symbols that can be found
which might enable them to show respect and honour to Jews, Turks,
infidels, and heretics. In this department might be seen very noble
preparations to support a grand military spectacle; and in that, all
the prettiest pageants in the world, to typify eternal peace.
I saw all these things, for it was impossible not to see them; but as
to the scene-shifters who were to prepare the different tableaux, I in
truth knew nothing about them. Their trap-doors, wires, and other
machinery were very wisely kept out of sight of such eyes as mine; for
had I known anything of the matter, I should most assuredly have told
it all, which would greatly tend to mar the effect of the next change
of decorations.
It was with this feeling, and in this spirit of purely superficial
observation, that the foregoing letters were written; but, ere I
commit them to the press, I wish to add a few graver thoughts which
rest upon my mind as the result of all that I saw and heard while at
Paris, connected as they now are with the eventful changes which have
occurred in the short interval that has elapsed since I left it.
"_The country is in a state of transition_," is a phrase which I have
often listened to, and often been disposed to laugh at, as a sort of
oracular interpretation of paradoxes which, in truth, no one could
understand: but the phrase may now be used without any Delphic
obscurity. France was indeed in a state of transition exactly at the
period of which I have been writing; but this uncertain state is past,
nearly all the puzzling anomalies which so completely defied
interpretation have disappeared, and it may now be fairly permitted,
to simple-minded travellers who pretend not to any conjuring skill, to
guess a little what she is about.
I revisited France with that animating sensation of pleasure which
arises from the hope of reviving old and agreeable impressions; but
this pleasure was nevertheless dashed with such feeling of regret as
an _English conservative_ may be supposed to feel for the popular
violence which had banished from her throne its legitimate sovereign.