Paris and the Parisians in 1835 Volume II Part 16

It is sad, indeed, to be forced to read almost by stealth volumes which contain such pa.s.sages, and to turn in silence from the lecture with one's heart glowing with admiration of thoughts that one might so proudly quote and boast of as coming from the pen of a woman! But, alas! her volumes are closed to the young and innocent, and one may not dare to name her among those to whom the memory clings with grat.i.tude as the giver of high mental enjoyment.

One strong proof that the native and genuine bent of her genius would carry her far above and quite out of sight of the whole decousu school is, that, with all her magical grace of expression, she is always less herself, less original, a thousand times less animated and inspired, when she sets herself to paint scenes of unchaste love, and of unnatural and hard indifference to decorum, than when she throws the reins upon the neck of her own Pegasus, and starts away into the bright region of unsoiled thoughts and purely intellectual meditation.

I should be sorry to quote the t.i.tles of any books which ought never to have been written, and which had better not be read, even though there should be buried in them precious gems of thought and expression which produce the effect of a ray of sunshine that has entered by a crevice into a dark chamber; but there are some morsels by George Sand which stand apart from the rest, and which may be cited without mischief. "La Revue des Deux Mondes" has more than once done good service to the public by putting forth in its trustworthy pages some of her shorter works. Amongst these is a little story called "Andre,"

which if not quite _faultless_, may yet be fairly quoted to prove of what its author might be capable. The character of Genevieve, the heroine of this simple, natural little tale, is evidence enough that George Sand knows what is good. Yet even here what a strange perversity of purpose and of judgment peeps out! She makes this Genevieve, whose character is conceived in a spirit of purity and delicacy that is really angelic,--she makes this sweet and exquisitely innocent creature fall into indiscretion with her lover before she marries him, though the doing so neither affects the story nor changes the catastrophe in the slightest degree. It is an impropriety _a pure perte_, and is in fact such a deplorable incongruity in the character of Genevieve--so perfectly gratuitous and unnecessary, and so utterly out of keeping with the rest of the picture, that it really looks as if Madame D---- _might not_ publish a volume that was not timbre with the stamp of her clique. It would not, I suppose, pa.s.s current among them without it.

This story of "Andre" is still before me; and though it is quite impossible that I should be able to give you any idea of it by extracts, I will transcribe a few lines to show you the tone of thought in which its author loves to indulge.

Speaking of the universal power or influence of poetry, which certainly, like M. Jourdain's prose, often exists in the mind sans qu'on en sache rien, she says,--

"Les idees poetiques peuvent s'ajuster a la taille de tous les hommes.

L'un porte sa poesie sur son front, un autre dans son coeur; celui-ci la cherche dans une promenade lente et silencieuse au sein des plaines, celui-la la poursuit au galop de son cheval a travers les ravins; un troisieme l'arrose sur sa fenetre, dans un pot de tulipes.

Au lieu de demander ou elle est, ne devrait-on pas demander ou n'est-elle pas? Si ce n'etait qu'une langue, elle pourrait se perdre; mais c'est une essence qui se compose de deux choses, la beaute repandue dans la nature exterieure, et le sentiment departi a toute l'intelligence ordinaire."

Again she shows the real tone of her mind when, speaking of a future state, she says,--

"Qui sait si, dans un nouveau code de morale, un nouveau catechisme religieux, le degout et la tristesse ne seront pas fletris comme des vices, tandis que l'amour, l'espoir, et l'admiration seront recompenses comme des vertus?"

This is a beautiful idea of the _duties_ belonging to a happier state of existence; nay, I think that if we were only as good as we easily might be here, even this life would become rather an act of thanksgiving than what it too often is--a record of sighs.

I know not where I should look in order to find thoughts more true, or fanciful ideas more beautifully expressed, than I have met with in this same story, where the occupations and reveries of its heroine are described. Genevieve is by profession a maker of artificial flowers, and the minute study necessary to enable her to imitate skilfully her lovely models has led her to an intimate acquaintance with them, the pleasures of which are described, and her love and admiration of them dwelt upon, in a strain that I am quite persuaded none other but George Sand could utter. It is evident, indeed, throughout all her writings, that the works of nature are the idols she worships. In the "Lettres d'un Voyageur,"--which I trust are only begun, for it is here that the author is perfect, unrivalled, and irreproachable,--she gives a thousand proofs of a heart and imagination which can only be truly at home when far from "the rank city." In writing to a friend in Paris, whom she addresses as a person devoted to the cares and the honours of public life, she says,--"Quand tu vois pa.s.ser un pauvre oiseau, tu envies son essor, et tu regrettes les cieux." Then she exclaims, "Que ne puis-je t'emmener avec moi sur l'aile des vents inconstans, te faire respirer le grand air des solitudes et t'apprendre le secret des poetes et des Bohemiens!" She has learned that secret, and the use she makes of it places her, in my estimation, wondrously above most of the descriptive poets that France has ever boasted. Yet her descriptions, exquisite as they sometimes are, enchant me less perhaps than the occasional shooting, if I may so express it, of a bold new thought into the regions of philosophy and metaphysics; but it is done so lightly, so playfully, that it should seem she was only jesting when she appears to aim thus wildly at objects so much beyond a woman's ken. "Tous les trones de la terre ne valent pas pour moi une pet.i.te fleur au bord d'un lac des Alpes," she says; and then starts off with this strange query: "Une grande question serait celle de savoir si la Providence a plus d'amour et de respect pour notre charpente osseuse, que pour les petales embaumes de ses jasmins."

She professes herself (of course) to be a republican; but only says of it, "De toutes les causes dont je ne me soucie pas, c'est la plus belle;" and then adds, quite in her own vein, "Du moins, les mots de patrie et de liberte sont harmonieux--tandis que ceux de legitimite et d'obeissance sont grossiers, mal-sonnans, et faits pour des oreilles de gendarmes."... "Aduler une buche couronnee," is, she declares, "renoncer a sa dignite d'homme, et se faire academicien."

However, she quizzes her political friend for being "le martyr des n.o.bles ambitions;" adding, "Gouvernez-moi bien tous ces vilains idiots ... je vais chanter au soleil sur une branche, pendant ce tems-la."

In another place, she says that she is "bonne a rien qu'a causer avec l'echo, a regarder lever la lune, et a composer des chants melancoliques ou moqueurs pour les etudians poetes et les ecoliers amoureux."

As a specimen of what this writer's powers of description are, I will give you a few lines from a little story called "Mattea,"--a story, by the way, that is beautiful, one hardly knows why,--just to show you how she can treat a theme worn threadbare before she was born. Is there, in truth, any picture much less new than that of a gondola, with a guitar in it, gliding along the ca.n.a.ls of Venice? But see what she makes of it.

"La guitare est un instrument qui n'a son existence veritable qu'a Venise, la ville silencieuse et sonore. Quand une gondole rase ce fleuve d'encre phosph.o.r.escente, ou chaque coup de rame enfonce un eclair, tandis qu'une grele de pet.i.tes notes legeres, nettes, et folatres, bondit et rebondit sur les cordes que parcourt une main invisible, on voudrait arreter et saisir cette melodie faible mais distincte qui agace l'oreille des pa.s.sans, et qui fuit le long des grandes...o...b..es des palais, comme pour appeler les belles aux fenetres, et pa.s.ser en leur disant--Ce n'est pas pour vous la serenade; et vous ne saurez ni d'ou elle vient, ni ou elle va."

Could Rousseau himself have chosen apter words? Do they not seem an echo to the sound she describes?

The private history of an author ought never to mix itself with a judgment of his works. Of that of George Sand I know but little; but divining it from the only source that the public has any right to examine,--namely, her writings,--I should be disposed to believe that her story is the old one of affection either ill requited, or in some way or other unfortunate; and there is justice in quoting the pa.s.sages which seem to indicate this, because they are written in a spirit that, let the circ.u.mstances be what they will, must do her honour.

In the "Lettres d'un Voyageur" already mentioned, the supposed writer of them is clearly identified with George Sand by this pa.s.sage:--"Meure le pet.i.t George quand Dieu voudra, le monde n'en ira pas plus mal pour avoir ignore sa facon de penser. Que veux-tu que je te dise? Il faut que je te parle encore de moi, et rien n'est plus insipide qu'une individualite qui n'a pas encore trouve le mot de sa destinee. Je n'ai aucun interet a formuler une opinion quelconque. Quelques personnes qui lisent mes livres ont le tort de croire que ma conduite est une profession de foi, et le choix des sujets de mes historiettes une sorte de plaidoyer contre certaines lois: bien loin de la, je reconnais que ma vie est pleine de fautes, et je croirais commettre une lachete si je me battais les flancs pour trouver un systeme d'idees qui en autorisat l'exemple."

After this, it is impossible to read, without being touched by it, this sublime phrase used in speaking of one who would retire into the deep solitudes of nature from struggling with the world:--

"_Les astres eternels auront toujours raison_, et l'homme, quelque grand qu'il soit parmi les hommes, sera toujours saisi d'epouvante quand il voudra interroger ce qui est au-dessus de lui. _O silence effrayant, reponse eloquente et terrible de l'eternite!_"

In another place, speaking with less lightness of tone than is generally mixed throughout these charming letters with the gravest speculations, George Sand says:--

"J'ai mal vecu, j'ai mal use des biens qui me sont echus, j'ai neglige les oeuvres de charite; j'ai vecu dans la mollesse, dans l'ennui, dans les larmes vaines, dans les folles amours, dans les vains plaisirs. Je me suis prosterne devant des idoles de chair et de sang, et j'ai laisse leur souffle enivrant effacer les sentences austeres que la sagesse des livres avait ecrites sur mon front dans ma jeunesse.... J'avais ete honnete autrefois, sais-tu bien cela, Everard? C'est de notoriete bourgeoise dans notre pays; mais il y avait peu de merite,--j'etais jeune, et les funestes amours n'etaient pas eclos dans mon sein. Ils ont etouffe bien des qualites; mais _je sais qu'il en est auxquelles je n'ai pas fait la plus legere tache au milieu des plus grands revers de ma vie, et qu'aucune des autres n'est perdu pour moi sans retour_."

I could go on very long quoting with pleasure from these pages; but I cannot, I think, conclude better than with this pa.s.sage. Who is there but must wish that all the great and good qualities of this gifted woman (for she must have both) should break forth from whatever cloud sorrow or misfortune of any kind may have thrown over her, and that the rest of her days may pa.s.s in the tranquil developement of her extraordinary talents, and in such a display of them to the public as shall leave its admiration unmixed?

LETTER LXIV.

"Angelo Tyran de Padoue."--Burlesque at the Theatre du Vaudeville.--Mademoiselle Mars.--Madame Dorval.--Epigram.

We have seen and enjoyed many very pretty, very gay little pieces at most of the theatres since we have been here; but we never till our last visit to the Theatre Francais enjoyed that uncontrollable movement of merriment which, setting all lady-like nonchalance at defiance, obliged us to yield ourselves up to hearty, genuine laughter; in which, however, we had the consolation of seeing many of those around us join.

And what was the piece, can you guess, which produced this effect upon us?... It was "Angelo!" It was the "Tyran de Padoue"--_pas doux_ du tout, as the wits of the parterre aver. But, in truth, I ought not to a.s.sent to this verdict, for never tyrant was so _doux_ to me and mine as this, and never was a very long play so heartily laughed at to the end.

But must I write to you in sober earnest about this comic tragedy? I suppose I must; for, except the Proces Monstre, nothing has been more talked of in Paris than this new birth of M. Hugo. The cause for this excitement was not that a new play from this sufficiently well-known hand was about to be put upon the scene, but a circ.u.mstance which has made me angry and all Paris curious. This tragedy, as you shall see presently, has two heroines who run neck and neck through every act, leaving it quite in doubt which ought to come in prima donna.

Mademoiselle Mars was to play the part of one--but who could venture to stand thus close beside her in the other part?--n.o.body at the Francais, as it should seem: and so, wonderful to tell, and almost impossible to believe, a lady, a certain Madame Dorval, well known as a heroine of the Porte St. Martin, I believe, was enlisted into the corps of the Francais to run a tilt with--Mars.

This extraordinary arrangement was talked of, and a.s.serted, and contradicted, and believed, and disbelieved, till the noise of it filled all Paris. You will hardly wonder, then, that the appearance of this drama has created much sensation, or that the desire to see it should extend beyond the circle of M. Hugo's young admirers.

I have been told, that as soon as this arrangement was publicly made known, the application for boxes became very numerous. The author was permitted to examine the list of all those who had applied, and no boxes were positively promised till he had done so. Before the night for the first representation was finally fixed, a large party of friends and admirers a.s.sembled at the poet's house, and, amongst them, expunged from this list the names of all such persons as were either known or suspected to be hostile to him or his school. Whatever deficiencies this exclusive system produced in the box-book were supplied by his particular partisans. The result on this first night was a brilliant success.

"L'auteur de Cromwell," says the Revue des Deux Mondes, "a proclame d'une voix dictatoriale la fusion de la comedie et de la tragedie dans le drame." It is for this reason, perhaps, that M. Hugo has made his last tragedy so irresistibly comic. The dagger and the bowl bring on the catastrophe,--therefore, _sans contredire_, it is a tragedy: but his playful spirit has arranged the incidents and constructed the dialogue,--therefore, _sans faute_, it is a comedy.

In one of his exquisite prefaces, M. Hugo says, that he would not have any audience quit the theatre without carrying with them "quelque moralite austere et profonde;" and I will now make it my task to point out to you how well he has redeemed this promise in the present instance. In order to shake off all the old-fashioned trammels which might enc.u.mber his genius, M. Hugo has composed his "Angelo" in prose,--prose such as old women love--(wicked old women I mean,)--lengthy, mystical, gossiping, and mischievous. I will give you some extracts; and to save the trouble of describing the different characters, I will endeavour so to select these extracts that they shall do it for me. Angelo Tyran de Padoue thus speaks of himself:--

"Oui ... je suis le podesta que Venise met sur Padoue.... Et savez-vous ce que c'est que Venise?... C'est le conseil des dix. Oh!

le conseil des dix!... Souvent la nuit je me dresse sur mon seant, j'ecoute, et j'entends des pas dans mon mur.... Oui, c'est ainsi, Tyran de Padoue, esclave de Venise. Je suis bien surveille, allez. Oh!

le conseil des dix!"

This gentleman has a young, beautiful, and particularly estimable wife, by name Catarina Bragadini, (which part is enacted on the boards of the Theatre Francais by Madame Dorval, from the Theatre de la Porte St. Martin,) but unfortunately he hates her violently. He could not, however, as he philosophically observes himself, avoid doing so, and he shall again speak for himself to explain this.

"ANGELO.

"La haine c'est dans notre sang. Il faut toujours qu'un Malipieri ha.s.se quelqu'un. Moi, c'est cette femme que je hais. Je ne vaux pas mieux qu'elle, c'est possible--mais il faut qu'elle meure. C'est une necessite--une resolution prise."

This necessity for hating does not, however, prevent the Podesta from falling very violently in love with a strolling actress called La Tisbe (personated by Mademoiselle Mars). The Tisbe also is a very remarkably virtuous, amiable, and high-minded woman, who listens to the addresses of the Tyrant pas doux, but hates him as cordially as he hates his lady-wife, bestowing all her tenderness and private caresses upon a travelling gentleman, who is a prince in disguise, but whom she pa.s.ses off upon the Tyrant for her brother. La Tisbe, too, shall give you her own account of herself.

"LA TISBE (_addressing Angelo_).

"Vous savez qui je suis? ... rien, une fille du peuple, une comedienne.... Eh bien! si peu que je suis, j'ai eu une mere.

Savez-vous ce que c'est que d'avoir une mere? En avez-vous eu une, vous?... Eh bien! j'avais une mere, moi."

This appears to be a species of refinement upon the old saying, "It is a wise child that knows its own father." The charming Tisbe evidently piques herself upon her sagacity in being quite certain that she had a mother;--but she has not yet finished her story.

"C'etait une pauvre femme sans mari qui chantait des chansons dans les places publiques." (The "_delicate_" Esmeralda again.) "Un jour, un senateur pa.s.sa. Il regarde, il entendit," (she must have been singing the _ca ira_ of 1549,) "et dit au capitaine qui le suivait--A la potence cette femme! Ma mere fut saisie sur-le-champ--elle ne dit rien ... a quoi bon? ... m'embra.s.sa avec une grosse larme, prit son crucifix et se laissa garrotter. Je le vois encore ce crucifix en cuivre poli, mon nom Tisbe ecrit en bas.... Mais il y avait avec le senateur une jeune fille.... Elle se jeta aux pieds du senateur et obtint la grace de ma mere.... Quand ma mere fut deliee, elle prit son crucifix, ma mere, et le donna a la belle enfant, en lui disant, Madame, gardez ce crucifix--il vous portera bonheur."

Imagine Mademoiselle Mars uttering this trash!... Oh, it was grievous!

And if I do not greatly mistake, she admired her part quite as little as I did, though she exerted all her power to make it endurable,--and there were pa.s.sages, certainly, in which she succeeded in making one forget everything but herself, her voice, and her action.

But to proceed. On this crucifix de cuivre poli, inscribed with the name of Tisbe, hangs all the little plot. Catarina Bragadini, the wife of the Tyrant, and the most ill-used and meritorious of ladies, is introduced to us in the third scene of the second day (new style--acts are out of fashion,) lamenting to her confidential femme de chambre the intolerable long absence of her lover. The maid listens, as in duty bound, with the most respectful sympathy, and then tells her that another of her waiting-maids for whom she had inquired was at prayers.

Whereupon we have a morsel of navete that is _impayable_.