Part 30

One common accusation against the women of France is, that they do every thing, and consequently more evil than good; but it may be observed in their justification, that in doing evil they are stimulated by the men, and in doing good are actuated by their own principles. This does not in any ways contradict what I said before, that the heart has no concern in the commerce between the two sexes; for the gallantry of the French has given to the women an universal power, which stands in no need of tenderness to support it. Every thing depends upon the ladies; all things are done by them or for them; Olympus and Parnassus, glory and fortune, are equally subject to their laws. Neither books nor authors have any other value or esteem than that which the ladies are pleased to allow them. There is no appeal from their decree in matters of the nicest judgment or most trivial taste. Poetry, criticism, history, philosophy, are all calculated for the ladies, and even the bible itself has lately been metamorphosed into a polite romance. In public affairs, their influence arises from their natural ascendency over their husbands, not because they are their husbands, but because they are men, and it would be monstrous for a man to refuse any thing to a lady, even though she were his wife.

Yet this authority implies neither attachment nor esteem, but merely politeness and compliance with custom; for it is as essential to French gallantry to despise the women as to oblige them; and this contempt is taken as a proof, that a man has seen enough of the world to know the sex. Whoever treats them with respect is deemed a novice, a knight-errant, one who has known woman only in romances. They judge so equitably of themselves, that to honour them is to forfeit their esteem; so that the principal requisite in a man of gallantry is superlative impertinence.

Let the ladies of this country pretend what they will, they are, in spite of themselves, extremely good-natured. All men who are burthened with a multiplicity of affairs, are difficult of access, and without commiseration; and in Paris, the center of business of one of the most considerable nations in Europe, the men of consequence are particularly obdurate: those, therefore, who have any thing to ask, naturally apply to the ladies, whose ears are never shut against the unhappy; they console and serve them. In the midst of all their frivolous dissipation, they do not scruple to steal a few moments from their pleasure, and devote them to acts of benevolence; and though there may be some women mean enough to make an infamous traffic of their services, there are hundreds, on the contrary, who are daily employed in charitably assisting the distressed. However, it must be confessed, that they are sometimes so indiscreet, as to ruin an unfortunate man they happen not to know, in order to serve their own friend. But how is it possible to know every body in so extensive a country? or how can more be expected from good-nature destitute of real virtue, whose sublimest effort is not so much to do good, as to avoid evil? After all, it must be allowed that their inclinations are not naturally bad; that they do a great deal of good; that they do it from their hearts; that they alone preserve the remains of humanity, which are still to be found in Paris; and that without them, we should see the men avaricious and insatiable, like wolves devouring each other.

I should have remained ignorant of all this, if I had not consulted their comedies and romances, whose authors are, perhaps, too apt to stumble upon those foibles from which they themselves are not exempt, rather than the virtues they happen not to possess; who, instead of encouraging their readers by praising their real virtues, amuse themselves with painting imaginary characters too perfect for imitation.

Romances are perhaps the last vehicle of instruction that can be administered to a corrupt people. It were to be wished that none were suffered to prepare this medicine but men of honest principles and true sensibility; authors, whose writings should be a picture of their own hearts; who, instead of fixing virtue in the heavens, beyond the reach of our nature, would, by smoothing the way, insensibly tempt us out of the gulph of vice.

But to return to the Parisian ladies; concerning whom, I do not by any means agree in the common opinion. They are universally allowed to have the most enchanting address, the most seducing manner, to be the most refined coquets, to possess the most sublime gallantry, and the art of pleasing to a most superlative degree. For my part, I think their address shocking, their coquettish airs disgusting, and their manner extremely immodest. I should imagine that the heart would shrink back at all their advances, and I can never be persuaded, that they can for a single moment, talk of love, without shewing themselves incapable of either feeling or inspiring that tender passion.

On the other hand, we find them represented frivolous, artful, false, thoughtless, inconstant, talking well, but without reflection or sentiment, and evaporating all their merit in idle chit-chat. But to me, all this appears to be as external as their hoops or _rouge_. They are a kind of fashionable vices, which are supposed necessary at Paris, but which are not incompatible with sense, reason, humanity and good-nature. These ladies are, in many cases, more discreet, and less given to tattling than those of any other country. They are better instructed, and the things they are taught have a stronger effect upon their judgment. In short, if I dislike them for having disfigured the proper characteristics of their sex, I esteem them for those virtues in which they resemble us; and, my opinion is, that they are better calculated to be men of merit, than amiable women.

One word more and I have done. If Eloisa had never been, if my heart had been capable of any other attachment than that for which it was created, I should never have taken a wife or mistress in Paris; but I should gladly have chosen a friend, and such a treasure might possibly have consoled me for the want of the others. [33]

Letter LXXXVII. To Eloisa.

Since the receipt of your letter, I have been daily with Mr. Silvester, to see after the packet you mentioned: but my impatience has been seven times disappointed. At length, however, on the eighth time of going, I received it; and it was no sooner put into my hands, than, without staying to pay the postage, even without asking what it came to, or speaking a word to any body, I ran with it out of doors; and, as if I had been out of my senses passed by the door of my lodgings, though it stood open before me, and traversed a number of streets that I knew nothing of, till in about half an hour I found myself at the farther end of Paris. I was then obliged to take a hackney coach in order to get the more speedily home, which is the first time I have made use of those conveniences in a morning; indeed it is with regret I use them even in an afternoon, to pay some distant visits; for my legs are good, and I should be sorry that any improvement in my circumstances should make me neglect the use of them.

When I was seated in the coach, I was a good deal perplexed with my packet; as you had laid your injunctions on me to open it no where but at home. Besides, I was unwilling to be subject to any interruption in opening the packet, and indulging myself in that exquisite satisfaction, I find in every thing that comes from you. I held it therefore with an impatience and curiosity which I could scarce contain: endeavouring to discover its contents through the covers, by pressing it every way with my hands; from the continual motions of which you would have thought the packet contained fire, and burned the ends of my fingers. Not but that from its size, weight, and the contents of your former letter, I had some suspicion; but then, how could I conceive you to have found either the opportunity or the artist? but what I then could not conceive, is one of the miracles of almighty love: the more it surpasses my conception, the more it enchants my heart, and one of the greatest pleasures it gives me arises from my ignorance in the manner in which you could effect it.

Arrived at length at my lodgings, I flew to my chamber, locked the door, threw myself, out of breath, into a chair, and with a trembling hand broke open the seal. ’Twas then, Eloisa, I felt the first effect of this powerful talisman. The palpitations of my heart increased at every paper I unfolded; till coming to the last, I was forced to stop and take breath a moment, before I could open it. It is open----my suggestions are true,----it is so,----it is the portrait of Eloisa. ----O , my love! your divine image is before me; I gaze with rapture on your charms! my lips, my heart, pay them the first homage, my knees bend;----Again, my eyes are ravished with thy heavenly beauties. How immediate, how powerful, is their magical effect! no Eloisa, it requires not, as you pretend, a quarter of an hour to make itself perceived; a minute, an instant suffices, to draw from my breast a thousand ardent sighs, and to recall, with thy image, the remembrance of my past happiness. Ah! why is the rapture of having such a treasure in possession allayed with so much bitterness? how lively is the representation it gives me of days that are no more! I gaze on the portrait, I think I see Eloisa, and enjoy in imagination those delightful moments, whose remembrance imbitters my present hours; and which heaven in its anger bestowed on me only to take them away. Alas! the next instant undeceives me; the pangs of absence throb with increased violence, after the agreeable delusion is vanished, and I am in the fate of those miserable wretches, whose tortures are remitted only to render them the more cruel. Heavens! what flames have not my eager eyes darted on this unexpected object! how has the sight of it roused in me those impetuous emotions, which used to be effected by your presence! O, my Eloisa, were it possible for this talisman to affect your senses with the phrenzy and illusion of mine----But why is it not possible? why may not those impressions, which the mind darts forth with such rapidity, reach as far as Eloisa? Ah, my charming friend! wherever you are, or however you are employed, at the time I am now writing, at the time your portrait receives the same homage I pay to the idol of my soul, do you not perceive your charming face bedewed with tears? do you not sympathize with me in love and sorrow? do you not feel the ardour of a lover’s kisses on your lips, your cheeks, your breast? do you not glow all over with the flame imparted from my burning lips?----Ha! what’s that?----some body knocks----I will hide my treasure----an impertinent breaks in upon me,----accursed be the cruel intruder, for interrupting me in transports so delightful, may he never be capable of love,----or may he be doomed to pine in absence, like me.

Letter LXXXVIII. To Mrs. Orbe.

It is to you, dear cousin, I am to give an account of the French opera; for, although you have not mentioned it in your own letters, and Eloisa has kept your secret in hers, I am not at a loss to whom to attribute that piece of curiosity. I have been once at the opera to satisfy myself, and twice to oblige you, but am in hopes, however, this letter will be my excuse for going no more. If you command me, indeed, I can bear it again; I can suffer, I can sleep there, for your service; but to remain awake and attentive is absolutely impossible.

But, before I tell you what I think of this famous theatre, I will give you an account of what they say of it here; the opinion of the connoisseurs may perhaps rectify mine, where I happen to be mistaken. The French opera passes at Paris for the most pompous, the most delightful, the most wonderful entertainment that was ever effected by the united efforts of the human genius. It is said to be the most superb monument of the magnificence of Louis the fourteenth. In fact, every one is not so much at liberty, as you imagine, to give his opinion on so grave a subject. Every thing may be made a point of dispute here, except music and the opera; but with respect to these, it may be dangerous not to dissemble one’s thoughts, as the French music is supported by an inquisition no less arbitrary than severe. Indeed the first lesson which strangers are taught, is, that foreigners universally allow that nothing in the whole world is so fine as the opera at Paris. The truth is, discreet people are silent upon this topic, because they dare not laugh, except in private.

It must be allowed, however, that they represent at the opera, at a vast expense, not only all the wonderful things in nature, but many others still more wonderful, and which nature never produced. For my part, I cannot help thinking Mr. Pope meant this theatre, where he said, one might see there, mixed in one scene of confusion, gods, devils, monsters, kings, shepherds, fairies, madness, joy, a wild- fire, a jig, a battle, and a ball.

This assemblage, so magnificent and well conducted, is regarded by the spectators as if all the things and characters exhibited were real. On seeing the representation of a heathen temple, they are seized with a profound reverence; and, if the goddess be at all pretty, half the men in the pit are immediately pagans.

Here the audience is not so nice as at the French comedy. Those very spectators, who could not there consider the player as the character he represented, cannot, at the opera consider him any otherwise. It seems as if they were shocked at a national deception, and could give into nothing but what was grossly absurd; or perhaps they can more easily conceive players to be gods than heroes. Jupiter being of another nature, people may think of him as they please; but Cato was a man, and how few men are there, who, to judge from themselves, have any reason to think such a man as Cato ever existed.

This opera is not composed, therefore, as in other places, of a company of mercenaries, hired to furnish out an entertainment for the public. It is true, they are paid by the public, and it is their business to attend the opera: but the nature of it is quite changed by its becoming a royal academy of music, a sort of sovereign tribunal that judges without appeal in its own cause, and is not very remarkable for justice and integrity. Thus you see, how much in some countries the essence of things depends on mere words, and how a respectable title may do honour to that which least deserves it.

The members of this illustrious academy are not degraded by their profession: in revenge, however, they are excommunicated, which is directly contrary to the custom of all other countries: but, perhaps, having had their choice, they had rather live honourably and be damned, than go, as plebeians, vulgarly to heaven. I have seen a modern chevalier, on the French theatre, as proud of the profession of a player, as the unfortunate Laberius was formerly mortified at it, although the latter was forced into it by the commands of Caesar, and recited only his own works. [34] But then our degraded ancient could not afterwards take his place in the circus among the Roman knights; whilst the modern one found his every day at the French comedy, among the first nobility in the kingdom. And I will venture to say, never did they talk at Rome with so much respect, of the majesty of the Roman people, as they do at Paris, of the majesty of the opera.

This is what I have gathered chiefly from conversation about this splendid entertainment; I will now relate to you what I have seen of it myself.

Imagine to yourself the inside of a large box, about fifteen feet wide, and long in proportion: this box is the stage; on each side are placed screens, at different distances, on which the objects of the scene are coarsely painted. Beyond there is a great curtain, bedaubed in the same manner; which extends from one side to the other, and is generally cut through, to represent caves in the earth, and openings in the heavens, as the perspective requires. So that, if any person, in walking behind the scenes, should happen to brush against the curtain, he might cause an earthquake so violent as to shake----our sides with laughing. The skies are represented by a parcel of bluish rags, hung up with lines and poles, like wet linen at the washer- woman’s. The sun, for he is represented here sometimes, is a large candle in a lanthorn. The chariots of the gods and goddesses are made of four bits of wood, nailed together in the form of a square, and hung up by a strong cord, like a swing: across the middle is fastened a board, on which the deity sits a straddle; and in the front of it hangs a piece of coarse canvas, bedaubed with paint, to represent the clouds that attend on this magnificent car. The bottom of this machine is illuminated by two or three stinking, unsnuffed candles, which, as often as the celestial personage bustles about and shakes his swing, smoke him deliciously, with incense worthy such a divinity.

As these chariots are the most considerable machines of the opera, you may judge by them of the rest. A troubled sea is made of long rollers covered with canvas or blue paper, laid parallel and turned by the dirty understrappers of the theatre. Their thunder is a heavy cart, which rumbles over the floor’d ceiling, and is not the least affecting instrument of their agreeable music. The flashes of lightning are made by throwing powdered rosin into the flame of a link; and the falling thunderbolt is a cracker at the end of a squib.

The stage is provided with little square trap doors; which, opening on occasion, give notice that the infernal demons are coming out of the cellar. And when they are to be carried up into the air, they substitute dexterously in their room little devils of brown canvas stuffed with straw, or sometimes real chimney-sweepers, that are drawn up by ropes, and ride triumphant through the air till they majestically enter the clouds, and are lost among the dirty rags I mentioned. But what is really tragical is, that when the tackle is not well managed, or the ropes happen to break, down come infernal spirits and immortal gods together, and break their limbs and sometimes their necks. To all this I shall add their monsters; which certainly make some scenes very pathetic, such as their dragons, lizards, tortoises, crocodiles, and great toads, all which stalk or crawl about the stage with a threatening air, and put one in mind of the temptation of St. Anthony: every one of these figures being animated by a looby of a Savoyard, that has not sense enough to play the brute.

Thus you see, cousin, in what consists, in a great degree, the splendid furniture of the opera; at least, thus much I could observe from the pit, with the help of my glass; for you must not imagine these expedients are much hid, or produce any great illusion: I only tell you here what I saw, and what every other unprejudiced spectator might have seen as well as myself. I was told, nevertheless, that a prodigious quantity of machinery is employed to effect all these motions, and was several times offered a sight of it; but I was never curious to see in what manner extraordinary efforts were made to be productive of insignificant effects.

The number of people engaged in the service of the opera is inconceivable. The orchestra and chorus together consist of near an hundred persons: there is a multitude of dancers, every part being doubly and triply supplied, [35] that is to say, there is always one or two inferior actors ready to take the place of the principal, and who are paid for doing nothing, till the principal is pleased to do nothing in his turn, and which is seldom long before it happens. After a few representations, the chief actors, who are personages of great consequence, honour the public no more with their presence in that piece, but give up their parts to their substitutes, or to the substitutes of those substitutes. They receive always the same money at the door, but the spectator does not always meet with the same entertainment. Every one takes a ticket, as he does in the lottery, without knowing what will be his prize; but, be what it will, no body dares complain; for you are to know, that the honourable members of this academy owe the public no manner of respect, it is the public which owes it to them.

I will say nothing to you of their music, because you are acquainted with it. But you can have no idea of the frightful cries and hideous bellowings, with which the theatre resounds during the representation. The actresses, throwing themselves into convulsions as it were, rend their lungs with squeaking: in the mean time, with their fists clenched against their stomach their heads thrown back, their faces red, their veins swelled, and their breasts heaving, one knows not which is most disagreeably affected, the eye or the ear. Their actions make those suffer as much who see them, as their singing does those who hear them; and yet what is inconceivable is, that these howlings are almost the only thing the audience applaud. By the clapping of their hands, one would imagine them a parcel of deaf people, delighted to be able to hear the voice now and then strained to the highest pitch, and that they strove to encourage the actors to repeat their efforts. For my part, I am persuaded that they applaud the squeaking of an actress at the opera, for the same reason as they do the tricks of a tumbler or posture-master at the fair: it is displeasing and painful to see them; one is in pain while they last, but we are so glad to see all pass off without any accident, that we willingly give them applause.

Think how well this manner of singing is adapted to express all that Quinault has written the most soft and tender. Imagine the muses, loves and graces, imagine Venus herself expressing her sentiments in this delicate manner, and judge of the effects. As to their devils, let us leave their music to something infernal enough to suit it. As also that of their magicians, conjurers and witches; all which, however meets with the greatest applause at the French opera.