Could I live to see his funeral! _Quelle spectacle! Quelle
grande emotion!'"_
At tea, Madame M. commented on the manners of a certain English lady
of our acquaintance.
"She's an actress; she's too affected!"
Madame Belloc and I defended her.
"Ah," said M. Belloc, "you cannot judge; the French are never natural
in England, nor the English in France. Frenchmen in England are stupid
and cross, trying to be dignified; and when the English come to
France, it's all guitar playing and capering, in trying to have
_esprit._"
But it is hard to give a conversation in which the salient points are
made by a rapid pantomime, which effervesces like champagne.
Madame Belloc and Madame M. agree that the old French _salon_ is
no more; that none in the present iron age can give the faintest idea
of the brilliancy of the institution in its palmiest days. The horrors
and reverses of successive revolutions, have thrown a pall over the
French heart.
I have been now, in all, about a month in this gay and flowery city,
seeing the French people, not in hotels and _cafes,_ but in the
seclusion of domestic life; received, when introduced, not with
ceremonious distance, as a stranger, but with confidence and
affection, as a friend.
Though, according to the showing of my friends, Paris is empty of many
of her most brilliant ornaments, yet I have been so fortunate as to
make the acquaintance of many noble and justly celebrated people, and
to feel as if I had gained a real insight into the French heart.
I liked the English and the Scotch as well as I could like any thing.
And now, I equally like the French. Exact opposites, you will say. For
that reason all the more charming. The goodness and beauty of the
divine mind is no less shown in the traits of different races than of
different tribes of fruits and flowers. And because things are exact
opposites, is no reason why we should not like both. The eye is not
like the hand, nor the ear like the foot; yet who condemns any of them
for the difference? So I regard nations as parts of a great common
body, and national differences as necessary to a common humanity.
I thought, when in English society, that it was as perfect and
delightful as it could be. There was worth of character, strength of
principle, true sincerity, and friendship, charmingly expressed. I
have found all these, too, among the French, and besides them,
something which charms me the more, because it is peculiar to the
French, and of a kind wholly different from any I have ever had an
experience of before. There is an iris-like variety and versatility of
nature, a quickness in catching and reflecting the various shades of
emotion or fancy, a readiness in seizing upon one's own half-expressed
thoughts, and running them out in a thousand graceful little tendrils,
which is very captivating.
I know a general prejudice has gone forth, that the French are all
mere outside, without any deep reflection or emotion. This may be true
of many. No doubt that the strength of that outward life, that
acuteness of the mere perceptive organization, and that tendency to
social exhilaration, which prevail, will incline to such a fault in
many cases. An English reserve inclines to moroseness, and Scotch
perseverance to obstinacy; so this aerial French nature may become
levity and insincerity; but then it is neither the sullen Englishman,
the dogged Scotchman, nor the shallow Frenchman that we are to take as
the national ideal. In each country we are to take the very best as
the specimen.
Now, it is true that, here in France, one can find people as
judicious, quiet, discreet, and religious, as any where in the world;
with views of life as serious, and as earnest, not living for pretence
or show, but for the most rational and religious ends. Now, when all
this goodness is silvered over, as it were, reflecting like mother-of-pearl
or opal, a thousand fanciful shades and changes, is not the result
beautiful? Some families into which I have entered, some persons with
whom I have talked, have left a most delightful impression upon my mind;
and I have talked, by means of imperfect English, French, and
interpretations, with a good many. They have made my heart bleed over
the history of this most beautiful country. It is truly mournful that a people
with so many fine impulses, so much genius, appreciation, and effective
power, should, by the influence of historical events quite beyond the
control of the masses, so often have been thrown into a false position
before the world, and been subjected to such a series of agonizing
revulsions and revolutions.
"O, the French are half tiger, half monkey!" said a cultivated
American to me the other day. Such remarks cut me to the heart, as if
they had been spoken of a brother. And when they come from the mouth
of an American, the very shade of Lafayette, it would seem, might rise
and say, "_Et tu, Brute!_"
It is true, it is a sarcasm of Voltaire's; but Voltaire, though born a
Frenchman, neither imbodied nor was capable of understanding the true
French ideal. The French _head_ he had, but not the French heart.
And from his bitter judgment we might appeal to a thousand noble
names. The generous Henri IV., the noble Sully, and Bayard the knight
_sans peur et sans reproche_, were these half tiger and half
monkey? Were John Calvin and Fenelon half tiger and half monkey?
Laplace, Geoffroy St. Hilaire, Cuvier, Des Cartes, Malebranche,
Arago - what were they? The tree of history is enriched with no nobler
and fairer boughs and blossoms than have grown from the French stock.
It seems a most mysterious providence that some nations, without being
wickeder than others, should have a more unfortunate and disastrous
history.
