The Idler in France Part 19

When I look on the suite of rooms in which I have pa.s.sed such pleasant days, I am filled with regret at the prospect of leaving them, but it cannot be helped, so it is useless to repine. We have two months to look about us, and many friends who are occupied in a.s.sisting us in the search.

A letter from Lord B----; better, but still ailing. He presided at the Covent Garden Theatrical Fund Dinner, at the request of the Duke of Clarence. He writes me that he met there Lord F. Leveson Gower[5], who was introduced to him by Mr. Charles Greville, and of whom he has conceived a very high opinion. Lord B---- partakes my belief in physiognomy, but in this instance the impression formed from the countenance is justified by the reputation of the individual, who is universally esteemed and respected.

Went again to see the Hotel Monaco, which Lord B---- writes me to close for; but its gloomy and uncomfortable bed-rooms discourage me, _malgre_ the splendour of the _salons_, which are decidedly the finest I have seen at Paris, I will decide on nothing until Lord B----'s return.

Went to the College of Ste.-Barbe to-day, with the d.u.c.h.esse de Guiche, to see her sons. Great was their delight at the meeting. I thought they would never have done embracing her; and I, too, was warmly welcomed by these dear and affectionate boys, who kissed me again and again. They have already won golden opinions at the college, by their rare apt.i.tude in acquiring all that is taught them, and by their docility and manly characters.

The masters paid the d.u.c.h.esse the highest compliments on the progress her sons had made previously to their entrance at Ste.-Barbe, and declared that they had never met any children so far advanced for their age. I shared the triumph of this admirable mother, whose fair cheeks glowed, and whose beautiful eyes sparkled, on hearing the eulogiums p.r.o.nounced on her boys. Her observation to me was, "How pleased their father will be!"

Ste.-Barbe is a little world in itself, and a very different world to any I had previously seen. In it every thing smacks of learning, and every body seems wholly engrossed by study.

The spirit of emulation animates all, and excites the youths into an application so intense as to be often found injurious to health. The ambition of surpa.s.sing all compet.i.tors in their studies operates so powerfully on the generality of the _eleves_, that the masters frequently find it more necessary to moderate, than to urge the ardour of the pupils. A boy's reputation for abilities soon gets known, but he must possess no ordinary ones to be able to distinguish himself in a college where every victory in erudition is sure to be achieved by a well-contested battle.

We pa.s.sed through the quarter of Paris known as the Pays Latin, the aspect of which is singular, and is said to have been little changed during the last century. The houses, chiefly occupied by literary men, look quaint and picturesque. Every man one sees pa.s.sing has the air of an author, not as authors now are, or at least as popular ones are, well-clothed and prosperous-looking, but as authors were when genius could not always command a good wardrobe, and walked forth in habiliments more derogatory to the age in which it was neglected, than to the individual whose poverty compelled such attire.

Men in rusty threadbare black, with books under the arm, and some with spectacles on nose, reading while they walked along, might be encountered at every step.

The women, too, in the Pays Latin, have a totally different aspect to those of every other part of Paris. The desire to please, inherent in the female breast, seems to have expired in them, for their dress betrays a total neglect, and its fas.h.i.+on is that of some forty years ago. Even the youthful are equally negligent, which indicates their conviction that the men they meet seldom notice them, proving the truth of the old saying, that women dress to please men.

The old, with locks of snow, who had grown into senility in this erudite quarter, still paced the same promenade which they had trodden for many a year, habit having fixed them where hope once led their steps. The middle-aged, too, might be seen with hair beginning to blanch from long hours devoted to the midnight lamp, and faces marked with "the pale cast of thought." Hope, though less sanguine in her promises, still lures them on, and they pa.s.s the venerable old, unconscious that they themselves are succeeding them in the same life of study, to be followed by the same results, privation, and solitude, until death closes the scene. And yet a life of study is, perhaps, the one in which the privations compelled by poverty are the least felt to be a hards.h.i.+p.

Study, like virtue, is its own exceeding great reward, for it engrosses as well as elevates the mind above the sense of the wants so acutely felt by those who have no intellectual pursuits; and many a student has forgotten his own privations when reading the history of the great and good who have been exposed to even still more trying ones. Days pa.s.s uncounted in such occupations. Youth fleets away, if not happily, at least tranquilly, while thus employed; and maturity glides into age, and age drops into the grave, scarcely conscious of the gradations of each, owing to the mind having been filled with a continuous train of thought, engendered by study.

I have been reading some French poems by Madame Amabel Tastu; and very beautiful they are. A sweet and healthy tone of mind breathes through them, and the pensiveness that characterises many of them, marks a reflecting spirit imbued with tenderness. There is great harmony, too, in the versification, as well as purity and elegance in the diction.

How much some works make us wish to know their authors, and _vice versa_! I feel, while reading her poems, that I should like Madame Amabel Tastu; while other books, whose cleverness I admit, convince me I should not like the writers.

A book must always resemble, more or less, its author. It is the mind, or at least a portion of it, of the individual; and, however circ.u.mstances may operate on it, the natural quality must always prevail and peep forth in spite of every effort to conceal it.

Living much in society seldom fails to deteriorate the force and originality of superior minds; because, though unconsciously, the persons who possess them are p.r.o.ne to fall into the habits of thought of those with whom they pa.s.s a considerable portion of their time, and suffer themselves to degenerate into taking an interest in puerilities on which, in the privacy of their study, they would not bestow a single thought. Hence, we are sometimes shocked at observing glaring inconsistencies in the works of writers, and find it difficult to imagine that the grave reflection which pervades some of the pages can emanate from the same mind that dictated the puerilities abounding in others. The author's profound thoughts were his own, the puerilities were the result of the friction of his mind with inferior ones: at least this is my theory, and, as it is a charitable one, I like to indulge it.

A pleasant party at dinner yesterday. Mr. W. Spencer, the poet, was among the guests, He was much more like the William Spencer of former days than when he dined here before, and was occasionally brilliant, though at intervals he relapsed into moodiness. He told some good stories of John Kemble, and told them well; but it seemed an effort to him; and, while the listeners were still smiling at his excellent imitation of the great tragedian, he sank back in his chair with an air of utter abstraction.

I looked at him, and almost shuddered at marking the "change that had come o'er the spirit of his dream;" for whether the story touched a chord that awakened some painful reflection in his memory, or that the telling it had exhausted him, I know not, but his countenance for some minutes a.s.sumed a careworn and haggard expression, and he then glanced around at the guests with an air of surprise, like one awakened from slumber.

It is astonis.h.i.+ng how little people observe each other in society! This inattention, originating in a good breeding that proscribes personal observation, has degenerated into something that approaches very nearly to total indifference, and I am persuaded that a man might die at table seated between two others without their being aware of it, until he dropped from his chair.

Civilization has its disadvantages as well as its advantages, and I think the consciousness that one might expire between one's neighbours at table without their noticing it, is hardly atoned for by knowing that they will not stare one out of countenance. I often think, as I look around at a large dinner-party, how few present have the slightest knowledge of what is pa.s.sing in the minds of the others. The smile worn on many a face may be a.s.sumed to conceal a sadness which those who feel it are but too well aware would meet with little sympathy, for one of the effects of modern civilization is the disregard for the cares of others, which it engenders.

Madame de ---- once said to me, "I never invite Monsieur de ----, because he looks unhappy, and as if he expected to be questioned as to the cause." This _nave_ confession of Madame de ---- is what few would make, but the selfishness that dictated it is what society, _en ma.s.se_, feels and acts up to.

Monsieur de ----, talking of London last evening, told the Count ---- to be on his guard not to be too civil to people when he got there. The Count ---- looked astonished, and inquired the reason for the advice.

"Merely to prevent your being suspected of having designs on the hearts of the women, or the purses of the men," replied Monsieur de ----; "for no one can evince in London society the _empress.e.m.e.nt_ peculiar to well-bred Frenchmen without being accused of some unworthy motive for it."

I defended my countrymen against the sweeping censure of the cynical Monsieur de ----, who shook his head and declared that he spoke from observation. He added, that persons more than usually polite are always supposed to be poor in London, and that as this supposition was the most injurious to their reception in good society, he always counselled his friends, when about to visit it, to a.s.sume a _brusquerie_ of manner, and a stinginess with regard to money, by which means they were sure to escape the suspicion of poverty; as in England a parsimonious expenditure and bluntness are supposed to imply the possession of wealth.

I ventured to say that I could now understand why it was that he pa.s.sed for being so rich in England--a _coup de patte_ that turned the laugh against him.

Mr. de ---- is a perfect cynic, and piques himself on saying what he thinks,--a habit more frequently adopted by those who think disagreeable, than agreeable things.

Dined yesterday at Madame C----'s, and being Friday, had a _diner maigre_, than which I know no dinner more luxurious, provided that the cook is a perfect artist, and that the Amphitryon, as was the case in this instance, objects not to expense.

The _soupes_ and _entrees_ left no room to regret the absence of flesh or poultry from their component parts, and the _releves_, in the shape of a _brochet roti_, and a _turbot a la hollandaise_ supplied the place of the usual _pieces de resistance_. But not only was the flavour of the _entrees_ quite as good as if they were composed of meat or poultry, but the appearance offered the same variety, and the _cotelettes de poisson_ and _fricandeau d'esturgeon_ might have deceived all but the profoundly learned in gastronomy,--they looked so exactly like lamb and veal.

The second course offered equally delicate subst.i.tutes for the usual dainties, and the most fastidious epicure might have been more than satisfied with the _entremets_.

The bishops in France are said to have had the most luxurious dinners imaginable on what were erroneously styled fast-days; and their cooks had such a reputation for their skill, that the having served _a Monseigneur d'eglise_ was a pa.s.sport to the kitchens of all lovers of good eating. There are people so profane as to insinuate that the excellence at which the cooks arrived in dressing _les diners maigres_ is one of the causes why Catholicism has continued to flourish; but this, of course, must be looked on as a malicious hint of the enemies to that faith which thus proves itself less addicted to indulgence in the flesh than are its decryers.

CHAPTER XVII.

The more I observe Lady C---- the more surprised I am at the romantic feelings she still indulges, and the illusions under which she labours;--yes _labours_ is the suitable word, for it can be nothing short of laborious, at her age, to work oneself into the belief that love is an indispensable requisite for life. Not the affection into which the love of one's youth subsides, but the wild, the ungovernable pa.s.sion peculiar to the heroes and heroines of novels, and young ladies and gentlemen recently emanc.i.p.ated from boarding-schools and colleges.

Poor Lady C----, with so many estimable qualities, what a pity it is she should have this weakness! She maintained in our conversation yesterday that true love could never be extinguished in the heart, and that even in age it burnt with the same fire as when first kindled. I quoted to her a pa.s.sage from Le Brun, who says--"L'amour peut s'eteindre sans doute dans le coeur d'un galant homme; mais combien de dedommagements n'a-t-il pas alors a offrir! L'estime, l'amitie, la confiance, ne suffisent-elles pas aux glaces de la vieillesse?" Lady C---- thinks not.

Talking last night of ----, some one observed that "it was disagreeable to have such a neighbour, as he did nothing but watch and interfere in the concerns of others."

"Give me in preference such a man as le Comte ----," said Monsieur ----, slily, "who never bestows a thought but on self, and is too much occupied with that interesting subject to have time to meddle with the affairs of other people."

"You are right," observed Madame ----, gravely, believing him to be serious; "it is much preferable."

"But surely," said I, determined to continue the mystification, "you are unjustly severe in your animadversions on poor Monsieur ----. Does he not prove himself a true philanthropist in devoting the time to the affairs of others that might be usefully occupied in attending to his own?"

"You are quite right," said Mrs. ----; "I never viewed his conduct in this light before; and now that I understand it I really begin to like him,--a thing I thought quite impossible before you convinced me of the goodness of his motives."

How many Mrs. ----'s there are in the world, with minds ductile as wax, ready to receive any impression one wishes to give them! Yet I reproached myself for a.s.sisting to hoax her, when I saw the smiles excited by her credulity.

Mademoiselle Delphine Gay[6] is one of the agreeable proofs that genius is hereditary. I have been reading some productions of hers that greatly pleased me. Her poetry is graceful, the thoughts are natural, and the versification is polished. She is a very youthful auth.o.r.ess, and a beauty as well as a _bel esprit_. Her mother's novels have beguiled many an hour of mine that might otherwise have been weary, for they have the rare advantage of displaying an equal knowledge of the world with a lively sensibility.

All Frenchwomen write well. They possess the art of giving interest even to trifles, and have a natural eloquence _de plume_, as well as _de langue_, that renders the task an easy one. It is the custom in England to decry French novels, because the English unreasonably expect that the literature of other countries should be judged by the same criterion by which they examine their own, without making sufficient allowance for the different manners and habits of the nations. Without arrogating to myself the pretension of a critic, I should be unjust if I did not acknowledge that I have perused many a French novel by modern authors, from which I have derived interest and pleasure.

The French critics are not loath to display their ac.u.men in reviewing the works of their compatriots, for they not only a.n.a.lyze the demerits with pungent causticity, but apply to them the severest of all tests, that of ridicule; in the use of which dangerous weapon they excel.

House-hunting the greater part of the day. Oh the weariness of such an occupation, and, above all, after having lived in so delightful a house as the one we inhabit! Many of our French friends have come and told us that they had found hotels exactly to suit us: and we have driven next day to see them, when lo and behold! these eligible mansions were either situated in some disagreeable _quartier_, or consisted of three fine _salons de reception_, with some half-dozen miserable dormitories, and a pa.s.sage-room by way of _salle a manger_.

Though Paris abounds with fine _hotels entre cour et jardin_, they are seldom to be let; and those to be disposed of are generally divided into suites of apartments, appropriated to different persons. One of the hotels recommended by a friend was on the Boulevards, with the princ.i.p.al rooms commanding a full view of that populous and noisy quarter of Paris. I should have gone mad in such a dwelling, for the possibility of reading, or almost of thinking, amidst such an ever-moving scene of bustle and din, would be out of the question.

The modern French do not seem to appreciate the comfort of quiet and seclusion in the position of their abodes, for they talk of the enlivening influence of a vicinity to these same Boulevards from which I shrink with alarm. It was not so in former days; witness the delightful hotels before alluded to, _entre cour et jardin_, in which the inhabitants, although in the centre of Paris, might enjoy all the repose peculiar to a house in the country. There is something, I am inclined to think, in the nature of the Parisians that enables them to support noise better than we can,--nay, not only to support, but even to like it.

I received an edition of the works of L.E.L. yesterday from London. She is a charming poetess, full of imagination and fancy, dazzling one moment by the brilliancy of her flights, and the next touching the heart by some stroke of pathos. How Byron would have admired her genius, for it bears the stamp of being influenced no less by a graceful and fertile fancy than by a deep sensibility, and the union of the two gives a peculiar charm to her poems.

Drove to the Bois de Boulogne to-day, with the Comtesse d'O----, I know no such brilliant talker as she is. No matter what may be the subject of conversation, her wit flashes brightly on all, and without the slightest appearance of effort or pretension. She speaks from a mind overflowing with general information, made available by a retentive memory, a ready wit, and in exhaustible good spirits.

Letters from dear Italy. Shall I ever see that delightful land again? A letter, too, from Mrs. Francis Hare, asking me to be civil to some English friends of hers, who are come to Paris, which I shall certainly be for her sake.

_a propos_ of the English, it is amusing to witness the avidity with which many of them not only accept but court civilities abroad, and the _sang-froid_ with which they seem to forget them when they return home.

I have as yet had no opportunity of judging personally on this point, but I hear such tales on the subject as would justify caution, if one was disposed to extend hospitality with any prospective view to grat.i.tude for it, which we never have done, and never will do.