This I did also, though under my assumed name. Unfortunately, in the matter of dinner I had been forestalled by another stranger, and I cannot therefore judge how a coat really ought to look; or whether his long residence in Calais, added to increasing years, have rendered the dress of the former king of fashion less classical; for I found him at his second toilet, in a flowered chintz dressing-gown, velvet night-cap with gold tassel, and Turkish slippers, shaving, and rubbing the remains of his teeth with his favourite red root. The furniture of his rooms was elegant enough, part of it might even be called rich, though faded; and I cannot deny that the whole man seemed to me to correspond with it. Though depressed by his present situation, he exhibited a considerable fund of humour and good-nature. His air was that of good society; simple and natural, and marked by more urbanity than the dandies of the present race are capable of. With a smile he showed me his Paris peruque, which he extolled at the cost of the English ones, and called himself ‘le ci-devant jeune homme qui passe sa vie entre Paris et Londres.’ He appeared somewhat curious about me; asked me questions concerning people and things in London, without belying his good breeding by any kind of intrusiveness; and then took occasion to convince me that he was still perfectly well-informed as to all that was passing in the English world of fashion, as well as of politics. “Je suis au fait de tout,” exclaimed he; “mais à quoi celà me sert-il? On me laisse mourir de faim ici. J’éspère pourtant que mon ancien ami, le Duc de W—— enverra un beau jour le Consul d’ici à la Chine, et qu’ ensuite il me nommera à sa place. Alors je suis sauvé.” * * *
And surely the English nation ought in justice to do something for the man who invented starched cravats! How many did I see in London in the enjoyment of large sinecures, who had done far less for their country.
As I took my leave, and was going down stairs, he opened the door and called after me, “J’éspère que vous trouverez votre chemin, mon Suisse n’est pas là, je crains.” “Hélas!” thought I, “point d’argent, point de Suisse.”
That I may not leave you too long without intelligence, I despatch this letter from hence. Probably I shall soon follow it. I shall, however, stay at least a fortnight in Paris, and execute all your commissions. Meanwhile think of me with your usual affection.
Your faithful
L——.
Paris, January 5th, 1829.
My most dear and valued Friend,
I could not write to you yesterday, because the diligence takes two days and a night to go from Calais to Paris, though it stops but once in twelve hours to eat, and then only for half an hour. The ride is not the most agreeable. The whole country, and even its metropolis, certainly appears somewhat dead, miserable, and dirty, after the rolling torrent of business, the splendour and the neatness of England. The contrast is doubly striking at this short distance. When you look at the grotesque machine in which you are seated, the wretchedly harnessed cart-horses by which you are slowly dragged along, and remember the noble horses, the elegant light-built coaches, the beautiful harness ornamented with bright brass and polished leather of England, you think you are transported a thousand miles in a dream. The bad roads, the miserable and dirty towns, awaken the same feeling. On the other hand, four things are manifestly better here,—climate, eating and drinking, cheapness, and sociability. ‘Mais commençons par le commencement.’ After I had exchanged my incognito passport for one equally provisional, and valid only as far as Paris, in the course of which operation I had nearly forgotten my new name, I approached the wonderful structure, which in France people have agreed to call a diligence. The monster was as long as a house, and consisted, in fact, of four distinct carriages, grown, as it were, together; the berline in the middle; a coach with a basket for luggage behind; a coupé in front; and a cabriolet above, where the conducteur sits, and where I also had perched myself. This conducteur, an old soldier of Napoleon’s Garde, was dressed like a wagoner, in a blueblouze, with a stitched cap of the same material on his head. The postillion was a still more extraordinary figure, and really looked almost like a savage: he too wore ablouze, under which appeared monstrous boots coated with mud; but besides this he wore an apron of untanned black sheep’s-skin, which hung down nearly to his knees. He drove six horses, harnessed three-and-three, which drew a weight of six thousand pounds over a very bad road. The whole road from Calais to Paris is one of the most melancholy and uninteresting I ever saw. I should therefore have read nearly all the way, had not the conversation of the conducteur afforded me better entertainment. His own heroic deeds and those of the Garde were an inexhaustible theme; and he assured me without the slightest hesitation, “que les trente mille hommes dont il faisoit partie dans ce tempslà,” (that was his expression,) “auraient été plus que suffisans pour conquérir toutes les nations de la terre, et que les autres n’avaient fait que gâter l’affaire.” He sighed every time he thought of his Emperor. “Mais c’est sa faute,” exclaimed he, “ah! s—— d—— il serait encore Empéreur, si dans les cent jours il avait seulement voulu employerde jeunes gens qui désiraient faire fortune, au lieu de ces vieux Maréchaux qui étaient trop riches, et qui avaient tous peur de leurs femmes. N’étaient ils pas tous gros et gras commes des monstres? Ah! parlez moi d’un jeune, Colonel, comme nous en avions! Celui-là vous aurait flanqué ça de la jolie manière.—Mais après tout l’Empéreuraurait dû se faira tuer à Waterloo comme notre Colonel. Eh bien, Monsieur, ce brave Colonel avait reçu trois coups de feu, un à la jambe, et deux dans le corps, et pourtant il nous ménait encore à l’attaque, porté par deux grénadiers. Mais quand tout fut en vain et tout fini pour nous; Camérades, dit-il, j’ai fait ce que j’ai pû, mais nous voilà.—Je ne puis plus rendre service à l’Empéreur, à quoi bon vivre plus long temps? Adieu donc, mes Camérades—Vive l’Empéreur! Et le voilà qui tire son pistolet, et le décharge dans sa bouche. C’est ainsi, ma foi, que l’Empéreur aurait dû finir aussi.”
Here we were interrupted by a pretty girl, who ran out of a poor-looking house by the road side, and called up to us, (for we were at least eight ells from the ground,) “Ah ça, Monsieur le Conducteur, oubliez vous les craipes?” “O ho! es tu là, mon enfant?” and he rapidly scrambled down the accustomed break-neck steps, made the postillion stop, and disappeared in the house. After a few minutes he came out with a packet, seated himself with an air of great satisfaction by me, and unfolded a prodigious store of hot smoking GermanPlinzen, a dish which, as he told me, he had learned to like so much in Germany, that he had imported it into his own country. Conquests are, you see, productive of some good. With French politeness he immediately begged me to partake of his ‘goûté,’ as he called it; and patriotism alone would have led me to accept his offer with pleasure. I must however admit that no farmer in Germany could have prepared his national dish better.
He was greatly troubled and distressed by a strange machine, nearly in the form of a pump, placed near his seat, with which he was incessantly busied; now pumping at it with all his might, then putting it in order, screwing it round or turning it backwards and forwards. On inquiry, I learned that this was a most admirable newly-invented piece of machinery, for the purpose of retarding the diligence without the aid of a drag-shoe. The conducteur was amazingly proud of this contrivance, never called it by any other name than ‘sa méchanique,’ and treated it with equal tenderness and reverence. Unhappily this prodigy broke the first day; and as we were forced in consequence to creep more slowly than before, the poor hero had to endure a good many jokes from the passengers, on the frailty of his ‘méchanique,’ as well as on the name of his huge vehicle, ‘l’Hirondelle,’ a name which truly seemed to have been given it in the bitterest irony.
It was irresistibly droll to hear the poor devil, at every relay, regularly advertise the postillion of the misfortune which had happened. The following dialogue, with few variations, always ensued: “Mon enfant, il faut que tu saches que je n’ai plus de méchanique.” “Comment, s—— d——, plus de méchanique?” “Ma méchanique fait encore un peu, vois-tu, mais c’est très peu de chose, le principal brancheron est au diable.” “Ah, diable!”
It was impossible to be worse seated, or to travel more uncomfortably or tediously than I in my lofty cabriolet: and indeed I had now been for some time deprived of my most familiar comforts: yet never were my health or my spirits better than during this whole journey: I felt uninterrupted cheerfulness and content, because I was completely free. Oh! inestimable blessing of freedom, never do we value thee enough! If every man would but clearly ascertain what were actually necessary to his individual happiness andcontent, and would unconditionally choose what best promised to secure that end, and heartily reject all the rest (for we cannot have everything at once in this world), how many mistakes were avoided, how much petty ambition crushed, how much true joy and pleasure promoted! All would find a great over-proportion of happiness in life, instead of torturing themselves to the very brink of the grave to obtain what gives them neither tranquillity nor enjoyment.
I will not weary you with any further details of so uninteresting a journey. It was like the melo-drame “One o’clock,” and as tiresome. The day we left Calais we stopped at one to dine; at one in the morning we supped: the next day at one we had breakfast or dinner at Beauvais, where a pretty girl who waited on us, and a friend of Bolivar’s, who told us a great deal about the disinterestedness of the Liberator, made us regret our quick departure; and again, at one in the morning, we had to fight for our luggage at the Custom-house at Paris. My servant put mine upon a ‘charrette’ which a man crowded before us through the dark and dirty streets to the Hotel St. Maurice, where I am now writing to you in a little room in which the cold wind whistles through all the doors and windows, so that the blazing fire in the chimney warms me only on one side. The silken hangings, as well as the quantity of dirt they cover; the number of looking-glasses; the large blocks of wood on the fire; the tile parquet,—all recall vividly to my mind that I am in France, and not in England.
I shall rest here a few days and make my purchases, and then hasten to you, without, if possible, seeingoneacquaintance; ‘car celà m’entrainerait trop,’ Do not, therefore, expect to hear anything new from old Paris. A few detached remarks are all that I shall have to offer you.
January 6th.
To make some defence against the extreme cold, which I have always found most insufferable in France and Italy, from the want of all provision against it, I was obliged to-day to have all the chinks in my little lodging stuffed with ‘bourlets.’ When this was done, I sallied forth to take the customary first walk of strangers,—to the Boulevards, the Palais Royal, Tuilleries, &c. for I was curious to see what alterations had taken place in the course of seven years. On the Boulevards I found all just as it was: in the Palais Royal, the Duke of Orleans has begun to substitute new stone buildings and an elegant covered way for the narrow old wooden galleries, and other holes and corners. When it is finished, this palace will certainly be one of the most magnificent, as it has always been one of the most singular and striking, in the world. Perhaps there is no other instance of a royal prince inhabiting the same house with several hundred shopkeepers, and as many inmates of a less reputable description, and deriving from them a revenue much more than sufficient for his ‘mênus plaisirs.’ In England a nobleman would think the existence of such a society under his roof impossible; but could it by any means find admittance, he would at least take care to have it cleaner.
In the palace of the Tuilleries and the Rue Rivoli all the improvements which Napoleon began were in much the same state as he left them. In this point of view Paris has lost much in the Imperial dynasty, which would have rendered it a truly magnificent city, andthe luxury of decoration must soon have been followed by that of cleanliness. One is tempted to wish that the Pont de Louis Seize were among the unfinished things; for the ludicrously theatrical statues, at least twice too big in proportion to the bridge, and seeming to crush the pillars they stand upon, have much more the air of bad ‘acteurs de province’ than of the heroes they are meant to represent.
As cooks are to be numbered among the heroes of France, first on account of their unequalled skill, and secondly of their sense of honour, (remember Vatel,) I come naturally in this place to the restaurateurs. Judging by the most eminent whom I visited to-day, I think they have somewhat degenerated. They have, to be sure, exchanged their inconveniently long ‘carte’ for an elegantly bound book; but the quality of the dishes and wines seems to have deteriorated in proportion to the increase of luxury in the announcement of them. After coming to this melancholy conviction, I hastened to the once celebrated ‘Rocher de Cancale.’ But Baleine has launched into the sea of eternity; and the traveller who now trusts to the rock of Cancale, builds upon the sand: ‘Sic transit gloria mundi.’
On the other hand I must give all praise to the Theatre de Madame, where I spent my evening. Léontine Fay is a most delightful actress, and a better ‘ensemble’ it would be difficult to find. Coming directly from England, I was particularly struck with the consummate truth and nature with which Léontine Fay represented the French girl educated in England, yet without suffering thisnuanceto break in any degree the harmony and keeping of the character. It is impossible to discover in her admirable acting the slightest imitation of Mademoiselle Mars; and yet it presents as true, as tender, as pathetic a copy of nature, in a totally different manner.—The second piece, a farce, was given with that genuine ease and comic expression which make these French ‘Riens’ so delightful and amusing in Paris, while they appear so vapid and absurd in a German translation. The story is this:—A provincial uncle secretly leaves his little country town, in which he has just been chosen a member of a ‘Société de la Vertu,’ in order to reclaim his nephew, of whom he has received the most discouraging accounts, from his wild courses. Instead of which his nephew’s companions get hold of him, and draw him into all sorts of scrapes and excesses.
Mademoiselle Minette brings, by her coquetry, old Martin to give her a kiss, at which moment her lover, the waiter, comes in with a pig’s head, stands speechless with amazement, and at length letting the head slide slowly off the dish, cries out, “N’y a’t-il pas de quoi perdre la tête?” This certainly is a silly jest enough, yet one must be very stoically inclined not to laugh heartily at the admirable drollery of the acting. The rest is as diverting: Martin, alarmed at having been caught in such an adventure, at length consoles himself with the thought that he is not known here; and in the midst of his ‘embarras,’ accepts an invitation to a ‘déjeuner’ from Dorval, who has just come in. The ‘déjeuner’ is given at the theatre. Martin at first is very temperate; but at length the truffles and dainties tempt him, ‘et puis il faut absolument les arroser d’un peu de Champagne.’ After much pressing on the part of his hosts, and much moralizing on his own, he consents to drink one glass ‘à la vertu.’ ‘Hélas, il n’y a que le premier pas qui coute.’ A second glass follows, ‘à la piété;’—a third, ‘à la miséricorde;’ and before the guests depart, wehear Martin, drunk and joyous, join in the toast, ‘Vivent les femmes et le vin!’ Play follows:—at first he will only join in a game of piquet; from piquet he is led on to écarté, and from écarté to hazard; loses a large sum, and at last learns, ‘pour le combler de confusion,’ that he and his plan were betrayed from the first, and that his nephew had puthimto the trial instead of being tried by him, and had unfortunately found him very frail. He gladly agrees to all that is required of him, ‘pourvu qu’on lui garde le secret;’ and the piece concludes with the arrival of his old friend, who comes by extra post to announce to him that he (Martin) was yesterday elected by acclamation president of the ‘Société de la Vertu’ in his native town.
Jan. 7th.
In spite of the ‘bourlets’ and a burning pile of wood in my chimney, I continue to be almost frozen in my ‘entresol.’ There prevails moreover a constant ‘clair-obscur,’ so that I see the writing implements before me as if behind a veil. The small windows and high opposite houses render this irremediable; you must forgive me, therefore, if my writing is more unintelligible than usual. You must have remarked that the preposterously high rate of postage in England taught me to write more carefully, and especially smaller; so that a Lavater of handwritings might study my character in the mere aspect of my letters to you. It is in this, as in life; we are often led by good motives to begin to contract in various ways: soon however the lines involuntarily expand; and before we are conscious of it, the unfelt but irresistible power of habit leads us back to our old latitude.
An English officer, whom I found to-day in the Café Anglais, repeatedly asked the astonished ‘garçon’ for ‘la charte,’ concluding I suppose, that in liberal France it formed a part of the furniture of every café. Although the French seldom take any notice of the ‘qui pro quos’ of foreigners, this was too remarkable not to draw forth a smile from several. I thought, however,—how willingly would some reverse the Englishman’s blunder, and give the French people ‘cartes’ instead of ‘chartes.’
I was greatly surprised in the evening at the Opéra Français, which I had left a kind of bedlam, where a few maniacs screamed with agony as if on the rack, and where I now found sweet singing in the best Italian style, united to very good acting. Rossini, who, like a second Orpheus, has tamed even this savage opera, is a real musical benefactor; and natives as well as foreigners have reason to bless him for the salvation of their ears. I prefer this now, though it is not the fashion to do so, to the Italian Opera. It combines nearly all that one can desire in a theatre;—the good singing and acting I have mentioned, with magnificent decorations, and the best ballet in the world. If the text of the operas were fine poetry, I know not what further could be wished; but even as they are, one may be very well content; for instance, with the ‘Muette de Portici,’ which I saw to-day. Mademoiselle Noblet’s acting is full of grace and animation, without the least exaggeration. The elder Nourrit is an admirable Massaniello, though he, and he alone, sometimes screamed too loud. The costumi were models; but Vesuvius did not explode and flame properly, and the clouds of smoke which sunk intothe earth instead of ascending from it, were a phenomenon which I had not the good fortune to witness when I ‘assistai’ at a real eruption of that mountain.
Jan. 8th.
A French writer somewhere says, “L’on dit que nous sommes des enfans;—oui, pour les faiblesses, mais pas pour le bonheur.” This, thank God! I can by no means say of myself. ‘Je le suis pour l’un et pour l’autre,’ in spite of my three dozen years. I amuse myself here in the solitude of this great city uncommonly well, and can fancy myself a young man just entering the world, and everything new to me. In the mornings I see sights, saunter from one museum to another, or go ‘shopping.’ (This word signifies to go from shop to shop buying trifles, such as luxury is always inventing in Paris and London.) I have already collected a hundred little presents for you, so that my small apartment can hardly contain them, and yet I have scarcely spent eighty pounds sterling for them. In England it is thedearness, but here thecheapness, that is expensive. I am often constrained to laugh when I see that a cunning French shopkeeper thinks he has cheated a stiff islander admirably, while the latter goes off in astonishment at having bought things for a sixth part of what he had given for the very same in London.
I continue my scientific researches among the restaurateurs, which occupy me till evening, when I go to the theatre, though I have not time to complete the course either of the one or the other.
During my ‘shopping’ to-day in the Palais Royal, I observed anafficheannouncing the wonderful exhibition of the death of Prince Poniatowski at Leipsic. I am loath to omit anything of this national kind, so that I ascended a miserable dirty staircase, where I found a shabbily dressed man sitting near a half-extinguished lamp, in a dark room without a window. A large table standing before him was covered with a dirty table-cloth. As soon as I entered he arose and hastened to light three other lamps, which however would not burn, whereupon he began to declaim vehemently. I thought the explanation was beginning, and asked what he had said, as I had not given proper attention. “Oh rien,” was the reply, “je parle seulement à mes lampes qui ne brûlent pas clair.” After this conversation with the lamps had accomplished its end, the cloth was removed, and discovered a work of art which very much resembled a Nüremberg toy, with little moving figures, but on the assurance of the owner was well worth the entrance money. In a nasal singing tone he began as follows: “Voilà le fameux Prince Poniatowski, se tournant avec grace vers les officiers de son corps en s’ecriant, Quand on a tout perdu et qu’on n’a plus d’espoir, la vie est un opprobre et la mort un devoir.
“Remarquez bien, Messieurs, (he always addressed me in the plural,) comme le cheval blanc du prince se tourne aussi lestement qu’un cheval véritable. Voyez, pan à droite—pan à gauche,—mais le voilà qui s’élance, se cabre, se précipite dans la rivière, et disparait.” All this took place; the figure was drawn by a thread first to the right, then to the left, then forward; and at last, by pulling away a slide painted to represent water, fell into a wheelbarrow that stood under the table. “Ah!—bien!—voilà le prince Poniatowski noyé! Il est mort!—C’est la première partie. Maintenant, Messieurs, vous allez voir tout à l’heure la chose la plus surprénante qui ait jamais éte montréeen France. Tous ces petits soldats innombrables que vous appercevez devant vous (there were somewhere about sixty or seventy), sont tous vraiment habillés; habits, gibernes, armes, tout peut s’ôter et se remettre à volonté! Les canons servent commes les canons véritables, et sont admirés par tous les officiers de génie qui viennent ici.” In order to give ocular demonstration of this, he took the little cannon off the carriage, and the sword-belt off the soldier, nearest to him, which was to serve as sufficient proof of his assertion. “Ah,—bien! vous allez maintenant, Messieurs, voir manœuvrer cette petite armée comme sur le champ de bataille. Chaque soldat et chaque cheval feront séparément les mouvements propres, voyez!” Hereupon the whole body of puppets, who had not moved during the first act, (probably out of respect for Prince Poniatowski,) now made two simultaneous movements to the sound of a drum which a little boy beat under the table: the soldiers shouldered their arms, and set them down again; the horses reared and kicked. While this was going on, the expositor recounted the French bulletin of the affair with increasing pathos,—and thus closed the second act. I thought there could hardly be anything better to come; and as a few fresh spectators had dropped in, and I found it impossible any longer to endure the horrid stench of two lamps which had gone out, I fled from the field of battle and all its wonders. Tragical enough was it, however, to see that gallant selfdevoting hero so represented.
I was much pleased at the Opera with young Nourrit’s Count Ory. Connoisseurs may exclaim as they like against Rossini;—it is not the less true that in this, as in his other works, streams of melody enchant the ear,—now melting in tones of love, now thundering in tempests; rejoicing, triumphant, at the banquet of the knights, or rising in solemn adoration to heaven. It is curious enough that in this licentious opera, the prayer of the knight, which is represented as merely a piece of hypocrisy, is the very same which Rossini had composed for Charles the Tenth’s coronation. Madame Cinti sung the part of the Countess very well; Mademoiselle Javoureck, as her page, showed very handsome legs, and the bass singer was excellent.
The ballet I thought not so good as usual. Albert and Paul are not grown lighter with years, and, except Noblet and Taglioni, there was no good female dancer.
In the opera, I remarked that the same actor who played one of the principal parts in the ‘Muette,’ sustained a very obscure one to-night in the chorus of knights. Such things often occur here, and are worthy of all imitation. It is only when the best performers are obliged to concur in the ‘ensemble,’ be the part allotted to them great or small, that a truly excellent whole can be produced. For this ‘ensemble’ much more is generally done in France than in Germany, where the illusion is frequently broken by trifles which are sacrificed to the ease and convenience of the manager or actor. Hoffman used to say, that of all incongruities none had ever shocked him more than when, on the Berlin stage, aGeheimerathof Iffland’s, after deporting himself in the most prosaic manner possible, suddenly, instead of going out at the door in a human manner, vanished through the wall like mere air.
Jan. 10.
It is an agreeable surprise to find the Museum, after all that it has restored, still so abundantly rich. Dénon’s new ‘Salles’ now afford aworthy station to most of the statues. It is only a pity that the old galleries are not arranged in the same style. Much would not be lost by the demolition of the painted ceilings, which have no great merit in themselves, and harmonize so ill with statues. Sculpture and painting should never be mixed. I shall not dwell on the well-known master-pieces; but let me mention to you some which particularly struck me, and which I do not remember to have seen before.
First: A beautiful Venus, discovered a few years since in Milo, and presented to the King by the Duc de Rivière. She is represented asvictrix; according to the opinion of antiquarians, either showing the apple, or holding the shield of Mars with both hands. Both arms are wanting, so that these are only hypotheses. But how exquisite is the whole person and attitude! What life, what tender softness, and what perfection of form! The proud triumphant expression of the face has the truth and nature of a woman, and the sublimity and power of a deity.
Second: A female figure clothed in full drapery (called in the Catalogue ‘Image de la Providence’);—a noble, idealized woman;—mildness and benignity in her countenance, divine repose in her whole person. The drapery perfect in grace and execution.
Third: Cupid and Psyche, from the Villa Borghese. Psyche, sunk on her knees, is imploring Cupid’s forgiveness, and the sweet smile on his lips shows that her prayer is inwardly accepted. Laymen, at least, can hardly look without rapture on the exquisite beauty of the forms, and the lovely expression of the countenances. The group is in such preservation, that only one hand of the God of Love appears to have been restored.
Fourth: A Sleeping Nymph. The ancients, who understood how to present every object under the most beautiful point of view, frequently adorned their sarcophagi with such figures, as emblems of death. The sleep is evidently deep; but the attitude is almost voluptuous:—the limbs exquisitely turned, and half concealed by drapery. The figure excites the thought rather of the new young life to come, than of the death which must precede it.[162]
Fifth: A Gipsy,—remarkable for the mixture of stone and bronze. The figure is of the latter: the Lacedæmonian mantle, of the former. The head is modern, but has a very charming arch expression, perfectly in character for a Zingarella, such as Italy still contains.
Sixth: A magnificent Statue in an attitude of prayer. The head and neck, of white marble, have the severe ideal beauty of the antique; and the drapery, of the hardest porphyry, could not be more light and flowing in silk or velvet.
Seventh: The colossal Melpomene gives its name to one of the new galleries, and below it an elegant bronze railing encloses some admirably executed imitations of antique mosaic by Professor Belloni. This is a very interesting invention, and I wonder to see it so little encouraged by the rich.
Eighth: The bust of the youthful Augustus. A handsome, mild, and intelligent head; very different in expression, though with thesame outline of features, from the statue which represents the emperor at a later period of life, when the power of circumstances and the influence of parties had hurried him into so many acts of tyranny and cruelty, till at length his native gentleness returned with the attainment of uncontested and unlimited power.
Ninth: His great general, Agrippa. Never did I behold a more characteristic physiognomy, with a nobler outline. It is curious that the forehead and the upper part of the region of the eye have a strong resemblance to a man, who, though in a different sphere of activity, must be numbered among the great,—I mean Alexander von Humboldt. In the other part of the face the resemblance wholly disappears. The more I looked at this iron head, the more I was convinced that exactly such an one was necessary to enable the soft Augustus to become and to remain lord of the world.
Tenth: The last, and at the same time most interesting to me, was a bust of Alexander, the only authentic one, as Dénon affirms, in existence; a perfect study for physiognomists and craniologists: for the fidelity of the artists of antiquity represented all the parts with equal care after the model of nature. This head has indeed all the truth of a portrait, not in the slightest degree idealized,[163]—not even remarkably beautiful in feature; but, in the extraordinary proportions and expression, distinctly telling the history of the great original. The ‘abandon’ of the character, sometimes amounting to levity, is clearly betrayed by the graceful inclination of the neck and the voluptuous beauty of the mouth. The forehead and jaw are strikingly like those of Napoleon, as is also the entire form of the skull, both behind and before (animal and intellectual.) The forehead is not too high,—it bespeaks no ideologist—but compact, and of iron strength. The features are generally regular and well turned, though, as I have already remarked, they have no pretensions to ideal beauty. Around the eye and nose reigns acuteness of mind, united with determined courage and a singular elevated astuteness, and at the same time with that disposition towards sensual pleasures, which combine to render Alexander such as he stands alone in history,—a youthful hero, no less invincible than amiable,—a hero realizing all the dreams of poetry and fiction. Gifted with the same combination of qualities, neither Charles the Twelfth of Sweden nor Napoleon would have met their overthrow in Russia; nor would the one now be regarded as a mere Don Quixote, nor the other as a man who employed his powers only as a calculating tyrant. The whole forms a being whose aspect is in the highest degree attractive, and, though imposing, awakens in the spectator courage, love, and confidence. He feels himself happy and secure within the reflection of this wondrous countenance; and sees that such a man, in any condition of life, must have excited admiration and enthusiasm, and have exercised boundless influence.
I must mention one lovely bas-relief, and a singularly beautiful altar. The Bas-relief, for which, like so many others, France is indebted to Napoleon, is from the Borghese collection. It represents Vulcan forging the shield for Æneas: Cyclops around him, all with genuine Silenus’ and fauns’ faces, are delightfully represented. But the most delightful figure of the group is a lovely little Cupid, half hiding himselfbehind the door with the cap of one of the Cyclops. All in this elegant composition is full of life, humour, and motion, and the truth of the forms and correctness of the outlines are masterly.
The Altar, dedicated to twelve Deities, is in form like a Christian font. The twelve busts in alto-relievo surround it like a beautiful wreath. The workmanship is exquisite, and the preservation nearly perfect. The gods are placed in the following order: Jupiter, Minerva, Apollo, Juno, Neptune, Vulcan, Mercury, Vesta, Ceres, Diana, all separate; lastly, Mars and Venus united by Cupid. I wonder that this graceful design has never been executed on a small scale in alabaster, porcelain or glass, for ladies’ bazaars, as the well-known doves and other antique subjects are. Nothing could be better adapted for the purpose; and yet there was not even a plaster cast of it to be found at Jaquet’s (the successor to Getti, ‘mouleur du Musée;’) nor had he any of the subjects I have mentioned, merely because they are not among the most celebrated; though some that are, are certainly not of a very attractive character. Men are terribly like ‘les moutons de Panurge:’ they implicitly follow authority, and suffer that to prescribe to them what they shall like.
In the picture-galleries, the forced restitutions would be considerably less remarked, if the places were not filled by so many pictures of the modern French school, which I confess, with very few exceptions, produce somewhat the effect of caricatures upon me. The theatrical attitudes, the stage dignity, which even David’s pictures frequently exhibit, and the continual exaggeration of passion, appear like the work of learners, compared with the noble fidelity to nature of the Italian masters, and even make us regret the charming truth and reality of the German and Flemish schools. Of all these famous moderns, Girodet displeased me the most: no healthy taste can look at his Deluge without disgust. Gérard’s entry of Henry the Fourth appears to me a picture whose fame will endure. The number of Rubens’ and Lesueur’s pictures which have been brought from the Luxemburg, but ill replace the Raphaels, Leonardo da Vincis, and Vandykes, which have disappeared. In short, all that had been brought here since the Restoration, whether new or old, makes but an unfavourable impression. This is not lessened by the bad busts of painters which have been placed at regular intervals, and which, even were they better as specimens of sculpture, are wholly out of place in a collection of paintings. The magnificent long gallery affords, however, as before, the most agreeable winter walk; and the liberality which leaves it constantly accessible to strangers cannot be sufficiently praised.
When I think how still more deplorable is the state of painting in England, how little Italy and Germany now merit their former fame, I am tempted to fear that this art will share the fate of painting on glass; nay, that its most precious secrets are already irrecoverably lost. The breadth, power, truth and life of the old masters, their technical knowledge of colouring,—where are they now to be found? Thorwaldson, Rauch, Danneker, Canova, rival the antique;[164]butwhere is the painter who can be placed by the side of the second-rate artists of the golden age of painting?
In a side court of the Museum stands the colossal Sphinx from Drovetti’s collection, destined for the court of the Louvre. It is of pale-red granite, and the sculpture is as grand as the mass is stupendous. It is perfectly intact, except the nose; this had just been replaced by one of plaster of Paris, which had not received its last coat of colouring. The sight of it made me involuntarily laugh; and, thinking of the strange chain of events which had brought this giant hither, I internally exclaimed, “What do you here, you huge Ægyptian, after a lapse of three thousand years,—in this new Babylon, where no sphinx can keep a secret, and where silence never found a home?”
In the evening I went to the Théatre Porte St. Martin to see Faust, which was performed for the eightieth or ninetieth time. The culminating point of this melodrame is a waltz which Mephistopheles dances with Martha; and in truth it is impossible to dance more diabolically. It never fails to call forth thunders of applause,—and in one sense deserves it; for the pantomime is extremely expressive, and affects one in the same manner as jests intermingled with ghost stories. Mephistopheles, though ugly, has the air of a gentleman, which is more than can be said for our German devils.
The most remarkable part of the scenery is the Blocksberg, with all its horrors, which leave those of the Wolf’s Glen far behind. Illumined by lurid lights of all colours, gleaming from behind dark pines and clefts in the rock, it swarmed with living skeletons, glittering snakes, horrible monsters of deformity, headless or bleeding bodies, hideous witches, huge fiery giants’ eyes glaring out of bushes, toads as big as men, and many other agreeable images of the like kind. In the last act, the scene-painter had gone rather too far, having represented heaven and hellat the same time. Heaven, which of course occupied the upper part of the scene, shone with a very beautiful pale-blue radiance; but this was so unbecoming to the complexion of Gretchen’s soul, as well as to that of the angels who pirouetted round her, that they looked more like the corpses on the Blocksberg than the blessed in heaven.—The devils, who danced immediately under the wooden floor of heaven, had a much more advantageous tone of colour, which they certainly deserved for the zeal with which they tore the effigy of Faust into pieces till the curtain fell.
The theatre itself is tastefully decorated with gay paintings and gold on a ground of white satin. The many-coloured flowers, birds and butterflies, have a very lively agreeable effect. The interior of the boxes is light blue, and the lining an imitation of red velvet. Besides the annoying cry of the limonadiers, who, to a German ear, make such singular abbreviations of the words ‘orgeat, limonade, glace,’ there was a Jew who wandered about with ‘lorgnettes,’ which he let at ten sous for the evening;—a trade which I don’t remember to have observed before, and which is very convenient to the public.
This letter will probably travel to you by sledges, for we have a truly Russian climate, though unhappily no Russian stoves. Heaven send you a better temperature in B——!
Your L——
Paris, January 12th, 1829.
Dearest Julia,
It certainly is a fine thing to have such a walk as the Louvre daily at one’s command, and to take refuge from snow and rain in the hall of gods, and among the creations of genius.—‘Vive le roi!’ for this liberality at least.
I spent my forenoon in the magnificent gallery, and also visited the Egyptian Museum, of which I shall tell you more anon. At dinner, I found an interesting companion in a Général de l’Empire, whom I accidentally met, and whose conversation I preferred to the theatre. He related a number of incidents of which he had been eye and ear-witness:—they give a more vivid picture and a deeper view of all the bearings and relations of things at that time, than are to be gathered from memoirs, in which the truth can never be revealed wholly without concealment or colouring. It would occupy too much time to repeat them all to you now; and besides, they would lose much of their vivacity: I therefore reserve the greater part for oral relations.—Only one or two.
It is not to be denied, said my informant, that many vulgarities were observable in the interior of Napoleon’s family, which betrayed ‘roture.’ (By this he did not mean inferior birth, but a defective and ignoble education.) The greatest hatred and the most pitiful mutual intrigues reigned between the Bonaparte family and the Empress Josephine, who at length fell their victim. At first, Napoleon took the part of his wife, and was often reproached for it by his mother, who called him tyrant, Tiberius, Nero, and other considerably less classical names, to his face. The General assured me, that Madame had frequently told him that Napoleon, from his earliest infancy, had always tried to rule despotically, and had never shown the slightest regard for any one but himself and those immediately belonging to him. He had tyrannized over all his brothers, with the exception of Lucien, who never suffered the least offence or injury to go unrevenged. She had often, she said, observed with astonishment how perfectly the brothers had retained their relative characters. The General affirmed, that Madame Letitia had the firmest persuasion that Napoleon would end ill; and made no secret of it, that she hoarded only against that catastrophe. Lucien shared in this persuasion; and as early as the year 1811, used the following remarkable words in speaking to the General: “L’ambition de cet homme est insatiable, et vous vivrez peut-être pour voir sa carcasse et toute sa famille jettées dans les égouts de Paris.”
At Napoleon’s coronation, the Empress-mother, in whose household the General held some office after he had quitted the military service (what, he did not tell me,) gave him strict charge to observe how many arm-chairs, chairs, and stools, had been placed for the imperial family, and to make his report to her unobserved as soon as she entered. The General, who had but little experience in court etiquette, wondered at this strange commission, executed it, however, punctually, and informed her there were but two ‘fauteuils,’ one chair, and so many ‘tabourets.’ “Ah! je le pensais bien,” cried Madame Mère, red with rage, “la chaise est pour moi—mais ils se trompentdans leur calcul!” Walking quickly up to the ominous chair, she asked the chamberlain on duty, with lips quivering with passion, ‘Where was her seat?’ He motioned, with a deep bow, to the chair. The queens had already seated themselves on the ‘tabourets.’ To snatch hold of the chair, throw it down on the feet of the unfortunate chamberlain, who nearly screamed with pain, and to rush into the closet where the Emperor and Josephine were waiting, was the affair of a moment to the exasperated mother. The most indecent scene followed, during which the Empress-mother declared in the most vehement terms, that if a ‘fauteuil,’ were not instantly given her, she would leave the Salle, after explaining aloud the reason for her conduct. Napoleon, although furiously exasperated, was obliged to make ‘bonne mine à mauvais jeu,’ and got out of the scrape by throwing the whole blame on poor Count Ségur; “et l’on vit bientôt,” added the General, “le digne Comte arriver tout effaré, et apporter lui-même un fauteuil à sa Majesté l’Empératrice Mère.” It is characteristic, and a proof that the thing originated in no respect with Josephine, but entirely with the Emperor himself, that at the marriage of Maria Louisa the very same incident was repeated,—only that the humbled and intimidated mother had no longer courage to resist.
Napoleon was brought up a bigot; and although too acute to remain so, or indeed perhaps ever to have been so sincerely, habit—which exercises so strong an influence over us all—rendered it impossible for him ever to divest himself entirely of first impressions. When any thing suddenly struck him, he sometimes involuntarily made the sign of the Cross,—a gesture which appeared most extraordinary to the sceptical children of the revolution.
Now for one amiable trait of Charles the Fourth, whom the world would be so little apt to suspect of any delicate attention. Those who knew him intimately, however, know that he was liberal and kind, though weak and ignorant; and much better as a man than as a king.
When Lucien went to Spain as ambassador from the Republic, the General, my informant, accompanied him as secretary of legation. Lucien’s predecessor had ‘affiché’ all the coarseness of republican manners, to the infinite scandal of the most formal and stately court in the world; and the Spaniards dreaded still greater rudeness and arrogance from the brother of the First Consul. Lucien, however, had the good taste to take the completely opposite course; appeared at court in shoes and bag-wig, and fulfilled all the duties of ceremony and etiquette with such punctuality, that the whole court was in a perfect ecstacy of delight and gratitude. Lucien was not only extremely popular, but the perfect idol of the whole royal family. He returned their friendship, the General affirmed, sincerely, and often earnestly warned the King against the Prince of the Peace, as well as against the insatiable ambition of his own brother, of whom he spoke on every occasion without the slightest reserve. The confidence, however, of the old King in his ‘grand ami,’ as he called Napoleon, remained unshaken to the last.
Before his departure, Lucien crowned his popularity by a magnificent fête, the like of which had never been seen in Spain, and which cost nearly four hundred thousand francs. The highest persons about the court, a number of grandees, and the whole royal family honoured it with their presence; and the latter seemed not to know how sufficiently to express their attachment to the ambassador. A few daysafterwards, all the members of the legation received splendid presents; the ambassador alone was omitted; and republican familiarity permitted many jokes upon him in the palace of the embassy. Meanwhile the audience of leave was over, Lucien’s departure fixed for the following day, and all hopes of the expected present at an end, when an officer of the Walloon guard came with an escort to the hotel, bringing a large picture in a packing-case, as a present from the King to Napoleon. When Lucien was informed of this, he said, it was doubtless Titian’s Venus, which he had often admired in the King’s presence, and which was certainly a very valuable picture, but that the carriage of it was inconvenient to him, and he must confess he had rather the King had not sent it. However, the officer was most politely thanked, and dismissed; and Lucien, taking out a valuable shirt-pin from his breast, begged him to accept it. The ambassador now ordered the case to be unpacked, the picture taken out of its frame (which could be left behind), and rolled so that it could be carried on the imperial of a carriage. The secretary did as he desired:—scarcely was the wrapping-cloth raised, when, instead of the admired Venus, a face anything but beautiful—that of the King himself smiled upon him. He was just flying off in mischievous delight to inform the ambassador of the comical mistake, when on entirely removing the cloth, a yet greater surprise detained him:—the whole picture was set round like a miniature with large diamonds, which Lucien afterwards sold in Paris for four millions of francs. This was truly a royal surprise, and the ambassador speedily recalled his order for leaving the frame.
The General asserted that Lucien was very intimate with the Queen of Portugal, who gave him a political rendezvous at Badajoz. He thought D—— M—— was the result of this meeting. Certain it is, as you may remember I wrote you from London, that that prince is strikingly like Napoleon.
January 13th.
The turn of the Gaiété came to-day in my inspection of theatres, and I make bold to declare that I was very much amused. These little melodrames and vaudevilles are now—the French may be as grand about it as they please—their real and proper national drama; and perhaps they are not altogether innocent of the striking defection of the public to the romantic banner. People were heartily tired of the meagre fare of the