We breakfasted at Abbeville, and dined at Beauvais. And I find it recorded that I contrived5 at{262} both places to find time for a flying visit to the cathedral, and was highly delighted with the noble fragment of a church at the latter city.
I went to bed on arriving at the H?tel de Lille et d’Albion, which was in those days a very different place from its noisy, pretentious6, and vulgar successor of the same name in the Rue7 St. Honoré. The old house in the Rue des Filles de St. Thomas has long since disappeared, together with the quiet little street in which it was situated8. Like its successor it was almost exclusively used by English, but they were the English of the days when personally conducted herds9 were not. The service was performed by handmaidens in neat caps and white bodices over their coloured skirts. There were no swallow-tail-coated waiters, and the coffee was exquisite10! Tempi11 passati, perchè non tornate più?
At ten the next morning I went to No. 6, Rue de Provence, where I found my parents and my sisters at breakfast.
The object of this Paris journey was twofold—the writing a book in accordance with an agreement which my mother had entered into with Mr. Richard Bentley, the father of the publisher of these volumes, and the consultation12 of a physician to whom she had been especially recommended respecting my father’s health, which was rapidly and too evidently declining. They had been in Paris some time already, and had formed a large circle of acquaintance, both English and French. I was told by my mother{263} that the physician, who had seen my father several times, had made no pleasant report of his condition. He did not apprehend14 any immediately alarming phase of illness, but said that had he been left to guess my father’s age after visiting him, he should have supposed him to be more than four score, the truth being that he was very little more than sixty.
This, my first visit to Paris, lasted one month only, from the 9th of May to the 9th of June, and many of the recollections which seem to me now to be connected with it very probably belong to subsequent visits, for my diary, re-opened now for the first time after the interval15 of more than half a century, was kept, I find, in a very intermittent16 and slovenly17 manner. No doubt I found very few minutes for journalising in the four-and-twenty hours of each day.
I well remember that my first impression of Lutetia Parisiorum—“Mudtown of the Parisians,” as Carlyle translates it—was that of having stepped back a couple of centuries or so in the history of European civilisation18 and progress. We are much impressed at home, and talk much of the vastness of the changes which the last fifty years have made in our own city, but I think that which the same time has operated in Paris is much greater. Putting aside the mere19 extension of streets and dwellings20, which, great as it has been in Paris, has been much greater in London, the changes in the former city have been far more radical21. Certainly there are{264} many quarters of London where the eye now rests on that which is magnificent, and which at the time when I knew the town well, presented nothing but what was, if not sordid22, at least ugly. But to those who remember the streets of Louis Philippe’s city, the change in the whole conception of city life, and the manière d’être of the population, is far greater. With the exception of the principal boulevards in the neighbourhood of the recently completed “Madeleine,” and its then recently established flower market, the streets were still traversed by filthy23 and malodorous open ditches, which did more or less imperfectly the duty of sewers25, and Paris still deserved its name of “Mudtown”. Wretched little oil lamps, suspended on ropes stretched across the streets, barely served to make darkness visible. Water was still carried at so much the bucket up the interminable staircases of the Parisian houses by stalwart Auvergnats, who came from their mountains to do a work more severe than the Parisians could do for themselves.
But another specialty26, which very forcibly struck me, and which cannot be said to have been any survival of ways and habits obsolete27 on the other side of the Channel, was the remarkable28 manner in which the political life of the hour, with its emotions, opinions, and passions, was enacted29, so to speak, on the stage of the streets, as a drama is presented on the boards of a theatre. Truly he who ran through the streets of Paris in those days might read, and indeed could not help reading, the{265} reflection and the manifestation30 of the political divisions and passions which animated31 the reign32 of the bourgeois33 king, and ended by destroying it.
And in this respect the time of my first visit to Paris was a very interesting one. The Parisian world was, of course, divided into Monarchists and Republicans, the latter of whom laboured under the imputation35, in some cases probably unjust, but in more entirely36 merited (as in certain other more modern instances), of being willing and ready to bring their theories into practice by perpetrating or conniving37 at any odious38 monstrosity of crime, violence and bloodshed. The Fieschi incident had recently enlightened the world on the justice of such accusations39.
But the Monarchists were more amusingly divided into “Parceque Bourbon,” supporters of the existing régime, and “Quoique Bourbon,” tolerators of it. The former, of course, would have preferred the white flag and Charles Dix; but failing the possibility of such a return to the old ways, were content to live under the rule of a sovereign, who, though not the legitimate40 monarch34 by right divine, was at least a scion41 of the old legitimate race. The “Quoique Bourbon” partisans42 were the men who, denying all right to the throne save that which emanated43 from the will of the people, were yet Monarchists from their well-rooted dread44 of the intolerable evils which Republicanism had brought, and, as they were convinced, would bring again upon France, and were therefore contented45 to{266} support the bourgeois monarchy46 “although” the man on the throne was an undeniable Bourbon.
But what made the streets, the boulevards, the Champs Elysées, and especially the Tuileries garden peculiarly amusing to a stranger, was the circumstance that the Parisians all got themselves up with strict attention to the recognised costume proper to their political party. The Legitimist, the “Quoique Bourbon” bourgeois, (very probably in the uniform of the then immensely popular National Guard) and the Republican in his appropriate bandit-shaped hat and coat with exaggeratedly large lappels, or draped picturesquely47 in the folds of a cloak, after a fashion borrowed from the other side of the Alps, were all distinguishable at a glance. It was then that deliciously graphic48 line (I forget who wrote it) “Feignons à feindre à fin2 de mieux dissimuler” was applied49 to characterise the conspirator-like attitudes it pleased these gentlemen to assume.
The truth was that Paris was still very much afraid of them. I remember the infinite glee, and the outpouring of ridicule50, which hailed the dispersion of a Republican “demonstration” (the reader will forgive the anachronism of the phrase), at the Porte St. Martin, by the judicious51 use of a powerful fire-engine. The heroes of the drapeau rouge52 had boasted they would stand their ground against any charge of soldiery. Perhaps they would have done so. But the helter-skelter that ensued on the first well-directed jet of cold water from the pipe of a fire-engine furnished Paris with laughter for days afterwards.{267}
But, as I have said, Paris, not unreasonably53, feared them. Secret conspiracy54 is always an ugly enemy to deal with. And no violence of mere speculative55 opinion would have sufficed, had fear been absent, to cause the very marked repulsion with which all the Parisians, who had anything to lose, in that day regarded their Republican fellow citizens.
Assuredly the Conservatives of the Parisian world of 1835 were not “the stupid party.” Both in their newspapers, and other ephemeral literature, and in the never-ending succession of current mots and jokes which circulated in the Parisian salons56, they had the pull very decidedly. I remember some words of a parody58 on one of the Republican songs of the day, which had an immense vogue59 at that time. “On devrait planter le chêne,” it ran, “pour l’arbre de la liberté” (it will be remembered that planting “trees of liberty” was one of the common and more harmless “demonstrations” of the Republican party). “Ses glands60 nouriraient sans peine les cochons qui l’ont planté.” And the burthen of the original which ran, “Mourir pour la patrie, C’est le sort le plus beau le plus digne d’envie,” was sufficiently61 and very appositely caricatured by the slight change of “Mourir pour la patrie” into “Nourris par1 la patrie,” &c.
To a stranger seeing Paris as I saw it, and frequenting the houses which I frequented, it seemed strange that such a community should have considered itself in serious danger from men who {268}seemed to me, looking from such a stand-point, a mere handful of skulking62 melodramatic enthusiasts63, playing at conspiracy and rebellion rather than really meditating64 it. But I was not at that time fully65 aware how entirely the real danger was to be found in regions of Paris, and strata66 of its population which were as entirely hidden from my observation, as if they had been a thousand miles away. But though I could not see the danger, I saw unmistakably enough the fear it inspired in all classes of those who, as I said before, had anything to lose.
It was this fear that made the National Guard the heroes of the hour. It was impossible but that such a body of men—Parisian shopkeepers put into uniform (those of them who would condescend67 to wear it; for many used to be seen, who contented themselves with girding on a sabre and assuming a firelock, while others would go to the extent of surmounting68 the ordinary black coat with the regulation military shako)—should afford a target for many shafts69 of ridicule. The capon-lined paunches of a considerable contingent70 of these well-to-do warriors71 were an inexhaustible source of not very pungent72 jokes. But Paris would have been frightened out of its wits at the bare suggestion of suppressing these citizen saviours73 of society. Of course they were petted at the Tuileries. No reception or fête of any kind was complete without a large sprinkling of these shopkeeping guardsmen, and their presence on such occasions was the subject of an unfailing series of historiettes.
I remember an anecdote74 excellently illustrative{269} of the time, which was current in the salons of the “Parceque Bourbon” society of the day. A certain elderly duchess of the vieille roche, a dainty little woman, very mignonne, whose exquisite parure and still more exquisite manners scented75 the air at a league’s distance, to use the common French phrase, with the odour of the most aristocratic salons of the Quartier St. Germain, was, at one of Louis Philippe’s Tuileries receptions, about to take from the tray handed round by a servant the last of the ices which it had contained, when a huge outstretched hand, with its five wide-spread fingers, was protruded78 from behind over her shoulder, and the refreshment79 of which she was about to avail herself was seized by a big National Guard with the exclamation80, “Enfoncèe la petite mère!”
Nevertheless, it may be safely asserted that the little duchess, and all the world she moved in, would have been infinitely81 more dismayed had they gone to the Tuileries and seen no National Guards there.
Among the many persons of note with whom I became more or less well acquainted during that month, no one perhaps stands out more vividly82 in my recollection than Chateaubriand. He also, though standing83 much aloof84 from the noise and movement of the political passions of the time, was an aristocrat76 jusqu’au bout77 des ongles, in appearance, in manners, in opinions, and general tone of mind. The impression to this effect immediately produced on one’s first presentation was in no{270} degree due to any personal advantages. He was not, when I knew him, nor do I think he ever could have been, a good looking man. He stooped a good deal, and his head and shoulders gave me the impression of being somewhat too large for the rest of his person. The lower part of his face too, was, I thought, rather heavy.
But his every word and movement were characterised by that exquisite courtesy which was the inalienable, and it would seem incommunicable, specialty of the seigneurs of the ancien régime. And in his case the dignified85 bearing of the grand seigneur was tempered by a bonhomie which produced a manner truly charming.
And having said all this, it may seem to argue want of taste or want of sense in myself, to own, as truthfulness86 compels me to do, that I did not altogether like him. I had a good deal of talk with him, and that to a youngster of my years and standing was in itself very flattering, and I felt as if I were ungrateful for not liking87 him. But the truth in one word is, that he appeared to me to be a “tinkling cymbal88.” I don’t mean that he was specially13 insincere as regarded the person he was talking to at the moment. What I do mean is, that the man did not seem to me to have a mind capable of genuine sincerity89 in the conduct of its operations. He seemed to me a theatrically-minded man. Immediately after making his acquaintance I read the Génie du Chrétienisme, and the book confirmed my impression of the{271} man. He honestly intends to play a very good and virtuous90 part, but he is playing a part.
He was much petted in those days by the men, and more especially by the women of the ancien régime and the Quartier St. Germain. But I suspect that he was a good deal quizzed, and considered an object of more or less good-natured ridicule by the rest of the Parisian world. I fancy that he was in straitened circumstances. And the story went that he and his wife put all they possessed91 into a box, of which each of them had a key, and took from day to day what they needed, till one fine day they met over the empty box with no little surprise and dismay.
Chateaubriand thought he understood English well, and rather piqued92 himself upon the accomplishment93. But I well remember his one day asking me to explain to him the construction of the sentence, “Let but the cheat endure, I ask not aught beside.” My efforts to do so during the best part of half an hour ended in entire failure.
He was in those days reading in Madame Récamier’s salon57 at the Abbaye-aux-Bois (in which building my mother’s friend, Miss Clarke, also had her residence), those celebrated95 Mémoires d’Outretombe, of which all Paris, or at least all literary and political Paris, was talking. Immense efforts were made by all kinds of notabilities to obtain an admission to these readings. But the favoured ones had been very few. And my{272} mother was proportionably delighted at the arrangement that a reading should be given expressly for her benefit. M. de Chateaubriand had ceased these séances for the nonce, and the gentleman who had been in the habit of reading for him had left Paris. But by the kindness of Miss Clarke and Madame Récamier, he was induced to give a sitting at the Abbaye expressly for my mother. This arrangement had been made before I reached Paris, and I consequently to my great regret was not one of the very select party. My mother was accompanied by my sisters only. I benefited however in my turn by the acquaintance thus formed, and subsequently passed more than one evening in Madame Récamier’s salon at the Abbaye-aux-Bois in the Rue du Bac.
My mother, in her book on Paris and the Parisians, writes of that reading as follows:—“The party assembled at Madame Récamier’s on this occasion did not, I think, exceed seventeen, including Madame Récamier and M. de Chateaubriand. Most of these had been present at former readings. The Duchesses de Larochefoucauld and de Noailles, and one or two other noble ladies, were among them. And I felt it was a proof that genius is of no party, when I saw a grand-daughter of General Lafayette enter among us. She is married to a gentleman who is said to be of the extreme coté gauche96.” The passage of the Mémoires selected for the evening’s reading was the account of the author’s memorable97 visit to Prague to visit the{273} royal exiles. “Many passages,” writes my mother, “made a profound impression on my fancy and on my memory, and I think I could give a better account of some of the scenes described than I should feel justified98 in doing, as long as the noble author chooses to keep them from the public eye. There were touches that made us weep abundantly; and then he changed the key, and gave us the prettiest, the most gracious, the most smiling picture of the young princess and her brother that it was possible for pen to trace. And I could have said, as one does in seeing a clever portrait, ‘That is a likeness99, I’ll be sworn for it.’”
It may be seen from the above passage, and from some others in my mother’s book on Paris and the Parisians, that her estimate of the man Chateaubriand was a somewhat higher one, than that which I have expressed in the preceding pages. She was under the influence of the exceeding charm of his exquisite manner. But in the following passage, which I am tempted100 to transcribe101 by the curious light it throws on the genesis of the present literary history of France, I can more entirely subscribe102 to the opinions expressed:—
“The active, busy, bustling103 politicians of the hour have succeeded in thrusting everything else out of place, and themselves into it. One dynasty has been overthrown104, and another established; old laws have been abrogated105, and hundreds of new{274} ones formed; hereditary106 nobles have been disinherited, and little men made great. But amidst this plenitude of destructiveness, they have not yet contrived to make any one of the puny107 literary reputations of the day weigh down the renown108 of those who have never lent their voices to the cause of treason, regicide, rebellion, or obscenity. The literary reputations both of Chateaubriand and Lamartine stand higher beyond all comparison than those of any other living French authors. Yet the first, with all his genius, has often suffered his imagination to run riot; and the last has only given to the public the leisure of his literary life. But both of them are men of honour and principle, as well as men of genius; and it comforts one’s human nature to see that these qualities will keep themselves aloft, despite whatever squally winds may blow, or blustering109 floods assail110 them. That both Chateaubriand and Lamartine belong rather to the imaginative than to the positif class cannot be denied; but they are renowned111 throughout the world, and France is proud of them. The most curious literary speculations113, however, suggested by the present state of letters in this country, are not respecting authors such as these. They speak for themselves, and all the world knows them and their position. The circumstance decidedly the most worthy114 of remark in the literature of France at the present time is the effect which the last revolution appears to have produced. With the{275} exception of history, to which both Thiers (?)[B] and Mignet have added something that may live, notwithstanding their very defective115 philosophy, no single work has appeared since the revolution of 1830 which has obtained a substantial, elevated, and generally acknowledged reputation for any author unknown before that period—not even among all the unbridled ebullitions of imagination, though restrained neither by decorum, principle, nor taste. Not even here, except from one female pen, which might become, were it the pleasure of the hand that wields116 it, the first now extant in the world of fiction,” (of course, Georges Sand is alluded117 to,) “has anything appeared likely to survive its author. Nor is there any writer, who during the same period has raised himself to that station in society by means of his literary productions, which is so universally accorded to all who have acquired high literary celebrity119 in any country.
“The name of Guizot was too well known before the revolution for these observations to have any reference to him.” (Cousin should not have been forgotten.) “And however much he may have distinguished120 himself since July, 1830, his reputation was made before. There are, however, little writers in prodigious121 abundance.... Never, I believe, was there any period in which the printing presses of France worked so hard as at present. The revolution of 1830 seems to have set all the minor122 spirits in motion. There is scarcely a boy so{276} insignificant123, or a workman so unlearned, as to doubt his having the power and the right to instruct the world.... To me, I confess, it is perfectly24 astonishing that any one can be found to class the writers of this restless clique124 as ‘the literary men of France.’... Do not, however, believe me guilty of such presumption125 as to give you my own unsupported judgment126 as to the position which this ‘new school,’ as the décousu folks always call themselves, hold in the public esteem127. My opinion on this subject is the result of careful inquiry128 among those who are most competent to give information respecting it. When the names of such as are best known among this class of authors are mentioned in society, let the politics of the circle be what they may, they are constantly spoken of as a pariah129 caste that must be kept apart.
“‘Do you know ——?’ has been a question I have repeatedly asked respecting a person whose name is cited in England as the most esteemed130 French writer of the age—and so cited, moreover, to prove the low standard of French taste and principle.
“‘No, madame,’ has been invariably the cold answer.
“‘Or——?’
“‘No; he is not in society.’
“‘Or——?’
“‘Oh, no! His works live an hour—too long—and are forgotten.’”
Now, are the writers of French literature of the{277} present day, whose names will at once present themselves to every reader’s mind, to be deemed superior to those of Louis Philippe, who “lent their voices to the cause of treason, regicide, rebellion, or obscenity,” and were unrestrained by either “decorum, principle, or taste”? For it is most assuredly no longer true that the writers in question are held to be a “pariah caste,” or that they are not known and sought by “society.” The facilis decensus progress of the half century that has elapsed since the cited passages were written, is certainly remarkable.
There is one name, however, which cannot be simply classed as one of the décousus. Victor Hugo had already at that day made an European reputation. But the following passage about him from my mother’s book on Paris and the Parisians is so curious, and to the present generation must appear so, one may almost say, monstrous131, that it is well worth while to reproduce it.
“I have before stated,” she writes, “that I have uniformly heard the whole of the décousu school of authors spoken of with unmitigated contempt, and that not only by the venerable advocates for the bon vieux temps, but also, and equally, by the distinguished men of the present day—distinguished both by position and ability. Respecting Victor Hugo, the only one of the tribe to which I allude118 who has been sufficiently read in England to justify132 his being classed by us as a person of general celebrity, the feeling is more remarkable still. I have never{278} mentioned him or his works to any person of good moral feeling or cultivated mind who did not appear to shrink from according him even the degree of reputation that those who are received as authority among our own cities have been disposed to allow him. I might say that of him France seems to be ashamed.” (My italics.) “‘Permit me to assure you,’ said one gentleman gravely and earnestly, ‘that no idea was ever more entirely and altogether erroneous than that of supposing that Victor Hugo and his productions can be looked on as a sort of type or specimen133 of the literature of France at the present hour. He is the head of a sect134, the high priest of a congregation who have abolished every law, moral and intellectual, by which the efforts of the human mind have hitherto been regulated. He has attained135 this pre-eminence, and I trust that no other will arise to dispute it with him. But Victor Hugo is NOT a popular French author.’”
My recollections of all that I heard in Paris, and my knowledge of the circles (more than one) in which my mother used to live, enable me to testify to the absolute truth of the above representation of the prevalent Parisian feeling at that day respecting Victor Hugo. Yet he had then published his Lyrics136, Notre Dame94 de Paris, and the most notable of his dramas; and I think no such wonderful change of national opinion and sentiment as the change from the above estimate to that now universally recognised in France, can be met with in the records of European literary history. Is it not passing strange{279} that whole regions of Paris should have been but the other day turned, so to speak, into a vast mausoleum to this same “pariah,” and that I myself should have seen, as I did, the Pantheon not yet cleared from the wreck137 of garlands and inscriptions138 and scaffoldings for spectators, all of which had been prepared to do honour to his obsequies?
But it must be observed that the violent repulsion and reprobation139 with which he was in those days regarded by all his countrymen, save the extreme and restless spirits of the Republican party, cannot fairly be taken as the result and outcome of genuine literary criticism. All literary judgments140 in France were then subordinated to political party feeling, and that was intensified141 by the most fatal of all disqualifications for the formation of sound and equable estimates—by fear. All those well-to-do detesters of Victor Hugo and all his works, the “Quoique Bourbons” as well as the “Parceque Bourbons,” the prosperous supporters of the new régime as well as the regretful adherents142 of the old, lived in perpetual fear of the men whose corypheus and hierophant was Victor Hugo, and felt, not without reason, that the admittedly ricketty throne of the citizen king and those sleek143 and paunchy National Guardsmen alone stood between them and the loss of all they held dearest in the world. Nevertheless, the contrast between the judgments and the feeling of 1835 and those of fifty years later is sufficiently remarkable.
Much has been said, especially in England, of the{280} great writer’s historical inaccuracy in treating of English matters. But an anecdote which my mother gives in her book is worth reproducing for the sake of the evidence it gives that in truth Victor Hugo was equally ignorantly and carelessly inaccurate144 when speaking of home matters, on which, at least, it might have been thought that he would have been better informed.
“An able lawyer, and most accomplished145 gentleman and scholar, who holds a distinguished station in the cour royale” (in all probability Berryer), “took us to see the Palais de Justice. Having shown us the chamber146 where criminal trials are carried on, he observed that this was the room described by Victor Hugo in his romance, adding, ‘He was, however, mistaken here, as in most places where he affects a knowledge of the times of which he writes. In the reign of Louis XI. no criminal trials ever took place within the walls of this building, and all the ceremonies as described by him resemble much more a trial of yesterday than of the age at which he dates his tale.’”
Georges Sand, certainly upon the whole the most remarkable literary figure in the French world at the time of my visit to Paris, vidi tantum. That I had an opportunity of doing on various occasions. She was a person on whom, quite apart from her literary celebrity, the eye of any observer would have dwelt with some speculative curiosity. She was hardly to be called handsome, or even pretty, but was still decidedly attractive. The large eyes{281} à fleur de tête, and the mobile and remarkably147 expressive148 mouth rendered the face both attractive and stimulative149 of interest. The features were unmistakably refined in character and expression, and the mouth—the most trustworthy evidence-giving feature upon that point—was decidedly that of a high-bred woman.
She was at that period of her varied150 career acting151 as well as writing in a manner which attracted the attention of Louis Philippe’s very vigilant152 and abnormally suspicious police. She had recently left Paris for an excursion in the tête-à-tête company of the well known Abbé de Lamenais, who was at that time giving much trouble and disquietude to the official guardians153 of the altar and the throne. His comings and goings were the object of vigilant supervision154 on the part of the police authorities; and it so happened by a strange chance that the report of the official observers of this little excursion, which reached the official head-quarters, reached me also. And all the watchers had to tell was that the abbé and the lady his companion shared the same bedchamber at the end of their first day’s journey. Now the Abbé de Lamenais was an old, little, wizened155, dried-up, dirty—very dirty—priest. It is possible, but I have reason to think highly improbable, that economy was the motive156 of this strange chamber comradeship. But I was then, and am still, very strongly convinced that the sole purpose of it was to outrage157 the lady’s (and the priest’s) censors,{282} to act differently from everybody else, and to give evidence of superiority to conventionality and “prejudice.”
I wrote very carefully and conscientiously158 some few years subsequently a long article on Georges Sand in the Foreign Quarterly which attracted some attention at the time. I should write in many respects differently now. The lady in subsequent years put a considerable quantity of “water into her wine”—and though not altogether in the same sense,—I have done so too.
To both Guizot and Thiers I had the honour of being introduced. If I were to say that neither of them seemed to me to have entirely the manners and bearing of a gentleman, I should probably be thought to be talking affected159 and offensive nonsense. And I do not mean to say so in the ordinary English every-day use of the term. What I mean is that they were both of them very far from possessing that grand seigneur manner, which as I have said so markedly distinguished Chateaubriand, and many another Frenchman whom I knew in those days; by no means all of them belonging to the aristocratic caste, party, or class. Guizot looked for all the world like a village schoolmaster, and seemed to me to have much the manner of one. He stooped a good deal, and poked160 his head forwards. I remember thinking that he was, in manner, more like an Englishman than a Frenchman; and that it was a matter of curious speculation112 to me at the time, whether this effect might have been{283} produced by the fact that he was a Protestant, and an earnest one, instead of being a Roman Catholic. Possibly my impression of his schoolmaster-like deportment may have been the result of his manner to me. I was but a boy, with no claim at all to the honour of being noticed by him in any way. But I remember being struck by the difference of the manner of Thiers in this respect.
All my prejudices and all that I knew of the two men disposed me to feel far the higher respect for Guizot. And my opinion still is that I judged rightly, whether in respect to character or intellectual capacity. Not but that I thought and think that Thiers was the brighter and in the ordinary sense of the term the cleverer man of the two. There was no brightness about the premier161 abord of Guizot, though doubtless a longer and more intimate acquaintance than was granted to me would have corrected this impression. But Thiers was, from the bow with which he first received you to the latest word you heard from him, all brightness. Of dignity he had nothing at all. If Guizot might have been taken for a schoolmaster, Thiers might have been mistaken for a stockbroker162, say, a prosperous, busy, bustling, cheery stockbroker, or any such man of business. And if Guizot gave one the impression of being more English than French, his great rival was unmistakeably and intensely French. I have no recollection of having much enjoyed my interview with M. Guizot. But I was happy during more than one evening spent in Thiers’s house in Paris.{284}
Of Madame Récamier I should have said the few words I have to say about the impression so celebrated a woman produced upon me, when I was speaking of her salon in a previous page. But they may be just as well said here. Of the beauty for which she was famed throughout Europe, of course little remained, when I saw her in 1835. But the grace, which was in a far greater degree unique, remained in its entirety. I think she was the most gracefully163 moving woman I ever saw. The expression of her face had become perhaps a little sad, but it was sweet, attractive, full of the promise of all good things of heart and mind. If I were to say that her management of her salon might be compared in the perfection of its tactical success with that of a successful general on the field, it might give the idea that management and discipline were visible, which would be a very erroneous one. That the perfection of art lies in the concealment165 of it, was never more admirably evidenced than in her “administration” as a reine de salon. A close observer might perceive, or perhaps rather divine only, that all was marshalled, ordered, and designed. Yet all was, on the part at least of the guests, unconstrained ease and enjoyment166. That much native talent, much knowledge of men and women, and exquisite tact164 must have been needed for this perfection in the art of tenir salon cannot be denied. Finally it may be said that a great variety of historiettes, old and new, left me with the unhesitating conviction that despite the unfailing tribute to{285} an éclat such as hers, of malicious167 insinuations (all already ancient history at the time of which I am writing), Madame Récamier was and had always been a truly good and virtuous Christian168 woman.
Miss Clarke, also, as has been said an inmate169 of the Abbaye-aux-Bois, and a close friend of her celebrated neighbour, I became intimate with. She was an eccentric little lady, very plain, brimfull of talent, who had achieved the wonderful triumph of living, in the midst of the choicest society of Paris, her own life after her own fashion, which was often in many respects a very different fashion from that of those around her, without incurring170 any of the ridicule or anathemas171 with which such society is wont172 to visit eccentricity173. I remember a good-naturedly recounted legend to the effect, that she used to have her chemises, which were constructed after the manner of those worn by the grandmothers of the present generation, marked with her name in full on the front flap of them; and that this flap was often exhibited over the bosom174 of her dress in front! She too was a reine de salon after her fashion—a somewhat different one from that of her elegant neighbour. There was, at all events, a greater and more piquant175 variety to be found in it. All those to be found there were, however, worth seeing or hearing for one reason or another. Her method of ruling the frequenters of her receptions might be described as simply shaking the heterogeneous176 elements well together. But it answered so far as to make an evening at her house unfailingly amusing{286} and enjoyable. She was very, and I think I may say, universally popular. She subsequently married M. Mohl, the well-known Orientalist, whom I remember to have always found, when calling upon him on various occasions, sitting in a tiny cabinet so absolutely surrounded by books, built up into walls all round him, as to suggest almost inevitably177 the idea of a mouse in a cheese, eating out the hollow it lived in.
Referring to my mother’s book on Paris and the Parisians for those extracts from it which I have given in the preceding pages, I find the following passage, the singular forecast of which, and its bearing on the present state of things in France, tempts178 me to transcribe it. Speaking in 1835, and quoting the words of a high political authority, whom she had met “at the house of the beautiful Princess B——” (Belgiojoso), she writes: “‘You know,’ he said, ‘how devoted179 all France was to the Emperor, though the police was somewhat tight, and the conscriptions heavy. But he had saved us from a Republic, and we adored him. For a few days, or rather hours, we were threatened again five years ago by the same terrible apparition180. The result is that four millions of armed men stand ready to protect the prince who chased it. Were it to appear a third time, which Heaven forbid! you may depend upon it, that the monarch who should next ascend181 the throne of France might play at “le jeu de quilles” with his subjects and no one be found to complain.’” (My italics.) On the margin182 of{287} the page on which this is printed, my mother has written in the copy of the book before me, “Vu et approuvé. Dec. 10th, 1853. F. T.”
The mention of the Princess Belgiojoso in the above passage reminds me of a memorable evening which I spent at her house, and of my witnessing there a singular scene, which at the present day may be worth recounting.
The amusement of the evening consisted in hearing Liszt and the princess play on two pianos the whole of the score of Mozart’s Don Giovanni! The treat was a delightful183 one; but I dare say that I should have forgotten it but for the finale of the performance. No sooner was the last note ended than the nervous musician swooned and slid from his seat, while the charming princess, in whom apparently184 matter was less under the dominion185 of mind, or at least of nerve, was as fresh as at the beginning!
My month at Paris, with its poor thirty times twenty-four hours, was all too short for half of what I strove to cram186 into it. And of course I could please myself with an infinitude of recollections of things and places, and occasions, and above all, persons, who doubtless contributed more to the making of that month one of the pleasantest I have to look back on, than any of the celebrities187 whom I had the good fortune to meet. But it may be doubted whether any such rambling188 reminiscences would be equally pleasing to my readers.
{288}
There is one anecdote, however, of a well remembered day, which I must tell, before bringing the record of my first visit to Paris to a conclusion.
A picnic party—rather a large one, and consisting of men and women of various nationalities—had been organised for a visit to the famous and historic woods of Montmorenci. We had a delightful day, and my memory is still, after half a century, crowded with very vivid remembrances of the places and persons, and things done and things said, which rendered it such. But as for the places, have they not been described and re-described in all the guide books that were ever written? And as for the persons, alas189! the tongues that chattered190 so fast and so pleasantly are still for evermore, and the eyes that shone so brightly are dim, if not, as in most instances, closed in their last sleep! But it is only with an incident that formed the finale of our day there that I mean to trouble the reader.
Thackeray, then an unknown young man, with whom I that day became acquainted for the first time, was one of our party. Some half-dozen of us—the boys of the party—thinking that a day at Montmorenci could not be passed selon les prescriptions191 without a cavalcade192 on the famous donkeys, selected a number of them, and proceeded to urge the strongly conservative animals probably into places, and certainly into paces, for which their life-long training had in no wise prepared them. A variety of struggles between man and beast ensued with divers193 vicissitudes194 of victory, till at last {289}Thackeray’s donkey, which certainly must have been a plucky195 and vigorous beast, succeeded in tossing his rider clean over his long ears, and as ill luck would have it, depositing him on a heap of newly broken stones. The fall was really a severe one, and at first it was feared that our picnic would have a truly tragic196 conclusion. But it was soon ascertained197 that no serious mischief198 had been done, beyond that, the mark of which the victim of the accident bore on his face to his dying day.
I think that when I climbed to the banquette of the Lille diligence to leave Paris, on the morning of the 7th of June, 1835, it was the first time that the prospect199 of a journey failed in any way to compensate200 me for quitting what I was leaving behind.
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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fin
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| n.鳍；(飞机的)安定翼 | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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tempi
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| 拍子，发展速度； 乐曲的速度或拍子( tempo的名词复数 )； （运动或活动的）速度，进度 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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sewers
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| n.阴沟，污水管，下水道( sewer的名词复数 ) | |
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specialty
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| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
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obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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conniving
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| v.密谋 ( connive的现在分词 )；搞阴谋；默许；纵容 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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scion
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| n.嫩芽，子孙 | |
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partisans
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| 游击队员( partisan的名词复数 )； 党人； 党羽； 帮伙 | |
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emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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picturesquely
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graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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glands
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| n.腺( gland的名词复数 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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strata
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| n.地层（复数）；社会阶层 | |
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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surmounting
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| 战胜( surmount的现在分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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saviours
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| n.救助者( saviour的名词复数 )；救星；救世主；耶稣基督 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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81
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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cymbal
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| n.铙钹 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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96
gauche
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| adj.笨拙的，粗鲁的 | |
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97
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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98
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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99
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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100
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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101
transcribe
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| v.抄写，誉写；改编(乐曲)；复制，转录 | |
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102
subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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103
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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104
overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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105
abrogated
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| 废除（法律等）( abrogate的过去式和过去分词 )； 取消； 去掉； 抛开 | |
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106
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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107
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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108
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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109
blustering
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| adj.狂风大作的，狂暴的v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的现在分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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110
assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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111
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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112
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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113
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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114
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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115
defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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116
wields
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的第三人称单数 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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117
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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119
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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120
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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121
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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122
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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123
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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124
clique
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| n.朋党派系，小集团 | |
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125
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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126
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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127
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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128
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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129
pariah
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| n.被社会抛弃者 | |
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130
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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131
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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132
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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133
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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134
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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135
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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136
lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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137
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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138
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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139
reprobation
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| n.斥责 | |
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140
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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141
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
adherents
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| n.支持者，拥护者( adherent的名词复数 )；党羽；徒子徒孙 | |
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143
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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144
inaccurate
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| adj.错误的，不正确的，不准确的 | |
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145
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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146
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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147
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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148
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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149
stimulative
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| n.刺激，促进因素adj.刺激的，激励的，促进的 | |
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150
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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151
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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152
vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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153
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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154
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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155
wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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156
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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157
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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158
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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159
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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160
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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161
premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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162
stockbroker
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| n.股票（或证券），经纪人（或机构） | |
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163
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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164
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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165
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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166
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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167
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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168
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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169
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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170
incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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171
anathemas
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| n.（天主教的）革出教门( anathema的名词复数 )；诅咒；令人极其讨厌的事；被基督教诅咒的人或事 | |
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172
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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173
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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174
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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175
piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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176
heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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177
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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178
tempts
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| v.引诱或怂恿（某人）干不正当的事( tempt的第三人称单数 )；使想要 | |
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179
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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180
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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181
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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182
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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183
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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184
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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185
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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186
cram
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| v.填塞，塞满，临时抱佛脚，为考试而学习 | |
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187
celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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188
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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189
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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190
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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191
prescriptions
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| 药( prescription的名词复数 )； 处方； 开处方； 计划 | |
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192
cavalcade
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| n.车队等的行列 | |
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193
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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194
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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195
plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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196
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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197
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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198
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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199
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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200
compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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