Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  We were last night at a small party where there was neither dancing, music, cards, nor — (wonderful to say!) politics to amuse or occupy us: nevertheless, it was one of the most agreeable soirées at which I have been present in Paris. The conversation was completely on literary subjects, but totally without the pretension of a literary society. In fact, it was purely the effect of accident; and it was just as likely that we might have passed the evening in talking of pictures, or music, or rocks and rivers, as of books. But Fate decreed that so it should be; and the consequence was, that we had the pleasure of hearing three Frenchmen and two Frenchwomen talk for three hours of the literature of their country. I do not mean to assert that no other person spoke — but the frais de la conversation were certainly furnished by the five natives.

  One of the gentlemen, and that too the oldest man in company, was more tolerant towards the present race of French novel-writers than any person of his age and class that I have yet conversed with; but nevertheless, his approval went no farther than to declare that he thought the present mode of following human nature with a microscope into all the recesses to which passion, and even vice, could lead it, was calculated to make a better novelist than the fashion which preceded it, of looking at all things through a magnifying medium, and of straining and striving, in consequence, to make that appear great, which was by its nature essentially the reverse.

  The Vicomte d’Arlincourt was the author he named to establish the truth of his proposition: he would not admit him to be an exaggeration of the school which has passed away, but only the perfection of it.

  “I remember,” said he, “to have seen at the Louvre, many years ago, a full-length portrait of this gentleman, which I thought at the time was as perfect a symbol of what is called in France le style romantique, as it was well possible to conceive. He was standing erect on the rocky point of a precipice, with eye inspired, and tablets in his hand: a foaming torrent rolled its tortured waters at his feet, whilst he, calm and sublime, looked not ‘comme une jeune beauté qu’on arrache au sommeil,’ but very like a young incroyable snatched from a fashionable salon to meditate upon the wild majesty of nature, with all the inspiring adjuncts of tempest, wildness, and solitude. He appeared dressed in an elegant black coat and waistcoat, black silk stockings, and dancing pumps. It would be lost labour,” he continued, “should I attempt to give you a more just idea of his style of writing than the composition of this portrait conveys. It is in vain that M. le Vicomte places himself amidst rocks and cataracts — he is still M. le Vicomte; and his silk stockings and dancing pumps will remain visible, spite of all the froth and foam he labours to raise around him.”

  “It was not D’Arlincourt, however,” said M. de C* * *, “who has either the honour or dishonour of having invented this style romantique — but a much greater man: it was Châteaubriand who first broke through all that was left of classic restraint, and permitted his imagination to run wild among everything in heaven and earth.”

  “You cannot, however, accuse him of running this wild race with his imagination en habit bourgeois,” said the third gentleman: “his style is extravagant, but never ludicrous; Châteaubriand really has, what D’Arlincourt affected to have, a poetical and abounding fancy, and a fecundity of imagery which has often betrayed him into bad taste from its very richness; but there is nothing strained, forced, and unnatural in his eloquence, — for eloquence it is, though a soberer imagination and a severer judgment might have kept it within more reasonable bounds. After all that can be said against his taste, Châteaubriand is a great man, and his name will live among the literati of France; but God forbid that any true prophet should predict the same of his imitators!”

  “And God forbid that any true prophet should predict the same of the school that has succeeded them!” said Madame V* * * -a delightful old woman, who wears her own grey hair, and does not waltz. “I have sometimes laughed and sometimes yawned over the productions of the école D’Arlincourt,” she added; “but I invariably turn with disgust and indignation from those of the domestic style which has succeeded to it.”

  “Invariably?” ... said the old gentleman interrogatively.

  “Yes, invariably; because, if I see any symptom of talent, I lament it, and feel alarmed for the possible mischief which may ensue. I can never wish to see high mental power, which is the last and best gift of Heaven, perverted so shamelessly.”

  “Come, come, dear lady,” replied the advocate of what Goethe impressively calls ‘la littérature du désespoir,’ you must not overthrow the whole fabric because some portion of it is faulty. The object of our tale-writers at present is, beyond all doubt, to paint men as they are: if they succeed, their labours cannot fail of being interesting — and I should think they might be very useful too.”

  “Fadaise que tout cela!” exclaimed the old lady eagerly. “Before men can paint human nature profitably, they must see it as it really is, my good friend — and not as it appears to these misérables in their baraques and greniers. We have nothing to do with such scenes as they paint; and they have nothing to do (God help them!) with literary labours. Have you got Bernardin de Saint Pierre, ma chère?” said she, addressing the lady of the house. The little volume was immediately handed to her from a chiffonnière that stood behind us. “Now this,” she continued, having found the passage she sought,— “this is what I conceive to be the legitimate object of literature;” and she read aloud the following passage: —

  “Les lettres sont un secours du Ciel. Ce sont des rayons de cette sagesse qui gouverne l’univers, que l’homme, inspiré par un art céleste, a appris à fixer sur la terre.... Elles calment les passions; elles répriment les vices; elles excitent les vertus par les exemples augustes des gens de bien qu’elles célèbrent, et dont elles nous présentent les images toujours honorées.”

  “Eh bien! a-t-il raison, ce Bernardin?” said she, laying aside her spectacles and looking round upon us. Every one admired the passage. “Is this the use your French romancers make of letters?” she continued, looking triumphantly at their advocate.

  “Not exactly,” he replied, laughing,— “or at least not always: but I could show you passages in Michel Raymond....”

  “Bah!” exclaimed the old lady, interrupting him; “I will have nothing to do with his passages. I think it is Chamfort who says, that “un sot qui a un moment d’esprit, étonne et scandalise comme des chevaux de fiacre au galop.” I don’t like such unexpected jerks of sublimity — they startle more than they please me.”

  The conversation then rambled on to Shakspeare, and to the mischief — such was the word — to the mischief his example, and the passionate admiration expressed for his writings, had done to the classic purity of French literature. This phrase, however, was not only cavilled at, but in true French style was laughed to death by the rest of the party. The word “classic” was declared too rococo for use, and Shakspeare loudly proclaimed to be only defective as a model because too mighty to imitate.

  I have, however, some faint misgivings as to the perfect sincerity of this verdict, — and this chiefly because there was but one Frenchman present who affected to know anything about him excepting through the medium of translation. Now, notwithstanding that the talent shown by M. Ducis in the translation of some passages is very considerable, we all know that Shakspeare may be very nearly as fairly judged from the Italian “Otello” as the “French Hamlet.” The party were however quite sincere, I am sure, in the feeling they expressed of reverence for the unequalled bard, founded upon the rank he held in the estimation of his countrymen; this being, as the clear-headed old lady observed, the only sure criterion, for foreigners, of the station which he ought to hold among the poets of the earth.

  Then followed some keen enough observations — applicable to any one but Shakspeare — of the danger there might be, that in mixing tragedy and comedy together, farce might unfortunately be the result; or, if the “fusion,” as it has been called, of tragedy and comedy into one were very ski
lfully performed, the sublime and prodigious monster called melodrame might be hoped for, as the happiest product that could be expected.

  It being thus civilly settled that our Shakspeare might be as wild as he chose, but that it would be advisable for other people to take care how they attempted to follow him, the party next fell into a review, more individual and particular than I was well able to follow, or than I can now repeat, of many writers of verses and of novels that, I was fain to confess, I had never heard of before. One or two of the novel-writers were declared to be very successful imitators of the style and manner of Sir Walter Scott: and when this was stated, I was, to say the truth, by no means sorry to plead total and entire ignorance of their name and productions; for, having, as I fear, manifested a little national warmth on the subject of Shakspeare, I should have been sorry to start off in another tirade concerning Sir Walter Scott, which I might have found it difficult to avoid, had I known exactly what it was which they ventured to compare to him.

  I do not quite understand how it happens that the Parisians are so much better acquainted with the generality of our light literature, than we are with the generality of theirs. This is the more unaccountable, from the fact so universally known, that for one French person who reads English, there are at least ten English who read French. It is, however, impossible to deny that such is the fact. I am sure I have heard the names of two or three dozen authors, since I have been here, of whose existence, or of that of their works, neither I, nor any of my literary friends, I believe, have had the least knowledge; and yet we have considered ourselves quite au courant du jour in such matters, having never missed any opportunity of reading every French book that came in our way, and moreover of sedulously consulting the Foreign Quarterly. In canvassing this difference between us, one of the party suggested that it might perhaps arise from the fact that no work which was popular in England ever escaped being reprinted on the Continent, — that is to say, either at Paris or Brussels. Though this is done solely as a sort of piratical speculation, for the purpose of inducing all the travelling English to purchase new books for four francs here, instead of giving thirty shillings for them at home, it is nevertheless a natural consequence of this manoeuvre, that the names of English books are familiarly known here even before they have been translated.

  Many of our lady authors have the honour apparently of being almost as well known at Paris as at home. I had the pleasure of hearing Miss Mitford spoken of with enthusiasm; and one lady told me, that, judging her from her works, she would rather become acquainted with her than with any author living.

  Miss Landon is also well known and much admired. Madame Tastu told me she had translated many of her compositions, and thought very highly of them. In short, English literature and English literati are at present very hospitably treated in France.

  I was last night asked innumerable questions about many books, and many people, whose renommée I was surprised to find had crossed the Channel; and having communicated pretty nearly all the information I possessed upon the subject, I began to question in my turn, and heard abundance of anecdotes and criticisms, many of them given with all the sparkling keenness of French satire.

  Many of les petits ridicules that we are accustomed to hear quizzed at home seem to exist in the same manner, and spite of the same light chastisement, here. The manner, for example, of making a very little wit and wisdom go a great way, by means of short lines and long stops, does not appear to be in any degree peculiar to our island. As a specimen of this, a quotation from a new romance by Madame Girardin (ci-devant Mademoiselle Delphine Gay) was shown me in a newspaper. I will copy it for you as it was printed, and I think you will allow that our neighbours at least equal us in this ingenious department of literary composition.

  “Pensez-vous Qu’Arthur voulût revoir Mademoiselle de Sommery?”

  “NON: Au lieu de l’aimer, Il la détestait!”

  “OUI, Il la détestait!”

  * * * * *

  I think our passion for novelty is pretty strong; but if the information which I received last night respecting the same imperious besoin here was not exaggerated by the playful spirit of the party who were amusing themselves by describing its influence, we are patient and tame in our endurance of old “by-gones,” in comparison to the Parisians. They have, indeed, a saying which in few words paints this craving for novelty, as strongly as I could do, did I torment my memory to repeat to you every word said by my lively friends last night:

  “Il nous faut du nouveau, n’en fût-il plus au monde.”

  It is delightful to us to get hold of a new book or a new song — a new preacher or a new fiddler: it is delightful to us, but to the Parisians it is indispensable. To meet in society and have nothing new for the causette, would be worse than remaining at home.

  “This fond desire, this longing after” fresh materials for the tongue to work upon, is at least as old as the days of Molière. It was this which made Madelon address herself with such energy to Mascarille, assuring him that she should be “obligée de la dernière obligation” if he would but report to her daily “les choses qu’il faut savoir de nécessité, et qui sont de l’essence d’un bel esprit;” for, as she truly observes, “C’est là ce qui vous fait valoir dans les compagnies, et si l’on ignore ces choses, je ne donnerais pas un clou de tout l’esprit qu’on peut avoir;” — while her cousin Cathos gives her testimony to the same truth by this impressive declaration: “Pour moi, j’aurais toutes les hontes du monde s’il fallait qu’on vînt à me demander si j’aurais vu quelque chose de nouveau que je n’aurais pas vu.”

  I know not how it is that people who appear to pass so few hours of every day out of sight contrive to know so well everything that has been written and everything that has been done in all parts of the world. No one ever appears ignorant on any subject. Is this tact? Or is it knowledge, — real, genuine, substantial information respecting all things? I suspect that it is not wholly either the one or the other; and that many circumstances contribute both to the general diffusion of information, as well as to the rapid manner of receiving and the brilliant style of displaying it.

  This at least is certain, that whatever they do know is made the very most of; and though some may suspect that so great display of general information indicates rather extent than depth of knowledge, none, I think, can refuse to acknowledge that the manner in which a Frenchman communicates what he has acquired is particularly amiable, graceful, and unpedantic.

  LETTER XLIX.

  Trial by Jury. — Power of the Jury in France. — Comparative insignificance of that vested in the Judge. — Virtual Abolition of Capital Punishments. — Flemish Anecdote.

  Do not be terrified, my dear friend, and fancy that I am going to exchange my idle, ambling pace, and my babil de femme, to join the march of intellect, and indite wisdom. I have no such ambition in my thoughts; and yet I must retail to you part of a conversation with which I have just been favoured by an extremely intelligent friend, on the very manly subject of.... Not political economy; — be tranquil on that point; the same drowsy dread falls upon me when those two portentous words sound in my ears with which they seem to have inspired Coleridge; — not political economy, but trial by jury.

  M. V* * *, the gentleman in question, gave me credit, I believe, for considerably more savoir than I really possess, as to the actual and precise manner in which this important constitutional right works in England. My ignorance, however, though it prevented my giving much information, did not prevent my receiving it; and I repeat our conversation for the purpose of telling you in what a very singular manner, according to his account, it appears to work in France.

  I must, however, premise that my friend is a stanch Henri-Quintist; which, though I am sure that in his case it would not produce any exaggeration in the statement of facts, may nevertheless be fairly presumed to influence his feelings, and consequently his manner of stating them.

  The circumstance which gave rise to this grave discussio
n was a recent judgment passed here upon a very atrocious case of murder. I am not particularly fond of hanging; nevertheless, I was startled at hearing that this savage and most ferocious slayer of men was condemned to imprisonment and travail forcé, instead of death.

  “It is very rarely that any one now suffers the extreme penalty of the law in this country,” said M. V* * *, in reply to my remark on this sentence.

  “Is it since your last revolution,” said I, “that the punishment of death has been commuted for that of imprisonment and labour?”

  “No such commutation has taken place as an act of the legislature,” he replied: “it rests solely with the jury whether a murderer be guillotined, or only imprisoned.”

  I fancied that I misunderstood him, and repeated his words,— “With the jury?”

  “Oui, madame — absolument.”

  This statement appeared to me so singular, that I still supposed I must be blundering, and that the words le jury in France did not mean the same thing as the word jury in England.

  In this, as it subsequently appeared, I was not much mistaken. Notwithstanding, my informer, who was not only a very intelligent person, but a lawyer to boot, continued to assure me that trial by jury was exactly the same in both countries as to principle, though not as to effect.

  “But,” said I, “our juries have nothing to do with the sentence passed on the criminal: their business is to examine into the evidence brought forward by the witnesses to prove the guilt of the prisoner, and according to the impression which this leaves on their minds, they pronounce him ‘guilty,’ or ‘not guilty;’ and here their duty ends.”

  “Yes, yes — I understand that perfectly,” replied M. V* * *; “and it is precisely the same thing with us; — only, it is not in the nature of a Frenchman to pronounce a mere dry, short, unspeculating verdict of ‘guilty,’ or ‘not guilty,’ without exercising the powers of his intellect upon the shades of culpability which attach to the acts of each delinquent.”