Paris and the Parisians in 1835 Volume I Part 23

Another fellow, apparently of the very lowest cla.s.s, was engaged, during the whole time that the tumult lasted, in haranguing a party that he had collected round him. His arms were bare to the shoulders, and his gesticulation exceedingly violent.

"Nous avons des droits!" he exclaimed with great vehemence.... "Nous avons des droits!... Qui est-ce qui veut les nier?... Nous ne demandons que la charte.... Qu'ils nous donnent la charte!"...

The uproar lasted about three hours, after which the crowd quietly dispersed; and it is to be hoped that they may all employ themselves honestly in their respective callings, till the next fine evening shall again bring them together in the double capacity of actors and spectators at the "pet.i.t spectacle."

The constant repet.i.tion of this idle riot seems now to give little disturbance to any one; and were it not that the fines and imprisonments so constantly, and sometimes not very leniently inflicted, evidently show that they are thought worth some attention, (though, in fact, this system appears to produce no effect whatever towards checking the daring demonstrations of disaffection manifested by the rabble and their newspaper supporters,) one might deem this indifference the result of such sober confidence of strength in the government, as left them no anxiety whatever as to anything which this troublesome faction could achieve.

Such, I believe, is in fact the feeling of King Philippe's government: nevertheless, it would certainly conduce greatly to the well-being of the people of Paris, if such methods were resorted to as would effectually and at once put a stop to such disgraceful scenes.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Drawn & Etched by A. Hervieu.

PORTE ST. MARTIN.

London, Published by Richard Bentley, 1835.]

"LIBERTY AND ORDER" is King Philippe's motto: he could only improve it by adding "Repose and Quiet;" for never can he reign by any other power than that given by the hope of repose and tranquillity. The hara.s.sed nation looks to him for these blessings; and if it be disappointed, the result must be terrible.

Louis-Philippe is neither Napoleon nor Charles the Tenth. He has neither the inalienable rights of the one, nor the overpowering glory of the other; but should he be happy enough to discover a way of securing to this fine but strife-worn and weary country the tranquil prosperity that it now appears beginning to enjoy, he may well be considered by the French people as greater than either.

Bold, fearless, wise, and strong must be the hand that at the present hour can so wield the sceptre of France; and I think it may reasonably be doubted if any one could so wield it, unless its first act were to wave off to a safe distance some of the reckless spirits who are ready to lay down their lives on the scaffold--or in a gutter--or over a pan of charcoal, rather than "live peaceably in that state of life unto which it has pleased G.o.d to call them."

If King Louis-Philippe would undertake a crusade to restore independence to Italy, he might convert every traitor into a hero. Let him address the army raised for the purpose in the same inspiring words that Napoleon used of yore. "Soldats!... Partons! Retablir le capitole.... Reveiller le peuple romain engourdi par plusieurs siecles d'esclavage.... Tel sera le fruit de vos victoires. Vous rentrerez alors dans vos foyers, et vos concitoyens diront en vous montrant--Il etait de l'armee d'Italie!" And then let him inst.i.tute a new order, ent.i.tled "L'Ordre Imperial de la Redingote grise," or "L'Ordre indomptable des Bras croises," and accord to every man the right of admission to it, with the honour to boot of having an eagle embroidered on the breast of his coat if he conducted himself gallantly and like a Frenchman in the field of battle, and we should soon find the Porte St. Martin as quiet as the Autocrat's dressing-room at St. Petersburg.

If such an expedient as this were resorted to, there would no longer be any need of that indecent species of safety-valve by which the noxious vapour generated by the ill-disposed part of the community is now permitted to escape. It may be very great, dignified, and high-minded for a king and his ministers to laugh at treasonable caricatures and seditious pleasantries of all sorts,--but I do greatly doubt the wisdom of it. Human respect is necessary for the maintenance and support of human authority; and that respect will be more profitably shown by a decent degree of general external deference, than by the most sublime kindlings of individual admiration that ever warmed the heart of a courtier. This "_avis au lecteur_" might be listened to with advantage, perhaps, in more countries than one.

Since I last gave you any theatrical news, we have been to see Mademoiselle Mars play the part of Henriette in Moliere's exquisite comedy of "Les Femmes Savantes;" and I really think it the most surprising exhibition I ever witnessed. Having seen her in "Tartuffe"

and "Charlotte Brown" from a box in the first circle, at some distance from the stage, I imagined that the distance had a good deal to do with the effect still produced by the grace of form, movement, and toilet of this extraordinary woman.

To ascertain, therefore, how much was delusion and how much was truth in the beauty I still saw or fancied, I resolved upon the desperate experiment of securing that seat in the balcony which is nearest to the stage. It was from this place that I saw her play Henriette; a character deriving no aid whatever from trick or stage effect of any kind; one, too, whose charm lies wholly in simple, unaffected youthfulness: there are no flashes of wit, no startling hits either of pathos or pleasantry--nothing but youth, gentleness, modesty, and tenderness--nothing but a young girl of sixteen, rather more quiet and retiring than usual. Yet this character, which seems of necessity to require youth and beauty in the performer, though little else, was personated by this miraculous old lady in a manner that not only enchanted me--being, as I am, _rococo_--but actually drew forth from the omnipotent _jeunes gens_ in the _parterre_ such clamorous rapture of applause as must, I think, have completely overset any actress less used to it than herself. Is not this marvellous?

How much it is to be regretted that the art of writing comedy has pa.s.sed away! They have vaudevilles here--charming things in their way; and we have farces at home that certainly cannot be thought of without enjoying the gratification of a broad grin. But for comedy, where the intellect is called upon as well as the muscles, it is dead and gone.

The "Hunchback" is perhaps the nearest approach to it, whose birth I remember in our country, and "Bertrand and Raton" here; but in both cases the pleasurable excitement is produced more by the plot than the characters--more by the business of the scene than by the wit and elegance of the dialogue, except perhaps in the pretty wilfulness of Julia in the second act of the "Hunchback." But even here I suspect it was more the playful grace of the enchanting actress who first appeared in the part, than anything in the words "set down for her,"

which so delighted us.

We do now and then get a new tragedy,--witness "Fazio" and "Rienzi;"

but Comedy--genuine, easy, graceful, flowing, talking Comedy--is dead: I think she followed Sheridan to the grave and was buried with him!

But never is one so conscious of the loss, or so inclined to mourn it, as after seeing a comedy of Moliere's of the first order,--for his pieces should be divided into cla.s.ses, like diamonds. What a burst of new enjoyment would rush over all England, or all France, if a thing like "The School for Scandal" or "Les Femmes Savantes" were to appear before them!

Fancy the delight of sitting to hear wit--wit that one did not know by rote, bright, sparkling, untasted as yet by any--new and fresh from the living fountain!--not coming to one in the shape of coin, already bearing the lawful stamp of ten thousand plaudits to prove it genuine, and to refuse to accept which would be treason; but as native gold, to which the touchstone of your own intellect must be applied to test its worth! Shall we ever experience this?

It is strange that the immense ma.s.s of material for comedy which the pa.s.sing scenes of this singular epoch furnish should not be worked up by some one. Moliere seems not to have suffered a single pa.s.sing folly to escape him. Had he lived in these days, what delicious whigs, radicals, "penny-rint" kings, from our side of the water,--what tragic poets, republicans, and parvenus from his own, would he have cheered us withal!

Rousseau says, that when a theatre produces pieces which represent the real manners of the people, they must greatly a.s.sist those who are present at them to see and amend what is vicious or absurd in themselves, "comme on ote devant un miroir les taches de son visage."

The idea is excellent; and surely there never was a time when it would be so easy or so useful to put it in practice. Would the G.o.ds but send a Sheridan to England and a Moliere to France, we might yet live to see some of our worst misfortunes turned to jest, and, like the man choking in a quinsey, laugh ourselves into health again.

LETTER x.x.xV.

Soiree dansante.--Young Ladies.--Old Ladies.--Anecdote.--The Consolations of Chaperones.--Flirtations.--Discussion upon the variations between young Married Women in France and in England.--Making love by deputy.--Not likely to answer in England.

Last night we were at a ball,--or rather, I should say, a "_soiree dansante_;" for at this season, though people may dance from night to morning, there are no b.a.l.l.s. But let it be called by what name it may, it could not have been more gay and agreeable were this the month of January instead of May.

There were several English gentlemen present, who, to the great amus.e.m.e.nt of some of the company, uniformly selected their partners from among the young ladies. This may appear very natural to you; but here it is thought the most unnatural proceeding possible.

To a novice in French society, there is certainly no circ.u.mstance so remarkable as the different position which the unmarried hold in the drawing-rooms of England and _les salons_ of France. With us, the prettiest things to look at, and the partners first sought for the dance, are the young girls. Brilliant in the perfection of their youthful bloom, graceful and gay as young fawns in every movement of the most essentially juvenile of all exercises, and eclipsing the light elegance of their own toilet by loveliness that leaves no eyes to study its decoration,--it is they who, in spite of diamonds and of blonde, of wedded beauty or of t.i.tled grace, ever appear to be the princ.i.p.al actors in a ball-room. But "they manage these matters" quite otherwise "in France."

Unfortunately, it may sometimes happen among us, that a coquettish matron may be seen to lead the giddy waltz with more sprightliness than wisdom; but she always does it at the risk of being _mal notee_ in some way or other, more or less gravely, by almost every person present;--nay, I would by no means encourage her to be very certain that her tonish partner himself would not be better pleased to whirl round the mazy circle with one of the slight, light, sylph-like creatures he sees flying past him, than with the most fashionable married woman in London.

But in Paris all this is totally reversed; and, what is strange enough, you will find in both countries that the reason a.s.signed for the difference between them arises from national attention to good morals.

On entering a French ball-room, instead of seeing the youngest and loveliest part of the company occupying the most conspicuous places, surrounded by the gayest men, and dressed with the most studied and becoming elegance, you must look for the young things quite in the background, soberly and quietly attired, and almost wholly eclipsed behind the more fully-blown beauties of their married friends.

It is really marvellous, considering how very much prettier a girl is at eighteen than she can possibly be some dozen years afterwards, to see how completely fashion will nevertheless have its own way, making the worse positively appear the better beauty.

All that exceeding charm and fascination which is for ever and always attributed to an elegant Frenchwoman, belongs wholly, solely, and altogether to her after she becomes a wife. A young French girl, "_parfaitement bien elevee_," looks ... "_parfaitement bien elevee_;"

but it must be confessed, also, that she looks at the same time as if her governess (and a sharp one) were looking over her shoulder. She will be dressed, of course, with the nicest precision and most exact propriety; her corsets will forbid a wrinkle to appear in her robe, and her _friseur_ deny permission to any single hair that might wish to deviate from the station appointed for it by his stiff control. But if you would see that graceful perfection of the toilet, that unrivalled _agacerie_ of costume which distinguishes a French woman from all others in the world, you must turn from mademoiselle to madame. The very sound of the voice, too, is different. It should seem as if the heart and soul of a French girl were asleep, or at least dozing, till the ceremony of marriage awakened them. As long as it is mademoiselle who speaks, there is something monotonous, dull, and uninteresting in the tone, or rather in the tune, of her voice; but when madame addresses you, all the charm that manner, cadence, accent can bestow, is sure to greet you.

In England, on the contrary, of all the charms peculiar to youthful loveliness, I know none so remarkable as the unconstrained, fresh, natural, sweet, and joyous sound of a young girl's voice. It is as delicious as the note of the lark, when rising in the first freshness of morning to meet the sun. It is not restrained, held in, and checked into tameness by any fear lest it should too early show its syren power.

Even in the dance itself, the very arena for the display of youthful gracefulness, the young French girl fails, when her well-taught steps are compared with the easy, careless, fascinating movements of the married woman.

In the simple kindness of manner too, which, if there were no other attraction, would ever suffice to render an unaffected, good-natured young girl charming, there must be here a cautious restraint. A _demoiselle Francaise_ would be prevented by _bienseance_ from showing it, were she the gentlest-hearted creature breathing.

A young Englishman of my acquaintance, who, though he had been a good deal in French society, was not initiated into the mysteries of female education, recounted to me the other day an adventure of his, which is german to the matter, though not having much to do with our last night's ball. This young man had for a long time been very kindly received in a French family, had repeatedly dined with them, and, in fact, considered himself as admitted to their house on the footing of an intimate friend.

The only child of this family was a daughter, rather pretty, but cold, silent, and repulsive in manner--almost awkward, and utterly uninteresting. Every attempt to draw her into conversation had ever proved abortive; and though often in her company, the Englishman hardly thought she could consider him as an acquaintance.

The young man returned to England; but, after some months, again revisited Paris. While standing one day in earnest contemplation of a picture at the Louvre, he was startled at being suddenly addressed by an extremely beautiful woman, who in the kindest and most friendly manner imaginable asked him a mult.i.tude of questions--made a thousand inquiries after his health--invited him earnestly to come and see her, and concluded by exclaiming--"Mais c'est un siecle depuis que je vous ai vu."

My friend stood gazing at her with equal admiration and surprise. He began to remember that he had seen her before, but when or where he knew not. She saw his embarra.s.sment and smiled. "Vous m'avez oublie donc?" said she. "Je m'appelle Egle de P----.... Mais je suis mariee...."

But to return to our ball.

As I saw the married women taken out to dance one after the another, till at last there was not a single dancing-looking man left, I felt myself getting positively angry; for, notwithstanding the a.s.sistance given by my ignorant countrymen, there were still at least half a dozen French girls unprovided with chevaliers.

They did not, however, look by many degrees so sadly disappointed as English girls would do did the same misfortune betide them. They, like the poor eels, were used to it; and the gentlemen, too, were cruelly used to the task of torture,--making their pretty little feet beat time upon the floor, while they watched the happy wedded in pairs--not wedded pairs--swim before their eyes in mazes which they would most gladly have threaded after them.

When at length all the married ladies, young and old, were duly provided for, several staid and very respectable-looking gentlemen emerged from corners and sofas, and presenting themselves to the young expectants, were accepted with quiet, grateful smiles, and permitted to lead them to the dance.

Old ladies like myself, whose fate attaches them to the walls of a ball-room, are accustomed to find their consolation and amus.e.m.e.nt from various sources. First, they enjoy such conversation as they can catch; or, if they will sit tolerably silent, they may often hear the prettiest airs of the season exceedingly well played. Then the whole arena of twinkling feet is open to their criticism and admiration.

Another consolation, and frequently a very substantial one, is found in the supper;--nay, sometimes a pa.s.sing ice will be caught to cheer the weary watcher. But there is another species of amus.e.m.e.nt, the general avowal of which might lead the younger part of the civilized world to wish that old ladies wore blinkers: I allude to the quiet contemplation of half a dozen sly flirtations that may be going on around them,--some so well managed! ... some so clumsily!

But upon all these occasions, in England, though well-behaved old ladies will always take especial care not so to see that their seeing shall be seen, they still look about them with no feeling of restraint--no consciousness that they would rather be anywhere else than spectators of what is going forward near them. They feel, at least I am sure I do, a very comfortable a.s.surance that the fair one is engaged, not in marring, but in making her fortune. Here again I may quote the often-quoted, and say, "They manage all these matters differently at least, if not better, in France."

In England, if a woman is seen going through all the manoeuvres of the flirting exercise, from the first animating reception of the "How d'ye do?" to the last soft consciousness which fixes the eyes immovably on the floor, while the head, gently inclined, seems willing to indulge the happy ear in receiving intoxicating draughts of _parfait amour_,--when this is seen in England, even should the lady be past eighteen, one feels a.s.sured that she is not married; but here, without scandal or the shadow of scandal be it spoken, one feels equally well a.s.sured that she is. She may be a widow--or she may flirt in the innocence of her heart, because it is the fashion; but she cannot do it, because she is a young lady intending to be married.

I was deeply engaged in these speculations last night, when an elderly lady--who for some reason or other, not very easy to divine, actually never waltzes--came across the room and placed herself by my side.

Though she does not waltz, she is a very charming person; and as I had often conversed with her before, I now welcomed her approach with great pleasure.