The Idler in France Part 16

She had only been there a few weeks when a confidential friend at Paris wrote to inform her that from certain rumours afloat it was quite clear the Prince did not intend her to take up her abode again in his house, and advised her to return without delay. The Princesse instantly adopted this counsel, and arrived most unexpectedly in the Rue St.-Florentin, to the alarm and astonishment of the whole establishment there, who had been taught not to look for her entering the hotel any more; and to the utter dismay of the Prince, who, however anxious to be separated from her, dreaded a scene of violence still more than he wished to be released from his conjugal chains.

She forced her admission to his presence, overwhelmed him with reproaches, and it required the exercise of all his diplomatic skill to allay the storm he had raised. The affair became the general topic of conversation at Paris; and when, the day after the event, the Prince waited on Louis the Eighteenth on affairs of state, the King, who loved a joke, congratulated him on the unexpected arrival of Madame la Princesse.

Prince Talleyrand felt the sarcasm, and noticed it by one of those smiles so peculiar to him--a shake of the head and shrug of the shoulders, while he uttered "_Que voulez-vous, Sire, chacun a son vingt Mars_?" referring to the unexpected arrival of the Emperor Napoleon.

I have been reading _Yes and No_, a very clever and, interesting novel from the pen of Lord Normanby. His writings evince great knowledge of the world, the work-o'-day world, as well as the _beau monde_; yet there is no bitterness in his satire, which is always just and happily pointed. His style, too, is easy, fluent, and polished, without being disfigured by the slightest affectation or pedantry.

Had a long visit to-day from Dr. P----, who has lent me the works of Bichat and Broussais, which he recommends me to read. He is a most agreeable companion, and as vivacious as if he was only twenty. He reminds me sometimes of my old friend Lady Dysart, whose juvenility of mind and manner always pleased as much as it surprised me.

Old people like these appear to forget, as they are forgotten by, time; and, like trees marked to be cut down, but which escape the memory of the marker, they continue to flourish though the lines traced for their destruction are visible.

The more I see of Count Waleski the more I am pleased with him. He has an acute mind, great quickness of perception, and exceedingly good manners. I always consider it a good sign of a young man to be partial to the society of the old, and I observe that Count Waleski evinces a preference for that of men old enough to be his father. People are not generally aware of the advantages which agreeable manners confer, and the influence they exercise over society. I have seen great abilities fail in producing the effect accomplished by prepossessing manners, which are even more serviceable to their owner than is a fine countenance, that best of all letters of recommendation.

Half the unpopularity of people proceeds from a disagreeable manner; and though we may be aware of the good qualities of persons who have this defect, we cannot conceal from ourselves that it must always originate in a want of the desire to please--a want, the evidence of which cannot fail to wound the self-love of those who detect, and indispose them towards those who betray it. By a disagreeable manner I do not mean the awkwardness often arising from timidity, or the too great familiarity originating in untutored good nature: but I refer to a superciliousness, or coldness, that marks a sense of superiority; or to a habit of contradiction, that renders society what it should never be--an arena of debate.

How injudicious are those who defend their absent friends, when accused of having disagreeable manners, by saying, as I have often heard persons say--"I a.s.sure you that he or she can be very agreeable with those he or she likes:" an a.s.sertion which, by implying that the person accused did not like those who complained of the bad manner, converts them from simple disapprovers into something approaching to enemies.

I had once occasion to notice the fine tact of a friend of mine, who, hearing a person he greatly esteemed censured for his disagreeable manner, answered,

"Yes, it is very true: with a thousand good qualities his manner is very objectionable, even with those he likes best: it is his misfortune, and he cannot help it; but those who know him well will pardon it."

This candid admission of what could not be refuted, checked all further censure at the moment, whereas an injudicious defence would have lengthened it; and I heard some of the individuals then present a.s.sert, a few days subsequently, that Lord ---- was not, after all, by any means to be disliked: for that his manners were equally objectionable even with his most esteemed friends, and consequently meant nothing uncivil to strangers.

I tried this soothing system the other day in defence of ----, when a whole circle were attacking him for his rude habit of contradicting, by a.s.serting, with a grave face, that he only contradicted those whose talents he suspected, in order that he might draw them out in discussion.

---- came in soon after, and it was positively amusing to observe how much better people bore his contradiction. Madame ---- only smiled when, having a.s.serted that it was a remarkably fine day, he declared it to be abominable. The Duc de ---- looked gracious when, having repeated some political news, ---- said he could prove the contrary to be the fact; and the Comtesse de ---- looked archly round when, having extravagantly praised a new novel, he p.r.o.nounced that it was the worst of all the bad ones of the author.

---- will become a popular man, and have to thank me for it. How angry would he be if he knew the service I have rendered him, and how quickly would he contradict all I said in his favour! ---- reminds me of the Englishman of whom it was said, that so great was his love of contradiction, that when the hour of the night and state of the weather were announced by the watchman beneath his window, he used to get out of bed and raise both his cas.e.m.e.nt and his voice to protest against the accuracy of the statement.

Read _Pelham_; commenced it yesterday, and concluded it to-day. It is a new style of novel, and, like all that is very clever, will lead to many copyists. The writer possesses a felicitous fluency of language, profound and just thoughts, and a knowledge of the world rarely acquired at his age, for I am told he is a very young man.

This work combines pointed and pungent satire on the follies of society, a deep vein of elevated sentiment, and a train of philosophical thinking, seldom, if ever, allied to the tenderness which pierces through the sentimental part. The opening reminded me of that of _Anastatius_, without being in the slightest degree an imitation; and many of the pa.s.sages recalled Voltaire, by their wit and terseness.

I, who don't like reading novels, heard so much in favour of this one--for all Paris talk of it--that I broke through a resolution formed since I read the dull book of ----, to read no more; and I am glad I did so, for this clever book has greatly interested me.

Oh, the misery of having stupid books presented to one by the author!

----, who is experienced in such matters, told me that the best plan in such cases was, to acknowledge the receipt of the book the same day it arrived, and civilly express the pleasure antic.i.p.ated from its perusal, by which means the necessity of praising a bad book was avoided. This system has, however, been so generally adopted of late, that authors are dissatisfied with it; and, consequently, a good-natured person often feels compelled to write commendations of books which he or she is far from approving; and which, though it costs an effort to write, are far from satisfying the _exigeant amour propre_ peculiar to authors.

I remember once being present when the merits of a book were canva.s.sed.

One person declared it to be insufferably dull, when another, who had published some novel, observed, with rather a supercilious air, "You know not how difficult it is to write a good book!"

"I suppose it must be very difficult," was the answer, "seeing how long and how often you have attempted, without succeeding."

How these letters of commendations of bad books, extorted from those to whom the authors present them, will rise up in judgment against the writers, when they are "gone to that bourne whence no traveller returns!" I tremble to think of it! What severe animadversions on the bad taste, or the want of candour of the writers, and all because they were too good-natured to give pain to the authors!

Went to the Theatre Italien last night, and saw Malibran in _la Cenerentola_, in which her acting was no less admirable than her singing. She sang "Non piu Mesta" better than I ever heard it before, and astonished as well as delighted the audience. She has a soul and spirit in her style that carries away her hearers, as no other singer does, and excites an enthusiasm seldom, if ever, equalled. Malibran seems to be as little mistress of her own emotions when singing, as those are whom her thrilling voice melts into softness, or wakes into pa.s.sion. Every tone is pregnant with feeling, and every glance and att.i.tude instinct with truthful emotion.

A custom prevails in France, which is not practised in Italy, or in England, namely, _les lettres de faire part_, sent to announce deaths, marriages, and births, to the circle of acquaintances of the parties.

This formality is never omitted, and these printed letters are sent out to all on the visiting lists, except relations, or very intimate friends, to whom autograph letters are addressed.

Another custom also prevails, which is that of sending _bonbons_ to the friends and acquaintance of the _accouchee_. These sweet proofs _d'amitie_ come pouring in frequently, and I confess I do not dislike the usage.

The G.o.dfather always sends the _bonbons_ and a trinket to the mother of the child, and also presents the G.o.dmother with a _corbeille_, in which are some dozens of gloves, two or three handsome fans, embroidered purses, a smelling-bottle, and a _vinaigrette_; and she offers him, _en revanche_, a cane, b.u.t.tons, or a pin--in short, some present. The _corbeilles_ given to G.o.dmothers are often very expensive, being suited to the rank of the parties; so that in Paris the compliment of being selected as a G.o.dfather entails no trifling expense on the chosen. The great prices given for wedding _trousseaux_ in France, even by those who are not rich, surprise me, I confess.

They contain a superabundance of every article supposed to be necessary for the toilette of a _nouvelle mariee_, from the rich robes of velvet down to the simple _peignoir de matin_. Dresses of every description and material, and for all seasons, are found in it. Cloaks, furs, Cashmere shawls, and all that is required for night or day use, are liberally supplied; indeed, so much so, that to see one of these _trousseaux_, one might imagine the person for whom it was intended was going to pa.s.s her life in some far-distant clime, where there would be no hope of finding similar articles, if ever wanted.

Then comes the _corbeille de mariage_, well stored with the finest laces, the most delicately embroidered pocket handkerchiefs, veils, _fichus, chemisettes_ and _canezous_, trinkets, smelling-bottles, fans, _vinaigrettes_, gloves, garters; and though last, not least, a purse well filled to meet the wants or wishes of the bride,--a judicious attention never omitted.

These _trousseaux_ and _corbeilles_ are placed in a _salon_, and are exhibited to the friends the two or three days previously to the wedding; and the view of them often sends young maidens--ay, and elderly ones, too--away with an anxious desire to enter that holy state which ensures so many treasures. It is not fair to hold out such temptations to the unmarried, and may be the cause why they are generally so desirous to quit the pale of single blessedness.

CHAPTER XIV.

Count Charles de Mornay dined here yesterday, _en famille_. How clever and amusing he is! Even in his liveliest sallies there is the evidence of a mind that can reflect deeply, as well as clothe its thoughts in the happiest language. To be witty, yet thoroughly good-natured as he is, never exercising his wit at the expense of others, indicates no less kindness of heart than talent.

I know few things more agreeable than to hear him and his cousin open the armoury of their wit, which, like summer lightning, flashes rapidly and brightly, but never wounds. In England, we are apt to consider wit and satire as nearly synonymous; for we hear of the clever sayings of our reputed wits, in nine cases out of ten, allied to some ill-natured _bon mot_, or pointed epigram. In France this is not the case, for some of the most witty men, and women too, whom I ever knew, are as remarkable for their good nature as for their cleverness. That wit which needs not the spur of malice is certainly the best, and is most frequently met with at Paris.

Went last evening to see Mademoiselle Marsin _Henri III_. Her acting was, as usual, inimitable. I was disappointed in the piece, of which I had heard much praise. It is what the French call _decousue_, but is interesting as a picture of the manners of the times which it represents. There is no want of action or bustle in it; on the contrary, it abounds in incidents: but they are, for the most part, puerile. As in our own _Oth.e.l.lo_, a pocket handkerchief leads to the _denouement_, reminding one of the truth of the verse,--

"What great events from trivial causes spring!"

The whole court of Henry the Third are brought on the scene, and with an attention to costume to be found only in a Parisian theatre. The strict attention to costume, and to all the other accessories appertaining to the epoch, _mise en scene_, is very advantageous to the pieces brought out here; but, even should they fail to give or preserve an illusion, it is always highly interesting as offering a _tableau du costume, et des moeurs des siecles pa.s.ses_. The crowd brought on the stage in _Henri III_, though it adds to the splendour of the scenic effect, produces a confusion in the plot; as does also the vast number of names and t.i.tles introduced during the scenes, which fatigue the attention and defy the memory of the spectators.

The fierce "Duc de Guise," the slave at once of two pa.s.sions, generally considered to be the most incompatible, Love and Ambition, is made to commit strange inconsistencies. "Sant-Megrin" excites less interest than he ought; but the "d.u.c.h.esse de Guise," whose beautiful arm plays a _grand role_, must, as played by Mademoiselle Mars, have conquered all hearts _vi et armis_.

_Henri III_ has the most brilliant success, and, in despite of some faults, is full of genius, and the language is vigorous. Perhaps its very faults are to be attributed to an excess, rather than to a want, of power, and to a mind overflowing with a knowledge of the times he wished to represent; which led to a dilution of the strength of his scenes, by crowding into them too much extraneous matter.

A curious incident occurred during the representation. Two ladies--_gentlewomen_ they could not be correctly styled--being seated in the _balcon_, were brought in closer contact, whether by the crowd, or otherwise, than was agreeable to them. From remonstrances they proceeded to murmurs, not only "loud, but deep," and from murmurs--"tell it not in Ascalon, publish it not in Gath"--to violent pushing, and, at length, to blows. The audience were, as well they might be, shocked; the _Gendarmes_ interfered, and order was soon restored. The extreme propriety of conduct that invariably prevails in a Parisian audience, and more especially in the female portion of it, renders the circ.u.mstance I have narrated remarkable.

Met Lady G., Lady H., and the usual circle of _habitues_ last night at Madame C----'s. The first-mentioned lady surprises me every time I meet her, by the exaggeration of her sentiment and the romantic notions she entertains. Love, eternal love, is her favourite topic of conversation; a topic unsuited to discussion at her age and in her position.

To hear a woman, no longer young, talking pa.s.sionately of love, has something so absurd in it, that I am pained for Lady C., who is really a kind-hearted and amiable woman. Her definitions of the pa.s.sion, and descriptions of its effects, remind me of the themes furnished by Scudery, and are as tiresome as the tales of a traveller recounted some fifty years after he has made his voyage. Lady H., who is older than Lady G., opens wide her round eyes, laughs, and exclaims, "Oh, dear!--how very strange!--well, that is so funny!" until Lady C. draws up with all the dignity of a heroine of romance, and a.s.serts that "few, very few, are capable of either feeling or comprehending the pa.s.sion."

A fortunate state for those who are no longer able to inspire it!

To grow old gracefully, proves no ordinary powers of mind, more especially in one who has been (oh, what an odious phrase that same _has been_ is!) a beauty. Well has it been observed by a French writer, that women no longer young and handsome should forget that they ever were so.

I have been reading Wordsworth's poems again, and I verily believe for the fiftieth time. They contain a mine of lofty, beautiful, and natural thoughts. I never peruse them without feeling proud that England has such a poet, and without finding a love for the pure and the n.o.ble increased in my mind. Talk of the ideal in poetry? what is it in comparison with the positive and the natural, of which he gives such exquisite delineations, lifting his readers from Nature up to Nature's G.o.d? How eloquently does he portray the feelings awakened by fine scenery, and the thoughts to which it gives birth!

Wordsworth is, _par excellence_, the Poet of Religion, for his productions fill the mind with pure and holy aspirations. Fortunate is the poet who has quaffed inspiration in the purest of all its sources, Nature; and fortunate is the land that claims him for her own.

The influence exercised by courts over the habits of subjects, though carried to a less extent in our days than in past times, is still obvious at Paris in the display of religion a.s.sumed by the upper cla.s.s.

Coroneted carriages are to be seen every day at the doors of certain churches, which it is not very uncharitable to suppose might be less frequently beheld there if the King, Madame la Dauphine, and the Dauphin were less religious; and hands that have wielded a sword in many a well-fought battle-field, and hold the _baton de marechal_ as a reward, may now be seen bearing a lighted _cierge_ in some pious procession,--the military air of the intrepid warrior lost in the humility of the devotee.

This general a.s.sumption of religion on the part of the courtiers reminds me forcibly of a pa.s.sage in a poetical epistle, written, too, by a sovereign, who, unlike many monarchs, seemed to have had a due appreciation of the p.r.o.neness of subjects to adopt the opinions of their rulers.

"L'exemple d'un monarque ordonne et se fait suivre: Quand Auguste buvait, la Pologne etait ivre; Et quand Louis le Grand brulait d'un tendre amour, Paris devint Cythere, et tout suivait sa cour; Lorsqu'il devint devot, ardent a la priere, Ses laches courtisans marmottaient leur breviaire."