Part 9

But ---- I forget I have a reputation all the way from Mohontongo-street to Adam-street, and I must take care how I lose it. Do you be a good little mother, and economise your health and good looks; and remember that a little judicious hard fare and exposure will not injure your children’s happiness, and that not the quantity, so much as the quality of your maternal cares is useful and commendable. I do not preach rebellion, but if I were any body’s wife, and he should insist on killing me off for the benefit of his children, or to get a new wife--I should insist particularly on not being killed.

The system of ladies’ schools here, is more reasonable than that of their worse halves. There is a better adaptation of studies to the capacity and future destination of the scholars, and to the uses of society; and being open to a fair competition, and to public patronage only, there is a better management of the details.

The gentlemen’s colleges engross all the higher branches, and give them a specific direction, embracing only three or four of the employments of society, and these are, consequently, so overstocked, as to make success in them no better than a lottery. The community is, therefore, filled with a multitude of idlers, who falling often into desperate circumstances, either plot some treason against the state, or prowl, for a thievish subsistence about the gambling houses.--His Most Christian Majesty must have as many lives as a cat to escape them.

There are also in Paris, a great many literary associations, to which ladies have access; and this gives the opportunity of a decorous intercourse of the sexes, which serves to elevate both in the eyes of each other. Woman, associated with man in his intellectual, as in his domestic pursuits, assumes the station, which, by nature, as by the rules of every polished and literary society, she is entitled to. These societies furnish agreeable entertainments for Sundays, or holidays; and they have the good effect of introducing the Muses, naturally awkward, into company, and making them acquainted a little with the Graces.

I attended, a Sunday ago, a meeting of one of these, the--“_Société Polytechnique_,” in the great saloon of the _Hôtel de Ville_. At the one end was an elevated platform, and mounted upon it a President and the usual apparatus of a meeting. Along each side were arranged the readers and orators, and distinguished guests. After a “_Rapport_,” read by the secretary, of the doings of the society, the speakers recited pieces of their own composition--some in rhyme, and many without rhyme or reason. Some were designed to make us laugh, and others to cry, and we did both with great acclamation.--Music closed the scene; a duo by “Italian Artists,” and some one screamed a song on the piano. It is one of the advantages of a large city, that its meetings never want the dignity of a crowd, whatever be the occasion.--The bishop has his at Notre Dame, and punch his at the Champs Elysées.

I have been, also, to the “_Société Geographique_.” There were Captain Ross, from the North Pole, and--what remains of him from American bugs and musquitoes--Captain Hall, and Baron Humboldt, and other Barons. An honorary badge of the society was presented to Captain Ross, with warm acclamation. I waited to the very end, for a lecture announced in the bill about--what do you think?--the “_Beaux Arts en Amerique_.”--But it was all about negroes and squaws, and such “copper fronts as Pocahontas.” It gave a history, circumstantially, of a great crusade of catguts, got up in Paris, a dozen of years ago, for Brazil, which scraped an acquaintance with Don Pedro, and spread the gamut all over Patagonia. Polyphemus threw away his pipe, and sang nothing but, “_Tanti Palpiti_” to his sheep, and the sheep bleated nothing but _mamma mia_, in reply.--“_Ainsi, Messieurs_, (this is the ending,) _cet immense progrés est dù à la Grande Nation, dont nous nous honorons d’etre une humble partie_.” From the “_rapport_” of this “société,” it seems to be a most valuable institution. The topics are various and useful, and its researches are carried by correspondence into every corner of the earth.

I must say a word of a school I visited this morning called the “_Ecole Orthopedique_,” to correct physical deformities, and slovenly habits. Here all that is gross in human nature is refined, all that is crooked reformed. There are as many branches as at the university. One professor ties strings a foot long about your ankles, to prevent too much stride, and another “straightens legs for both sexes.” Angular knees, and stoop shoulders, and such little freaks, are affairs of a fortnight. I have seen, with my own eyes, a girl whose face, they say, was running one way and her feet the other; people walking after her were continually treading on her toes, and in less than six months she has been turned round. The highest chair in this school is for teaching “sitting”--it is occupied by the President. There is also a chair for “walking,” and one for “standing still.” In some countries these are thought mere simple operations to be performed by any one who has wherewith to stand or sit upon.

Let me now introduce you to the French Lady Authors. The family is so small I shall happily have room for them on the rest of this page. The Dowager on the list is the _Duchesse d’ Abrantes_, with her Memoirs; and next her the _Princesse de Salm_, who wrote an “Opera of Sappho” and “Poetical Epistles,” very good for a Princess; also a work called _Vingt-quatre heures d’une femme sensible_, in which there is a display of rich and brilliant fancy. I never read it.

_Madame Tastu_ wrote a volume of little poetry very much loved for its tenderness, and _Mademoiselle Delphine Gay_ (now Madame Girardin) also a volume of miscellaneous poetry, very pretty and delicate, and she is almost a Corinne for extemporising; last of all, the exquisite Baroness _Du Devant_ (George Sand), the gayest little woman in all Paris, who has written novels full of genius, and fit almost to stand along side of Aphra Behn’s and Lady Mary Montague’s verses. When they publish an edition, with little stars * * _in usum Delphini_, I will send you a copy.--I shall perhaps have room also for the gentlemen.

The patriarch is _Chateaubriand_. It is idle to talk about him. He sold the copyright of his works for twenty years only at five hundred and fifty thousand francs. Who has not read his Génie du Christianisme, Martyrs, Journey to Jerusalem, Amerique Sauvage, Atala, &c. He has written also “Memoirs of his own Times,” not to be published till his death. Every one is anxious to read them. The oldest of the poets is _Beranger_. His songs are worthy of Pindar in boldness and sublimity, and not unworthy of Anacreon in liveliness and grace. I have only room for four lines:--Napoleon in his glory.

---- dans sa fortune altière, Se fit un jeu des sceptres, et des lois; Et de ses pieds on peut voir la poussière, Empreinte encore sur le bandeau des rois.

At his death;

Il dort enfin, ce boulet invincible Qui fracassa vingt trones â la fois!

Another special favourite, the poet of romance and melancholy, is _Lamartine_. He has written “_Meditations_;” also _La Mort de Socrate_, and the last canto of “Childe Harold.” Here are eight of his lines.--The “Golfe de Baia.”

O, de la Liberté vieille et sainte patrie! Terre autrefois féconde en sublime vertus! Sous d’indignes Cæsars, maintenant asservie, Ton empire est tombé! tes heroes ne sont plus! Mais dans ton sein l’ame aggrandie, Croit sur leurs monumens respirer leur génie, Comme on respire, encore dans un temple aboli, La majesté du Dieu dont il etait rempli.

He now makes eloquent speeches in the Chamber of Deputies.--Politics run away with all the genius, and rob even the schools of their professors. Only think of such a man as Arago prating radicalism in the Chamber of Deputies. The Muses weep over his and Lamartine’s infidelity.

I have read _Victor Hugo_ lately, and love him and hate him. Like our mocking-bird, he mingles the notes of the nightingale with the cacklings of the hen. But I must not abuse him, the ladies all love him so. Only think of “_Bug Jargal_,” the “_Dernier jour d’un Condamné_;” and above all, “_Notre Dame de Paris_;” and think only of poor little Esmeralda, put so tragically to death on the Place de Grêve in spite of her little goat Djali, and her little shoe.--I have read his tragedies, _Hernan_, _Le Roi s’amuse_, and _Marie Tudor_; parbleu! and “_Lucrece Borgia_.” His poetic works are _Les Orientales_; a collection of odes; _Les Feuilles d’Automne_, &c.

Victor Hugo is yet in the full tide of youth, and so is _Casimir de la Vigne_. The latter represents to-night, at the Theatre Français, his _Don Carlos_; he has already reaped much glory from his _Vêpres Siciliennes_, _Paria_, _Comedienne_, and _Ecole des Vieillards_, and still greater from his Poetic Lamentations, the Messeniennes, which are full of patriotic sentiment, expressed in the richest graces of poetry.

_Alfred de Vigny_ has written a pretty poem, the _Frégate_, and two biblical pieces, _Moïse_, and the _Femme Adultère_; but his great praise is _Cinq Mars_, one of the best compositions of the French historical romance.--Scribe, Picard, and Duval have written so many vaudevilles, that one has a surfeit of their names. _Dumas_ is a dramatic writer of first-rate merit for these days. His Antony, Therèse, Henry V., and Catharine Howard, are all played with success. _Jules Janin_ has a great fund of wit; his _Ane Mort_, _Femme Guillotinée_, _Chemin de Travers_, you can read with the certainty of being pleased.

I have said nothing of Leclercq, Langon, Balsac, Meremy, and Lacroix, who have all their share of admiration, especially from the fair sex.

When the vapours have smothered the sun, and when it rains, as it does always, instead of inhaling charcoal, or leaping from the Pont Neuf, I go into a “cabinet de lecture,” and read _Paul de Kock_. No author living can carry one so laughingly through a wet day. If you are fond of the genuine wit of low life, neither Fielding, nor Smollett, nor Pigault Lebrun, will disgust you with Paul de Kock. But here comes the end of my paper, what shall I do with the rest? I will just string them together by the gills.--Give _Guizot_ credit for a History _de la Civilisation_, a translation of Gibbon, and a score or two of volumes on the English Revolution; _Mignet_ and _Thiers_ for a History of the French Revolution, and _Barante_ for his Dukes of Burgundy; _Sismondi_ for a History of the Italian Republics, of The French, and the Literature of the South; and _Daru_, of Venice; _Thierry_, of the Conquest of England; _Capefigue_, the Reform; _Lacretelle_, The 18th Century; _Ségur_, a Universal History; _Michaud_, of the Crusades; _Delaure_, of Paris; _Michelet_, of Rome; and _Précis de l’Histoire de France_. _Cousin_ has written the “Philosophy of History;” _Keratry_, Metaphysics, and Novels; and _Villemain_, _Melanges de Litterature_, and _M. de la Mennais_ is praised for his “Indifference in matters of Religion.”--The French were strangely deficient in history before the present century, not even having furnished a good history of their own country; they have now supplied their deficiency in this department of letters.--Now with all due respect, and a full sense of the distinction, I place myself at the bottom of this illustrious group. Your obedient, humble servant.

LETTER XVII.

The Theatres.--Mademoiselle Mars.--Théatre Royal.--Italien.--Grisi.--Académie Royal de Musique.--Taglioni.--Miss Fanny Elsler.--The Variètés.--The Odéon.--Mademoiselle George.--Hamlet.--Republican Spirit of the Age.--Character of the French Stage.--Machinery of the Drama.--The Claqueurs.--Supply of New Pieces.--The Vaudevillists.--M. Scribe.--The Diorama.--Concerts.--Music

Paris, December, 1835.

I will treat you this evening to the play. The bill of fare is the _Théâtre Français_, _Opera Français_, _Italien_, _Opera Comique_, _Gymnase_, _Vaudeville_, _Variètés_, _Gaité_, _Ambigù_ and _Palais Royal_, with twice as many more which we will reserve for the side dishes and the dessert.

The Post has brought me a letter from your mother, of November, which I have just read, and could not help laughing at the vanity of her fears. My morals indeed! fortified as they are by the good breeding I had from my Scotch grandmother and Presbyterian catechism.--I went last night to the play, and saw there a great many Sins, which came in their usual shape of pretty women to tempt Saint Anthony. They danced about him, and enticed him with voluptuous smiles and looks, and even set themselves at last to turn somersets to overcome his virtue, but he stuck fast to the faith.

So do I.--I should like to see all the pretty women of Paris come to tempt me. If it had not been for your mother’s letter and St. Anthony, I should not have thought of the theatre this evening.

What say you to the “Français” and Mademoiselle Mars?--Mademoiselle Mars! why she was an old thing twenty years ago; and acts yet all the charms and graces of the most amiable youth. Time flutters by and scarce breathes upon her with his wings; he is loth to set his mark upon a face which every one loves so. Why, what is younger than her voice? It is clear as the whistlings of the nightingale, or it is soft and mellow as the notes of the wood thrush; or if she pleases, it is wild as the song of the whip-poor-will, and savage as the scream of the bald-eagle.

In gesture and the dramatic graces she is no longer subject to rules, but, like Homer, gives rules to all others of her art. When you have looked upon her divine countenance, so expressive of the seriousness of age, or the vivacity of youth; when you have listened to her sweet and honied sentences, you will say, what praise can be exaggerated of such an actress? Molière could not have had a proper conception of his own genius, not having seen Mademoiselle Mars. What a crowding and squeezing we shall have for a place! I have bought this privilege often by more than two hours attendance. Lady Mars is more chary of her favours now than in her greenest age. Like the old Sibyl, she sets a higher value upon her remnants than upon the whole piece.

This theatre, with its three tiers of boxes and two of galleries, contains 1,500 persons. It is called the “_Theatre Royal_,” and is very disposed to exercise its royalty despotically. It forbids the representation of tragedy at the other theatres, and has a claim upon every _élève_ of the Conservatory; which claim it does not fail to assert as often as any one is likely to attain celebrity elsewhere; and its old actors having a monopoly of the choice parts, it prevents easily the advancement of the new aspirants, and weakens the rivalship of the other houses. Its distinguished actors, besides Mars, are Plessy, Chambaud, Dupont and Madame Volnys; its favourite writers Delavigne and Hugo.--Scribe too being now a member of the Institute and assuming a spirit equal to his new dignity, has abjured the ignoble vaudeville, and writes only five acts. In the vestibule you will see an admirable statue of Voltaire with the “sneering devil” in its marble features.

You must go two evenings of the week to the “Italien;” it commences in October. In October, Paris is repeopled with its fashionables, and the weeping country is forsaken. This Opera is crowded for the season with the choicest of Parisian beauty, with all the upper sort of folks, as high as the two Miss Princesses and their mamma the queen. A few evenings ago I saw an English woman here, prettier than them all; she, who with so much genius writes tales for the New Monthly, and poetry for the annuals--Mrs. Norton. I analysed her elegant features from the pit, and wondered how so pretty a woman could write verses. Of all the gratifications of Paris this theatre is surely the most delectable.

I went, on her first night, to see Signora Grisi, and since this first night, she is Grisi to me. Her melting voice and love-making features live in the memory always. Whilst she sings, one is all ear, all sense, and intellect is hushed; never did the quiet midnight listen to its nightingale so attentively; and as the last note expires, _brava! brava!_ exclaims the incontinent Frenchman, and a thousand _bravas_ and _bravissimas_ are repeated through the house; _O beneditto!_ just breathes the Italian expiring; _che gusto! piacer de morire!_ and the unbreathing German goes silently home and lives upon her for a week.

At the close of the last song, and as the curtain threatens to descend, the acclamation bursts into its loudest explosion, and seems for a while inextinguishable; now every one who has a white handkerchief waves it, and every one who can buy a wreath or a bouquet strews it upon the stage. On Saturdays I steal into the third tier towards heaven, and there drink the divine harmony, as one thirsty drinks the healthful stream; or sit under a shower of bright eyes in the pit. The present Italian company forms a union of talent (so say the best critics of the world) such as the world has never seen excelled. Lablache explodes as the thunder, when it mutters along the flinty ribs of the Tuscarora; Rubini out-sings the spheres, so almost Tamburini, and almost Ivanoff. But to thee, black-eyed and languishing Grisi--what are they to thee!

“Ye common people of the skies, What are ye when the sun doth rise?”

At the risk of surfeiting you with sweetmeats, I will take you next to the grand opera--the _Académie Royale de Musique_, where the best music is Taglioni. If you have read in your Virgil of that namesake of yours, who made no impression on the dust, nor bent the light corn or blade of grass as she walked upon it; if you have seen a ghost curtseying along the flank of the Sharp Mountain, and leaving no trace of its airy feet upon the winnowed snows, then you can imagine Taglioni upon the scene of the grand opera, as she flits along the boards, with just gravitation enough to detain her upon the earth. But why absent in the very season of her triumphs?--You must content yourself with her nearest representative, Miss Fanny Elsler--second only in grace, but second to none in any thing else.

I will describe you her performance. She will curtsey to her middle, and then rise in a _pirouette_ two yards high. This is her preliminary step. She will then set off, and skip over the whole area of the stage, lighting on it only occasionally, trying her limbs, and, as it were, provoking the dance from afar, and will present herself to the spectators in all the variety of human shapes and appearances. One while you will see her, “many twinkling feet” suspended in the air, then twirling herself around till her face and hips will seem on the same side of her: at last, (and this is the epic strain of the performance, and, therefore, the last), she will poise herself upon the extremity of the left toe, and bring the right gradually up to the level of the eye (the house will hold its breath!) and then she will give herself a rotary movement, continuing it _in crescendo_ till she becomes invisible. You can no more count her legs, than the spokes of a rail waggon carrying the President’s Message.--This is Fanny Elsler. The description will seem bombast only to those who have not seen her, and to those who have, it will seem tame and inadequate. This letter has a great struggle between prose and poetry; it is like one who is set upon a gallop against his will, gets out of breath, and comes panting in at the end of the course. I should have kept Mars, Grisi, and Taglioni to make an impression in the end--but you can begin with the last page, as girls do the new novel. I was last week induced by an acquaintance to go to the Variètés. It is a merry theatre, said he--“_il provoque le rire_.” This is a kind of provocation I have had frequent need of since I came to Paris. If you think there is no place for melancholy amongst these unsighing French people, you are mistaken. I have sat in this Bastille of a hotel, grave as a bust of Seneca, for a whole week, till all the Paris blue devils ---- and so I went to the Variètés, and saw _Frederic Lemaitre_ in his own “Robert Macaire,” and, above all, the delightful _Jenny Vertprès_, and was not disappointed.

The French have a quick and lively observation, and can dress up a simple anecdote, or vaudeville, or a fancy-shop at the Palais Royal, with a prettiness no other nation need attempt to rival. There is a general good humour, too, about a French audience, which exhibits as much as the play.--There were several notable scenes in some of the pieces, which would be worth telling you, if I had time. If you are not frightened at little licenses, this is a delightful theatre. You will see here _Achard_, who both sings and acts true comedy; and _Tansez_, who “looks broad nonsense with a stare.” Brutus would have liked to have such a face when he played the fool at Rome; and, above all, you will see that exquisite rogue, _Madame Dejaret_.

I went to my next neighbour, the _Odéon_, not long ago, where I saw _Néron, l’Empereur, et Madame sa mère_, and Monsieur Britannicus. Mademoiselle George, once the delight of the capital and its emperor, is yet a well-timbered and hale old woman. She has, in her favour, the dignity of fat, and looks devil enough for Agrippina.--But the French wear the sock more gracefully than the buskin. Their tragic Muse is sublime always, and therefore always ridiculous. She puts on a _qu’il mourut_ kind of face, and carries it about through the whole five acts. She calls the dogs always with the same voice, as when she sees the game. But tragedy, it seems, is in her decrepitude all over the world; the sublime is worn out of our nature; all we can do, now-a-days, is to be beautiful. Miss George, with a little help from _Anais_ and _Dorval_, has been lugging the old cripple about Paris, for several years, on her own back. Decent comedy has nearly the same service, but with more vigour, from Mademoiselle Mars. I have got over just in time to see the fag end of the two Goddesses.