Before and after Waterloo Part 16

_Mrs. E. Stanley to Lady Maria J. Stanley._

PARIS, _June 28, 1816_.

And here I am--and what shall I tell you first? And how shall I find time to tell you anything in the wandering Arab kind of life we are leading? It is very new and very amusing and I enjoy it very much, but I enjoy still more the thoughts of how much I shall enjoy my own quiet home and children again when I get to them.

We arrived on Tuesday evening, and in half an hour I was in the Palais Royal in the Cafe de Mille Colonnes, and at night the brilliancy of the Lamps and Mirrors, glittering in every direction in every alley, displayed this new scene to me in the newest colours; and it was very like walking in a new world....

The Fetes for the marriage of the Due de Berri are unfortunately all over. Except the entertainments at the Court itself, a French party is a thing unheard of, and the only gaieties have been English parties to which some few French come when they are invited. The only gentlemen's carriages I have seen in the streets are English, and as to French gentlemen or ladies, according to the most diligent enquiries by eyes and tongue, the race has almost disappeared....

If you admire Buonaparte and despise the Bourbons in Ches.h.i.+re, what would you in Paris? where the regular answer to everything you admire is that it was done by Buonaparte--to everything that you object to, that it is by order of the Bourbons. In the Library of the Hopital des Invalides to-day, collected by order of Buonaparte for the use of the soldiers, there was a man pulling down all the books and stamping over the N's and eagles on the t.i.tle-page with blue ink, which, if it did not make a plain L, at least blotted out the N; but I should apprehend that every one who saw the blot would think more of the vain endeavour of Louis to take his place than if the N had been left.

...I have told you nothing about Valenciennes and how we breakfasted with two odd characters to come together in one, an Astronomer and a Soldier, viz., Sir Thomas Brisbane, who enlivens his quarters wherever he goes by erecting an observatory immediately, and studying hard as any Cambridge mathematician every hour that he is not on military duty. His officers seem to have partaken in some degree of the spirit of their General, and to have made use of their position at Valenciennes to make themselves perfectly acquainted with all Marlborough's campaign, and they appeared to have as much interest in tracing all his sieges and breaches and batteries as their General in making his observations on the sun and the stars.... The Scovells were delighted to see us at Cambray; put us into Sir Lowry Cole's quarters, where we had a house and gardens all to ourselves. Lord Wellington had been at Cambray a fortnight before, and was all affability, good humour, and gaiety....

Sir Geo. Scovell gave many interesting details of his coolness, quickness, decision, and undaunted spirit.

_Edward Stanley to Bella Stanley._

PARIS, _July 9, 1816_.

It is absolutely necessary that a word or two should be said upon the palace at Compiegne, which was fitted up about seven years ago by Napoleon for Marie Louise. Having seen most of his Imperial abodes, I am inclined to give the preference, as far as internal decoration extends, to Compiegne. Gold, silver, mirrors, tapestry all hold their court here. The bath is a perfect specimen of French luxury and magnificence.

It fills a recess in a moderately-sized room almost entirely panelled with the finest sheets of plate gla.s.s; and the ball room is so exquisitely beautiful that to see its golden walls and ceilings lighted up with splendid chandeliers, and its floors graced with dancers, plumed and jewelled, I would take the trouble of attending as your Chaperon from Alderley whenever the Bourbons send you an invitation.

The gardens are like all other French pleasure grounds, formal and comfortless, but there is one part you would all enjoy. When Buonaparte first carried Marie Louise to Compiegne she expressed much satisfaction, but remarked that it was deficient in a Berceau; it could not stand in compet.i.tion with her favourite palace of Schonbrunn. Now, a berceau is a wide walk covered with trellis work and flowers. She left Compiegne. In six weeks Napoleon begged her to pay another visit. She did so, and found a berceau wide enough for two carriages to go abreast and above two miles in length, extending from the gardens to the forest of Compiegne, completely finished. May you all be espoused to husbands who will execute all your whims and fancies with equal rapidity and good taste! In your berceau I will walk; but if you are destined to reside in golden palaces, you must expect little of Uncle's company.

Having travelled thus far, attend us to Paris and imagine yourself seated in a velvet chair in the Hotel de Bretagne, Rue de Richelieu, that is to say, when translated into London terms, conceive yourself seated in one of the Hotels in or near Covent Gardens, close to Theatre and shops and all that a stranger wishes to be near for a week when the sole purpose of his visit is seeing and hearing. We are within 20 yards (but if measured by the mud and filth to be traversed in the march I should call it a mile) of the Palais Royal, the fairy land of Paris, and Paradise of vice, and the centre of attraction to every stranger. Here we breakfast in Coffee-houses, of which no idea can be formed by those who only a.s.sociate the name of Coffee-house with certain subdivided, gloomy apartments in England, where steaks and _Morning Chronicles_ reign with divided sway, and where the silence is seldom interrupted but by queries as to the price of stocks or "Here, Waiter, another bottle of Port."

We dine at Restaurateurs, choosing unknown dishes out of five closely-printed columns of _fricandeaus_ and _a la financieres_.

Before I proceed let me inform you of some simple matters of fact which I may forget if delayed. Such as that we found the Sothebys and Murrays, and Leghs of High Legh, and Wilbraham of Delamere Lodge. With the former we have made several joint excursions and contrived to meet at dinner.

Mr. Sotheby is in his element, bustles everywhere, looks the vignette of happiness, exclaims "Good!" upon all occasions, from the arrangement of the Skulls in the Catacombs to the dressing of a _vol au vent_. In short, they are all as delighted as myself, and that is saying a good deal.

Pardon this digression. Again to the point--to Paris. Where shall I begin? Let us take the theatres. We saw Talma last night, and the impression is strong, therefore he shall appear first on the list.

The play was "Manlius," a tragedy in many respects like our "Venice Preserved." The House was crowded to excess, especially the pit, which, as in England, is the focus of criticisms and vent for public opinion.

When a Tragedy is acted no Music whatever is allowed, not a fiddle prefaced the performance; but at seven o'clock the curtain slowly rose, and amidst the thunder of applause, succeeded by a breathless silence, Talma stepped forth in the Roman toga of Manlius. His figure is bad, short, and rather clumsy, his countenance deficient in dignity and natural expression, but with all these deductions he s.h.i.+nes like a meteor when compared with Kemble. He is body and soul, finger and thumb, head and foot, involved in his character; and so, say you, is Miss O'Neil, but Talma and Miss O'Neil are different and distant as the poles. She is nature, he is art, but it is the perfection of art, and so splendid a specimen well deserves the approbation he so profusely receives.

The curtain is not let down between the acts, and the interval does not exceed two or three minutes, so that your attention is never interrupted. The scene closed as it commenced--with that peculiar hurra of the French, expressive of their highest excitement. It is the same with which they make their charge in battle, and proportioned to numbers it could not have been more vehement at the victories of Austerlitz and Jena than it was on the reappearance of Talma; and not satisfied with this, they insisted on his coming forth again. At length, amidst hurras and cries of "Talma! Talma!" the curtain was closed up, and my last impression rendered unfavourable by a vulgar, graceless figure in nankeen breeches and top-boots hurrying in from a side scene, dropping a swing bow in the centre of the stage, and then hurrying out again.

Theatres are to Frenchmen what flowers are to bees: they live _in_ them and _upon_ them, and the sacrifice of liberty appears to be a tribute most willingly paid for the gratification they receive; for, to be sure, never can there exist a more despotic, arbitrary government than that of a French theatre. A soldier stands by from the moment you quit your carriage till you get into it; you are allowed no will of your own; if you wish to give directions to your servant, "Vite! Vite!" cries a whiskered sentry. Are you looking through the windows of the lobbies into the boxes for your party, you are ordered off by a gendarme. I saw one gentleman-like-looking man remonstrating; in a trice he was in durance vile. A Frenchman at his play must sit, stand, move, think, and speak as if he were on drill, and yet he endures the intolerance for doubtful benefits derived from this rigid regularity.

In this play of "Manlius" were many pa.s.sages highly applicable to Buonaparte, and Talma, who is supposed to be (_avec raison_) a secret partisan, gave them their full effect, but the listening va.s.sals struck no octaves to his vibration. A few nights before we were at the Play in which were allusions to the Bourbons, and couplets without end of the most fulsome, disgusting compliments to the Duc de Berri, &c. These (shame upon the trifling, vacillating, mutable crew!) were received with loud applause by the majority of the pit. I did observe, however, that in that pit did sit a frowning, solemn, silent nucleus, but a nucleus of this description can never be large; a few Messieurs at 3 francs _par jour_ would soon, when dispersed amongst them, like grains of pepper in tasteless soup, diffuse a tone of palatibility over the whole and render it more agreeable to the taste of a Bourbon.

_a propos_, we have seen the Bourbons. The King is a round, fat man, so fat that in their pictures they dare not give him the proper "_contour_"

lest the police should suspect them of wis.h.i.+ng to ridicule; but his face is mild and benevolent, and I verily believe his face to be a just reflection of his heart. Then comes Monsieur,[118] a man with more expression, but I did not see enough to form any opinion of my own, and I never heard any very decisive account from any one else. Then comes the d.u.c.h.esse d'Angouleme.[119] There is no milk and water there. What she really is I may not be able to detect, but I will forfeit my little finger if there is not something pa.s.sing strange within her. She is called a Bigot and a Devotee; she has seen and felt enough, and more than enough, to make a stronger mind than hers either the one or the other, and I will excuse her if she is both. She is thin and genteel, grave and dignified; she puts her fan to her underlip as Napoleon would put his finger to his forehead, or his hand into his bosom. She stood up, she sat down, she knelt, when others stood or sat or knelt, but I question whether if she had been alone she would have done all according to bell and candle, rule or regulation.

Then comes the d.u.c.h.esse de Berri,[120] a young, pretty thing, a sort of royal kitten; and then comes her husband, the Duc de Berri, a short, vulgar-looking, anything but a kitten he is--but _arrete toi_. I am in the land of vigilance, and already my pen trembles, for there are gendarmes in abundance in the streets, and Messieurs Bruce and Co. in La Force, and I do not wish to join their party. In England I may abuse our Prince Regent and call him fat, dissipated, and extravagant, but in France I dare not say "BO to a goose!" So, Je vous salue, M. le Duc de Berri.

_a propos_ of the police. At the marriage of the above much honoured and respected Duc the illumiations were general. Murray's landlord was setting out his tallow candles, when Murray, guessing from certain innuendoes and shrugs (for before us English they are not much afraid of shrugging the shoulders or inventing an occasional "Bah!") that he would have been to the full as pleased if he had been lighting his candles upon the return of Napoleon, asked him, "Mais pourquoi faites vous cela?

I suppose you may do as you like?" "Comment donc!" replied the astonished Frenchman; "do as I like! If I did not light my candles with all diligence, I should be called upon to-morrow by the police to pay a forfeit for not rejoicing."

With all this I think on the whole the Bourbons are popular; people are accustomed to being bullied out of their opinions and use of their tongues, and they are so sick of war, with all its inconveniences and privations, that they begin to prefer inglorious repose. English money is very much approved of here, but if it could be procured without the personal attendance of the owners, I feel quite confident the French would prefer it.

We are not popular. I suppose the sight of us must be grating to the feelings. We are like a blight on an apple-tree; we curl up their leaves, and they writhe under our pressure.

The constant song of our drunken soldiers on the Boulevards commenced with--

"Louis Dixhuite, Louis dixhuite, We have licked all your armies and sunk all your fleet."

Luckily the words are not intelligible to the gaping Parisians, who generally, upon hearing the "Louis Dixhuite," took for granted the song was an ode in honour of the Bourbons, and grinned approbation. It is quite ridiculous, Paris cannot know itself. Where are the French?

Nowhere. All is English; English carriages fill the streets, no other genteel Equipages are to be seen. At the Play Boxes are all English. At the Hotels, Restaurations--in short, everywhere--John Bull stalks incorporate. I see an Englishman with his little red book, the Paris guide, in one hand and map in the other, with a parcel of ragged boys at his heels pestering him for money. "Monsieur, c'est moi," who am ready to hold your stick. "Monsieur, c'est moi," who will call your coach.

About the Thuilleries, indeed, and here and there, a few "bien poudred"

little old men, "des bons Papas du Temps pa.s.se," may be seen dry as Mummies and as shrivelled, with their ribbons and Croix St. Louis, tottering about. They are good, staunch Bourbons, ready, I daresay, to take the field "en voiture" for once, when taunted by the Imperial officers for being too old and decrepid to lead troops; an honest emigrant Marquis replied that he did not see why he should not command a regiment and lead it on "dans son Cabriolet."

We have been unfortunate in not arriving soon enough to be present at the Duke of Wellington's b.a.l.l.s. At the last a curious circ.u.mstance took place. (You may rely upon it's being true.) Word was brought to him that the house was in danger from fire. He went down, and in a sort of subterranean room some cartridges were discovered close to a lamp containing a great quant.i.ty of oil, and it was evident they had been placed there with design. The first report was that barrels of gunpowder had been found, and strange a.s.sociations were whispered as to Guy Fawkes and Louis XVIII. being one and the same; but the powder was not sufficient to do any great mischief, and the general idea is that had it exploded, confusion would have ensued, the company would have been alarmed, the ladies would have screamed and fled to the door and street, where parties were in full readiness and expectations of Diamonds, &c....

We stay over Monday, for there is a grand Review on the Boulevards. We have seen Cuira.s.siers and Lancers s.h.i.+ning in the sun and fluttering their little banner in the air. The Bourbons, who are determined to root out every vestige of the past, are now stripping the Troops of the Uniform which remind the wearers of battles fought and cities won, and re-clothing them in the white dress of the "ancien Regime," which is wretchedly ugly. They know best what they are about, and they certainly have a people to deal with unlike the rest of the world, but were I a Bourbon, I should be cautious how I proceeded in demolis.h.i.+ng everything which reminded the people of their recent glory. Luckily the column on the Place Vendome has as yet escaped the Goths, and its bronze ba.s.so reliefs are still the pride of Paris.

_Edward Stanley to Louisa Stanley._

_July 13, 1816._

Days in Paris are like lumps of barley sugar, sweet to the taste and melting rapidly away.... We have now seen theatres, shows, gardens, museums, palaces, and prisons. Aye, Louisa, we have been immured within the walls of La Force, and that from inclination! not necessity.

We procured an order to see Bruce,[121] and after some shuttlec.o.c.k sort of work, sending and being sent from office to office and Prefet to Prefet, at length we received our order of admission.

In this order our persons are described; the man put me down "sourcils gris." "Mais, Monsieur," said I, "they will never admit me with that account." He looked at me again, "Ah! vos cheveux sont gris, mais pour les sourcils, non pas, vous avez raison," and altering them to "noirs,"

he sent me about my business.

Bar and bolt were opened, and at length we found ourselves in the presence of these popular prisoners--Popular, at least, amongst the female part of the world. I have reason to believe that a few of the Miss Stanleys had formed a romantic attachment for Michael Bruce, and there are few of our adventures which would, I think, have given you more pleasure than this visit. Your heart would have been torn from its little resting-place and been imprisoned for ever. Michael Bruce! such an eye! such a figure! such a countenance! such a voice! and so much sense and elegance of manner, and then so interesting! There he sat in a small, wretched room, dirty and felonious, with two little windows, one looking into a court where a parcel of ragged prisoners were playing at fives, the other into a sort of garden where others were loitering away their listless vacuity of time.

I will not tell you what he said, for it would but inflame a wound which I cannot heal, and because part of his conversation was secret, _i.e._, of a very interesting and curious nature which I cannot write and must not speak of. "Oh! dear Uncle, why won't you tell? a secret from Michael Bruce in the prison of La Force!"

No, Louisa, I dare not speak of it to the winds. Captain Hutchinson was his companion, Sir Robert Wilson is in another room. The Captain has nothing very interesting in his manner or appearance. He is very plain, very positive, and very angry. Well he may be. So would you if, like him, you had been immured in a room about eight feet by twelve, in which you were forced to eat, sleep, and reside for three months. Their penance closes on the 24th, when Michael Bruce returns to London. I hope you are not going there this year.

From such a subject as Michael Bruce it will not do to descend to any of the trifling fopperies of Paris.

Let me, then, give you a short account of our visit to Fountain Elephant, which if ever finished, with its concomitant streets, &c., will be an 8th wonder of the world. Its History is this: On the Site of the Bastille (of which not a vestige remains) Buonaparte thought he would erect a fountain, and looking at the Plans of Paris, he conceived the splendid idea of knocking down all the houses between the Thuilleries and this Fountain and forming one wide, straight street, so that from the Palace of the Thuilleries he might see whatever object he might be pleased to place at the extremity. This street is actually begun; when executed, which it never will be, there will be an avenue, partly houses, partly trees, from Barriere d'etoile to the Fountain, at least six miles. Having got this Fountain in his head, he sent for De Non,[122] who superintended all his works, and said, "De Non, I must have a fountain, and the fountain shall be a beast." So De Non set his wits to work, and talked of Lions and Tigers, &c., when Buonaparte fixed upon an Elephant, with a Castle upon his back, and an Elephant there is. At present they have merely a model of plaister upon which the bronze coating is to be wrought, for the whole is to be in bronze with gilt trappings. He is to stand upon an elevated pedestal, which is already completed. The height will be about 60 feet, nearly as high as Alderley Steeple. The castle will hold water; the inside is to be a room, and the staircase is to be in one of the legs. The porter who showed it was exceedingly proud of the performance, and when I expressed my astonishment at Buonaparte's numerous plans and the difficulty he must have been at to procure money, looking cautiously about him, he said, "Oh, mais il avoit le don d'un Dieu," and then grasping my arm with one hand and tapping me on the shoulder with the other, and again looking round to see if then the coast was clear, he added, "Mais il n'y est plus, ah, vous comprenez cela n'est-ce pas," and then casting a look at his Elephant he concluded with a sigh and a mutter, "Superbe, ah, pardi, que c'est superbe!"

Kitty has been dressing herself _a la Francaise_, and we have been purchasing a large box of flowers, which we hope to show you in England, if the Custom House officers will allow us to pay the duties, but we hear most alarming accounts of their ferocity and rapacity. They will soon, it is said, seize the very clothes you have on, if of French manufacture; if so, adieu to three pairs of black silk stockings and as many pocket handkerchiefs, to say nothing of a perfect pet of an ivory dog which I intend to present to your Mama, and to say nothing of five perfect pets for Maria and you four eldest girls of the family of Harlequin and Punch, to be worn on your necklaces during the happy weeks. They are of mother of pearl about an inch high, the most comical fellows I ever beheld. It is necessary that I should tell you of the presents, because if they are seized, you know I shall still be ent.i.tled to the merit of selecting them. We have bought a few books. A thick octavo is here worth about four or five s.h.i.+llings, and the duty is, we understand, about one s.h.i.+lling more. One is a life of the Duke of Marlborough. Buonaparte said it was a reflection upon England not to have a life of her greatest Hero, and therefore he would be his biographer; accordingly he set his men to work and collected the materials. Report speaks favourably of it, but I have been so busied in looking and walking about that I shall not be surprised if I find that I have almost forgotten to read upon my return!

_Edward Stanley to Louisa Stanley._

TUESDAY MORNING, _July 13th_.