CHAPTER XVI.
Quis sapiens bono Confidat fragili.--Seneca.
Grammatici certant et adhuc sub judice lis est.--Horace.
When I first went to Paris, I took a French master, to perfect me in theParisian pronunciation. This "Haberdasher of Pronouns" was a person ofthe name of Margot. He was a tall, solemn man, with a face of the mostimperturbable gravity. He would have been inestimable as an undertaker.His hair was of a pale yellow; you would have thought it had caught abilious complaint from his complexion; the latter was, indeed, of sosombre a saffron, that it looked as if ten livers had been forced intoa jaundice, in order to supply its colour. His forehead was high, bald,and very narrow. His cheekbones were extremely prominent, and his cheeksso thin, that they seemed happier than Pyramus and Thisbe, and kissedeach other inside without any separation or division. His face was assharp and almost as long as an inverted pyramid, and was garnished oneither side by a miserable half starved whisker, which seemed scarcelyable to maintain itself, amid the general symptoms of atrophy anddecay. This charming countenance was supported by a figure so long, sostraight, so shadowy, that you might have taken it for the monument in aconsumption.
But the chief characteristic of the man was the utter and wonderfulgravity I have before spoken of. You could no more have coaxed asmile out of his countenance, than you could out of the poker, and yetMonsieur Margot was by no means a melancholy man. He loved his joke,and his wine, and his dinner, just as much as if he had been of a fatterframe; and it was a fine specimen of the practical antithesis, to heara good story, or a jovial expression, leap friskily out of that long,curved mouth; it was at once a paradox and a bathos--it was the mousecoming out of its hole in Ely Cathedral.
I said that this gravity was M. Margot's most especial characteristic.I forgot:--he had two others equally remarkable; the one was an ardentadmiration for the chivalrous, the other an ardent admiration forhimself. Both of these are traits common enough in a Frenchman, but inMons. Margot their excesses rendered them uncommon. He was a most ultraspecimen of le chevalier amoureux--a mixture of Don Quixote and the Ducde Lauzun. Whenever he spoke of the present tense, even en professeur,he always gave a sigh to the preterite, and an anecdote of Bayard;whenever he conjugated a verb, he paused to tell me that the favouriteone of his female pupils was je t'aime.
In short, he had tales of his own good fortune, and of other people'sbrave exploits, which, without much exaggeration, were almost as long,and had perhaps as little substance as himself; but the former was hisfavourite topic: to hear him, one would have imagined that his face,in borrowing the sharpness of the needle, had borrowed also itsattraction;--and then the prettiness of Mons. Margot's modesty!
"It is very extraordinary," said he, "very extraordinary, for I have notime to give myself up to those affairs; it is not, Monsieur, as if Ihad your leisure to employ all the little preliminary arts of creatingla belle passion. Non, Monsieur, I go to church, to the play, to theTuilleries, for a brief relaxation--and me voila partout accable withmy good fortune. I am not handsome, Monsieur, at least, not very; itis true, that I have expression, a certain air noble, (my first cousin,Monsieur, is the Chevalier de Margot) and above all, de l'a me in myphysiognomy; the women love soul, Monsieur--something intellectual andspiritual always attracts them; yet my success certainly is singular."
"Bah! Monsieur," replied I: "with dignity, expression, and soul! howcould the heart of any French woman resist you? No, you do yourselfinjustice. It was said of Caesar, that he was great without an effort;much more, then, may Monsieur Margot be happy without an exertion."
"Ah, Monsieur!" rejoined the Frenchman, still looking
"As weak, as earnest, and as gravely out As sober Lanesbro' dancing withthe gout."
"Ah, Monsieur, there is a depth and truth in your remarks, worthy ofMontaigne. As it is impossible to account for the caprices of women, soit is impossible for ourselves to analyze the merit they discover in us;but, Monsieur, hear me--at the house where I lodge, there is an Englishlady en pension. Eh bien, Monsieur, you guess the rest: she has taken acaprice for me, and this very night she will admit me to her apartment.She is very handsome,--Ah qu'elle est belle, une jolie petite bouche,une denture eblouissante, un nez tout afait grec, in fine, quite abouton de rose."
I expressed my envy at Monsieur Margot's good fortune, and when he hadsufficiently dilated upon it, he withdrew. Shortly afterwards Vincententered--"I have a dinner invitation for both of us to-day," said he;"you will come?"
"Most certainly," replied I; "but who is the person we are to honour?"
"A Madame Laurent," replied Vincent; "one of those ladies only foundat Paris, who live upon anything rather than their income. She keepsa tolerable table, haunted with Poles, Russians, Austrians, and idleFrenchmen, peregrinae gentis amaenum hospitium. As yet, she has not thehappiness to be acquainted with any Englishmen, (though she boards oneof our countrywomen) and (as she is desirous of making her fortune assoon as possible) she is very anxious of having that honour. She hasheard vast reports of our wealth and wisdom, and flatters herself thatwe are so many ambulatory Indies: in good truth, a Frenchwoman thinksshe is never in want of a fortune as long as there is a rich fool in theworld.
"'Stultitiam patiuntur, opes,'
is her hope; and
"'Ut tu fortunam, sic nos te, Celse, feremus,'
is her motto."
"Madame Laurent!" repeated I, "why, surely that is the name of Mons.Margot's landlady."
"I hope not," cried Vincent, "for the sake of our dinner; he reflects nocredit on her good cheer--
"'Who eats fat dinners, should himself be fat.'"
"At all events," said I, "we can try the good lady for once. I am veryanxious to see a countrywoman of ours, probably the very one youspeak of, whom Mons. Margot eulogizes in glowing colours, and who has,moreover, taken a violent fancy for my solemn preceptor. What think youof that, Vincent?"
"Nothing extraordinary," replied Vincent; "the lady only exclaims withthe moralist--
"'Love, virtue, valour, yea, all human charms, Are shrunk and centred inthat heap of bones. Oh! there are wondrous beauties in the grave!'"
I made some punning rejoinder, and we sallied out to earn an appetite inthe Tuilleries for Madame Laurent's dinner.
At the hour of half-past five we repaired to our engagement. MadameLaurent received us with the most evident satisfaction, and introducedus forthwith to our countrywoman. She was a pretty, fair, shrewd lookingperson, with an eye and lip which, unless it greatly belied her, showedher much more inclined, as an amante, to be merry and wise, than honestand true.
Presently Monsieur Margot made his appearance. Though very muchsurprised at seeing me, he did not appear the least jealous of myattentions to his inamorata. Indeed, the good gentleman was far too muchpleased with himself to be susceptible of the suspicions common to lessfortunate lovers. At dinner I sat next to the pretty Englishwoman, whosename was Green.
"Monsieur Margot," said I, "has often spoken to me of you before I hadthe happiness of being personally convinced how true and unexaggeratedwere his sentiments."
"Oh!" cried Mrs. Green, with an arch laugh, "you are acquainted withMonsieur Margot, then?"
"I have that honour," said I. "I receive from him every morning lessonsboth in love and languages. He is perfect master of both."
Mrs. Green burst out into one of those peals so peculiarly British.
"Ah, le pauvre Professeur!" cried she. "He is too absurd!"
"He tells me," said I, gravely, "that he is quite accable with hisbonnes fortunes--possibly he flatters himself that even you are notperfectly inaccessible to his addresses."
"Tell me, Mr. Pelham," said the fair Mrs. Green, "can you pass by thisstreet about half past twelve to-night?"
"I will make a point of doing so," replied I, not a little surprised bythe remark.
"Do," said she, "and now let us talk of old England."
When we went away I told Vincent of my appointment. "What!" sai
d he,"eclipse Monsieur Margot! Impossible!"
"You are right," replied I, "nor is it my hope; there is some trickafloat of which we may as well be spectators."
"De tout mon coeur!" answered Vincent; "let us go till then to theDuchesse de G----."
I assented, and we drove to the Rue de--.
The Duchesse de G--was a fine relict of the ancien regime--tall andstately, with her own grey hair crepe, and surmounted by a high cap ofthe most dazzling blonde. She had been one of the earliest emigrants,and had stayed for many months with my mother, whom she professed torank amongst her dearest friends. The duchesse possessed to perfectionthat singular melange of ostentation and ignorance which was so peculiarto the ante-revolutionists. She would talk of the last tragedy with theemphatic tone of a connoisseur, in the same breath that she would ask,with Marie Antoinette, why the poor people were so clamorous for breadwhen they might buy such nice cakes for two-pence a-piece? "To giveyou an idea of the Irish," said she one day to an inquisitive marquess,"know that they prefer potatoes to mutton!"
Her soirees were among the most agreeable at Paris--she united all therank and talent to be found in the ultra party, for she professed tobe quite a female Maecenas; and whether it was a mathematician or aromance-writer, a naturalist or a poet, she held open house for all, andconversed with each with equal fluency and self-satisfaction.
A new play had just been acted, and the conversation, after a fewpreliminary hoverings, settled upon it.
"You see," said the duchesse, "that we have actors, you authors; of whatavail is it that you boast of a Shakspeare, since your Liseton, great ashe is, cannot be compared with our Talma?"
"And yet," said I, preserving my gravity with a pertinacity, whichnearly made Vincent and the rest of our compatriots assembled losetheir's "Madame must allow, that there is a striking resemblance intheir persons, and the sublimity of their acting?"
"Pour ca, j'en conviens," replied this 'critique de l'Ecole des Femmes.'"Mais cependant Liseton n'a pas la Nature! l'ame! la grandeur de Talma!"
"And will you then allow us no actors of merit?" asked Vincent.
"Mais oui!--dans le genre comique, par exemple, votre buffo Kean met dixfois plus d'esprit et de drollerie dans ses roles que La Porte."
"The impartial and profound judgment of Madame admits of no furtherdiscussion on this point," said I. "What does she think of the presentstate of our dramatic literature?"
"Why," replied Madame, "you have many great poets, but when they writefor the stage they lose themselves entirely; your Valter Scote's play ofRobe Roi is very inferior to his novel of the same name."
"It is a great pity," said I, "that Byron did not turn his Childe Haroldinto a tragedy--it has so much energy--action--variety!"
"Very true," said Madame, with a sigh; "but the tragedy is, after all,only suited to our nation--we alone carry it to perfection."
"Yet," said I, "Goldoni wrote a few fine tragedies."
"Eh bien!" said Madame, "one rose does not constitute a garden!"
And satisfied with this remark, la femme savante turned to a celebratedtraveller to discuss with him the chance of discovering the North Pole.
There were one or two clever Englishmen present; Vincent and I joinedthem.
"Have you met the Persian prince yet?" said Sir George Lynton to me; "heis a man of much talent, and great desire of knowledge. He intendsto publish his observations on Paris, and I suppose we shall have anadmirable supplement to Montesquieu's Lettres Persannes!"
"I wish we had," said Vincent: "there are few better satires on acivilized country than the observations of visitors less polished; whileon the contrary the civilized traveller, in describing the manners ofthe American barbarian, instead of conveying ridicule upon the visited,points the sarcasm on the visitor; and Tacitus could not have thought ofa finer or nobler satire on the Roman luxuries than that insinuated byhis treatise on the German simplicity."
"What," said Monsieur D'E--(an intelligent ci-devant emigre), "whatpolitical writer is generally esteemed as your best?"
"It is difficult to say," replied Vincent, "since with so many partieswe have many idols; but I think I might venture to name Bolingbroke asamong the most popular. Perhaps, indeed, it would be difficult toselect a name more frequently quoted and discussed than his; and yet hispolitical works are the least valuable part of his remains; and thoughthey contain many lofty sentiments, and many beautiful yet scatteredtruths, they were written when legislation, most debated, was leastunderstood, and ought to be admired rather as excellent for the day thanestimable in themselves. The life of Bolingbroke would convey a justermoral than all his writings: and the author who gives us a full andimpartial memoir of that extraordinary man, will have afforded bothto the philosophical and political literature of England one of itsgreatest desideratums."
"It seems to me," said Monsieur D'E--, "that your national literature ispeculiarly deficient in biography--am I right in my opinion?"
"Indubitably!" said Vincent; "we have not a single work that can beconsidered a model in biography, (excepting, perhaps, Middleton's Lifeof Cicero.) This brings on a remark I have often made in distinguishingyour philosophy from ours. It seems to me that you who excel soadmirably in biography, memoirs, comedy, satirical observation onpeculiar classes, and pointed aphorisms, are fonder of considering manin his relation to society and the active commerce of the world, thanin the more abstracted and metaphysical operations of the mind.Our writers, on the contrary, love to indulge rather in abstrusespeculations on their species--to regard man in an abstract and isolatedpoint of view, and to see him think alone in his chamber, while youprefer beholding him act with the multitude in the world."
"It must be allowed," said Monsieur D'E----t, "that if this be true, ourphilosophy is the most useful, though yours may be the most profound."
Vincent did not reply.
"Yet," said Sir George Lynton, "there will be a disadvantage attendingyour writings of this description, which, by diminishing their generalapplicability, diminish their general utility. Works which treat uponman in his relation to society, can only be strictly applicable so longas that relation to society treated upon continues. For instance, theplay which satirizes a particular class, however deep its reflectionsand accurate its knowledge upon the subject satirized, must necessarilybe obsolete when the class itself has become so. The political pamphlet,admirable for one state, may be absurd in another; the novel whichexactly delineates the present age may seem strange and unfamiliar tothe next; and thus works which treat of men relatively, and not man inse, must often confine their popularity to the age and even the countryin which they were written. While on the other hand, the work whichtreats of man himself, which seizes, discovers, analyzes the humanmind, as it is, whether in the ancient or the modern, the savage or theEuropean, must evidently be applicable, and consequently useful, to alltimes and all nations. He who discovers the circulation of the blood,or the origin of ideas, must be a philosopher to every people who haveveins or ideas; but he who even most successfully delineates themanners of one country, or the actions of one individual, is only thephilosopher of a single country, or a single age. If, Monsieur D'E--t,you will condescend to consider this, you will see perhaps that thephilosophy which treats of man in his relations is not so useful,because neither so permanent nor so invariable, as that which treats ofman in himself." [Note: Yet Hume holds the contrary opinion to this, andconsiders a good comedy more durable than a system of philosophy. Humeis right, if by a system of philosophy is understood--a pile of guesses,false but plausible, set up by one age to be destroyed by the next.Ingenuity cannot rescue error from oblivion; but the moment Wisdom hasdiscovered Truth, she has obtained immortality.]
I was now somewhat weary of this conversation, and though it was not yettwelve, I seized upon my appointment as an excuse to depart--accordinglyI rose for that purpose. "I suppose," said I to Vincent, "that you willnot leave your discussion."
"Pardon me," said he, "amusement is quite as pr
ofitable to a man ofsense as metaphysics. Allons."