CHAPTER XXIV.
Voila de l'erudition.--Les Femmes Savantes.
I found, on my return, covered with blood, and foaming with passion, myinestimable valet--Bedos!
"What's the matter?" said I.
"Matter!" repeated Bedos, in a tone almost inarticulate with rage; andthen, rejoicing at the opportunity of unbosoming his wrath, he pouredout a vast volley of ivrognes and carognes, against our Dame du Chateau,of monkey reminiscence. With great difficulty, I gathered, at last, fromhis vituperations, that the enraged landlady, determined to wreak hervengeance on some one, had sent for him into her appartment, accostedhim with a smile, bade him sit down, regaled him with cold vol-au-vent,and a glass of Curacoa, and, while he was felicitating himself on hisgood fortune, slipped out of the room: presently, three tall fellowsentered with sticks.
"We'll teach you," said the biggest of them--"we'll teach you to lock upladies, for the indulgence of your vulgar amusement;" and, without oneother word, they fell upon Bedos, with incredible zeal and vigour. Thevaliant valet defended himself, tooth and nail, for some time, for whichhe only got the more soundly belaboured. In the meanwhile the landladyentered, and, with the same gentle smile as before, begged him to makeno ceremony, to proceed with his present amusement, and when he wastired with the exercise, hoped he would refresh himself with anotherglass of Curacoa.
"It was this," said Bedos, with a whimper, "which hurt me the most, tothink she should serve me so cruelly, after I had eaten so plentifullyof the vol-au-vent; envy and injustice I can bear, but treachery stabsme to the heart."
When these threshers of men were tired, the lady satisfied, and Bedoshalf dead, they suffered the unhappy valet to withdraw; the mistressof the hotel giving him a note, which she desired, with great civility,that he would transmit to me on my return. This, I found, inclosed mybill, and informed me that my month being out on the morrow, she wasunwilling to continue me any longer, and begged I would, therefore, havethe bonte to choose another apartment.
"Carry my luggage forthwith," said I, "to the Hotel de Mirabeau:" andthat very evening I changed my abode.
I am happy in the opportunity this incident affords me of especiallyrecommending the Hotel de Mirabeau, Rue de la Paix, to any ofmy countrymen who are really gentlemen, and will not disgrace myrecommendation. It is certainly the best caravansera in the Englishquartier.
I was engaged that day to a literary dinner at the Marquis D'Al--; andas I knew I should meet Vincent, I felt some pleasure in repairing to myentertainer's hotel. They were just going to dinner as I entered. A goodmany English were of the party. The good natured (in all senses of theword) Lady--, who always affected to pet me, cried aloud, "Pelham, monjoli petit mignon, I have not seen you for an age--do give me your arm."
Madame D'Anville was just before me, and, as I looked at her, I saw thather eyes were full of tears; my heart smote me for my late inattention,and going up to her, I only nodded to Lady--, and said, in reply to herinvitation, "Non, perfide, it is my turn to be cruel now. Remember yourflirtation with Mr. Howard de Howard."
"Pooh!" said Lady--, taking Lord Vincent's arm, "your jealousy doesindeed rest upon 'a trifle light as air.'"
"Do you forgive me?" whispered I to Madame D'Anville, as I handed her tothe salle a manger. "Does not love forgive every thing?" was her answer.
"At least," thought I, "it never talks in those pretty phrases."
The conversation soon turned upon books. As for me, I never at that timetook a share in those discussions; indeed, I have long laid it down asa rule, that a man never gains by talking to more than one person at atime. If you don't shine, you are a fool--if you do, you are a bore.You must become either ridiculous or unpopular--either hurt your ownself-love by stupidity, or that of others by wit. I therefore sat insilence, looking exceedingly edified, and now and then muttering "good!""true!" Thank heaven, however, the suspension of one faculty onlyincreases the vivacity of the others; my eyes and ears always watch likesentinels over the repose of my lips. Careless and indifferent as I seemto all things, nothing ever escapes me: the minutest erreur in a dish ora domestic, the most trifling peculiarity in a criticism or a coat, myglance detects in an instant, and transmits for ever to my recollection.
"You have seen Jouy's 'Hermite de la Chaussee D'Antin?'" said our hostto Lord Vincent.
"I have, and think meanly of it. There is a perpetual aim at somethingpointed, which as perpetually merges into something dull. He is like abad swimmer, strikes out with great force, makes a confounded splash,and never gets a yard the further for it. It is a great effort not tosink. Indeed, Monsieur D'A--, your literature is at a very reduced ebb;bombastic in the drama--shallow in philosophy--mawkish in poetry, yourwriters of the present day seem to think, with Boileau--
"'Souvent de tous nos maux la raison est le pire.'"
"Surely," cried Madame D'Anville, "you will allow De la Martine's poetryto be beautiful?"
"I allow it," said he, "to be among the best you have; and I knowvery few lines in your language equal to the two first stanzas in his'Meditation on Napoleon,' or to those exquisite verses called 'LeLac;' but you will allow also that he wants originality and nerve. Histhoughts are pathetic, but not deep; he whines, but sheds no tears. Hehas, in his imitation of Lord Byron, reversed the great miracle; insteadof turning water into wine, he has turned wine into water. Besides,he is so unpardonably obscure. He thinks, with Bacchus--(you remember,D'A--, the line in Euripides, which I will not quote), that 'thereis something august in the shades;' but he has applied this thoughtwrongly--in his obscurity there is nothing sublime--it is the background of a Dutch picture. It is only a red herring, or an old hat,which he has invested with such pomposity of shadow and darkness."
"But his verses are so smooth," said Lady--.
"Ah!" answered Vincent.
"'Quand la rime enfin se trouve au bout des vers, Qu'importe que lereste y soit mis des travers.'"
"Helas" said the Viscount D'A--t, an author of no small celebrityhimself; "I agree with you--we shall never again see a Voltaire or aRousseau."
"There is but little justice in those complaints, often as they aremade," replied Vincent. "You may not, it is true, see a Voltaire or aRousseau, but you will see their equals. Genius can never be exhaustedby one individual. In our country, the poets after Chaucer in thefifteenth century complained of the decay of their art--they didnot anticipate Shakspeare. In Hayley's time, who ever dreamt of theascension of Byron? Yet Shakspeare and Byron came like the bridegroom'in the dead of night;' and you have the same probability ofproducing--not, indeed, another Rousseau, but a writer to do equalhonour to your literature."
"I think," said Lady--, "that Rousseau's 'Julie' is over-rated. I hadheard so much of 'La Nouvelle Heloise' when I was a girl, and been sooften told that it was destruction to read it, that I bought the bookthe very day after I was married. I own to you that I could not getthrough it."
"I am not surprised at it," answered Vincent; "but Rousseau is not theless a genius for all that: there is no story to bear out the style,and he himself is right when he says 'ce livre convient a tres peu delecteurs.' One letter would delight every one--four volumes of themare a surfeit--it is the toujours perdrix. But the chief beauty of thatwonderful conception of an empassioned and meditative mind is to befound in the inimitable manner in which the thoughts are embodied, andin the tenderness, the truth, the profundity of the thoughts themselves:when Lord Edouard says, 'c'est le chemin des passions qui m'a conduita la philosophie,' he inculcates, in one simple phrase, a profound andunanswerable truth. It is in these remarks that nature is chiefly foundin the writings of Rousseau: too much engrossed in himself to be deeplyskilled in the characters of others, that very self-study had yet givenhim a knowledge of the more hidden recesses of the heart. He couldperceive at once the motive and the cause of actions, but he wanted thepatience to trace the elaborate and winding progress of their effects.He saw the passions in their home, but he could not follow them abroad.He knew mankind in
the general, but not men in the detail. Thus, when hemakes an aphorism or reflection, it comes home at once to you as true;but when he would analyze that reflection, when he argues, reasons, andattempts to prove, you reject him as unnatural, or you refute himas false. It is then that he partakes of that manie commune which heimputes to other philosophers, 'de nier ce qui est, et d'expliquer cequi n'est pas.'"
There was a short pause. "I think," said Madame D'Anville, "that it isin those pensees which you admire so much in Rousseau, that our authorsin general excel."
"You are right," said Vincent, "and for this reason--with you les gensde letters are always les gens du monde. Hence their quick perceptionsare devoted to men as well as to books. They make observations acutely,and embody them with grace; but it is worth remarking, that the samecause which produced the aphorism, frequently prevents its beingprofound. These literary gens du monde have the tact to observe, but notthe patience, perhaps not the time, to investigate. They make the maxim,but they never explain to you the train of reasoning which led to it.Hence they are more brilliant than true. An English writer would notdare to make a maxim, involving, perhaps, in two lines, one of the mostimportant of moral truths, without bringing pages to support his dictum.A French essayist leaves it wholly to itself. He tells you neither howhe came by his reasons, nor their conclusion, 'le plus fou souvent estle plus satisfait.' Consequently, if less tedious than the English,your reasoners are more dangerous, and ought rather to be consideredas models of terseness than of reflection. A man might learn to thinksooner from your writers, but he will learn to think justly sooner fromours. Many observations of La Bruyere and Rochefoucault--the latterespecially--have obtained credit for truth solely from their point.They possess exactly the same merit as the very sensible--permit me toadd--very French line in Corneille:--
"'Ma plus douce esperance est de perdre l'espoir.'"
The Maquis took advantage of the silence which followed Vincent'scriticism to rise from table. We all (except Vincent, who took leave)adjourned to the salon. "Qui est cet homme la?" said one, "comme il estepris de lui-meme." "How silly he is," cried another--"how ugly," said athird. What a taste in literature--such a talker--such shallowness,and such assurance--not worth the answering--could not slip in aword--disagreeable, revolting, awkward, slovenly, were the mostcomplimentary opinions bestowed upon the unfortunate Vincent. Thewomen called him un horreur, and the men un bete. The old railed at hismauvais gout, and the young at his mauvais coeur, for the former alwaysattribute whatever does not correspond with their sentiments, to aperversion of taste, and the latter whatever does not come up to theirenthusiasm, to a depravity of heart.
As for me, I went home, enriched with two new observations; first, thatone may not speak of any thing relative to a foreign country, as onewould if one was a native. National censures become particular affronts.
Secondly, that those who know mankind in theory, seldom know it inpractice; the very wisdom that conceives a rule, is accompanied withthe abstraction, or the vanity, which destroys it. I mean that thephilosopher of the cabinet is often too diffident to put into actionhis observations, or too eager for display to conceal their design. LordVincent values himself upon his science du monde. He has read muchupon men, he has reflected more; he lays down aphorisms to govern or toplease them. He goes into society; he is cheated by the one half, andthe other half he offends. The sage in the cabinet is but a fool inthe salon; and the most consummate men of the world are those who haveconsidered the least on it.
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