9. LETTER IX.
MALIBRAN—PARIS AT MIDNIGHT—A MOB, ETC.
Our beautiful and favorite Malibran is playing in
Paris this winter. I saw her last night in Desdemona.
The other theatres are so attractive, between Taglioni,
Robert le Diable (the new opera), Leontine Fay, and
the political pieces constantly coming out, that I had
not before visited the Italian opera. Madame Malibran
is every way changed. She sings, unquestionably,
better than when in America. Her voice is
firmer, and more under control, but it has lost that
gushing wildness, that brilliant daringness of execution,
that made her singing upon our boards so indescribably
exciting and delightful. Her person is perhaps
still more changed. The round, graceful fulness
of her limbs and features has yielded to a half-haggard
look of care and exhaustion, and I could not
but think that there was more than Desdemona's fictitious
wretchedness in the expression of her face.
Still, her forehead and eyes have a beauty that is not
readily lost, and she will be a strikingly interesting,
and even splendid creature, as long as she can play.
Her acting was extremely impassioned; and in the
more powerful passages of her part, she exceeded
everything I had conceived of the capacity of the human
voice for pathos and melody. The house was
crowded, and the applause was frequent and universal.
Madame Malibran, as you probably know, is divorced
from the man whose name she bears, and has
married a violinist of the Italian orchestra. She is just
now in a state of health that will require immediate
retirement from the stage, and, indeed, has played already
too long. She came forward after the curtain
dropped, in answer to the continual demand of the audience,
leaning heavily on Rubini, and was evidently
so exhausted as to be scarcely able to stand. She
made a single gesture, and was led off immediately,
with her head drooping on her breast, amid the most
violent acclamations. She is a perfect passion with
the French, and seems to have out-charmed their
usual caprice.
It was a lovely night, and after the opera I walked
home. I reside a long distance from the places of
public amusement. Dr. Howe and myself had stopped
at a café on the Italian Boulevards an hour, and
it was very late. The streets were nearly deserted—
here and there a solitary cabriolet with the driver
asleep under his wooden apron, or the motionless figure
of a municipal guardsman, dozing upon his horse,
with his helmet and brazen armor glistening in the
light of the lamps. Nothing has impressed me more,
by the way, than a body of these men passing me in
the night. I have once or twice met the king returning
from the theatre with a guard, and I saw them
once at midnight on an extraordinary patrol winding
through the arch into the Place Carrousel. Their
equipments are exceedingly warlike (helmets of brass,
and coats of mail), and with the gleam of the breast-plates
through their horsemen's cloaks, the tramp of
hoofs echoing through the deserted streets, and the
silence and order of their march, it was quite a realization
of the descriptions of chivalry.
We kept along the Boulevards to the Rue Richelieu.
A carriage, with footmen in livery, had just driven up
to Frascati's, and, as we passed, a young man of uncommon
personal beauty jumped out and entered that
palace of gamblers. By his dress he was just from a
ball, and the necessity of excitement after a scene
meant to be so gay, was an obvious if not a fair satire
on the happiness of the “gay” circle in which he evidently
moved. We turned down the Paysage Panorama,
perhaps the most crowded thoroughfare in all
Paris, and traversed its long gallery without meeting a
soul. The widely-celebrated patisserie of Felix, the
first pastry-cook in the world, was the only shop open
from one extremity to the other. The guard, in his gray
capote, stood looking in at the window, and the girl,
who had served the palates of half the fashion and
rank of Paris since morning, sat nodding fast asleep
behind the counter, paying the usual fatiguing penalty
of notoriety. The clock struck two as we passed the
façade of the Bourse. This beautiful and central
square is, night and day, the grand rendezvous of public
vice; and late as the hour was, its pavé was still
thronged with flaunting and painted women of the
lowest description, promenading without cloaks or
bonnets, and addressing every passer-by.
The Palais Royal lay in our way, just below the
Bourse, and we entered its magnificent court with
an exclamation of new pleasure. Its thousand lamps
were all burning brilliantly, the long avenues of trees
were enveloped in a golden atmosphere created by the
bright radiation of light through the mist, the Corinthian
pillars and arches retreated on either side from
the eye in distinct and yet mellow perspective, the
fountain filled the whole palace with its rich murmur,
and the broad marble-paved galleries, so thronged by
day, were as silent and deserted as if the drowsy gens
d'armes standing motionless on their posts were the
only living beings that inhabited it. It was a scene
really of indescribable impressiveness. No one who
has not seen this splendid palace, enclosing with its
vast colonnades so much that is magnificent, can have
an idea of its effect upon the imagination. I had seen
it hitherto only when crowded with the gay and noisy
idlers of Paris, and the contrast of this with the utter
solitude it now presented—not a single footfall to be
heard on its floors, yet every lamp burning bright, and
the statues and flowers and fountains all illuminated
as if for a revel—was one of the most powerful and
captivating that I have ever witnessed. We loitered
slowly down one of the long galleries, and it seemed to
me more like some creation of enchantment than the
public haunt it is of pleasure and merchandise. A
single figure, wrapped in a cloak, passed hastily by us
and entered the door to one of the celebrated “hells,”
in which the playing scarce commences till this hour
—but we met no other human being.
We passed on from the grand court to the Galerie
Nemours. This, as you may find in the descriptions,
is a vast hall, standing between the east and the west
courts of the Palais Royal. It is sometimes called
the “glass gallery.” The roof is of glass, and the
shops, with fronts entirely of windows, are separated
only by long mirrors, reaching in the shape of pillars
from the roof to the floor. The pavement is tasselated,
and at either end stand two columns completing its
form, and dividing it from the other galleries into
which it opens. The shops are among the costliest
in Paris; and what with the vast proportions of the
hall, its beautiful and glistening material, and the lightness
and grace of its architecture, it is, even when deserted,
one of the most fairy-like places in this fantastic
city. It is the lounging place of military men particularly;
and every evening from six to midnight, it
is thronged by every class of gayly dressed people, officers
off duty, soldiers, polytechnic scholars, ladies, and
strangers of every costume and complexion, promenading
to and fro in the light of the cafés and the dazzling
shops, sheltered completely from the weather,
and enjoying, without expense or ceremony, a scene
more brilliant than the most splendid ball-room in
Paris. We lounged up and down the long echoing
pavement an hour. It was like some kingly “banquet-hall
deserted.” The lamps burned dazzlingly bright,
the mirrors multiplied our figures into shadowy and
silent attendants, and our voices echoed from the glittering
roof in the utter stillness of the hour as if we
had broken in, Thalaba-like, upon some magical palace
of silence.
It is singular how much the differences of time and
weather affects scenery. The first sunshine I saw in
Paris, unsettled all my previous impressions completely.
I had seen every place of interest through
the dull heavy atmosphere of a week's rain, and it was
in such leaden colors alone that the finer squares and
palaces had become familiar to me. The effect of a
clear sun upon them was wonderful. The sudden
gilding of the dome of the Invalides by Napoleon must
have been something like it. I took advantage of it
to see everything over again, and it seemed to me like
another city. I never realized so forcibly the beauty
of sunshine. Architecture, particularly is nothing
without it. Everything looks heavy and flat. The
tracery of the windows and relievos, meant to be definite
and airy, appears clumsy and confused, and the
whole building flattens into a solid mass, without design
or beauty.
I have spent the whole day in a Paris mob. The
arrival of General Romarino and some of his companions
from Warsaw, gave the malcontents a plausible
opportunity of expressing their dislike to the measures
of government; and, under cover of a public welcome
to this distinguished Pole, they assembled in immense
numbers at the Port St. Denis, and on the Boulevard
Montmartre. It was very exciting altogether. The
cavalary were out, and patroled the streets in companies,
charging upon the crowd wherever there was a
stand; the troops of the line marched up and down
the Boulevards, continually dividing the masses of
people, and forbidding any one to stand still. The
shops were all shut, in anticipation of an affray. The
students endeavored to cluster, and resisted, as far as
they dared, the orders of the soldiery; and from noon
till night there was every prospect of a quarrel. The
French are a fine people under excitement. Their
handsome and ordinarily heartless faces become very
expressive under the stronger emotions; and their
picturesque dresses and violent gesticulation set off a
popular tumult exceedingly. I have been highly
amused all day, and have learned a great deal of what it
is very difficult for a foreigner to acquire—the language
of French passion. They express themselves very
forcibly when angry. The constant irritation kept up
by the intrusion of the cavalry upon the sidewalks,
and the rough manner of dispersing gentlemen by
sabre-blows and kicks with the stirrup, gave me sufficient
opportunity of judging. I was astonished,
however, that their summary mode of proceeding was
borne at all. It is difficult to mix in such a vast body,
and not catch its spirit, and I found myself, without
knowing why, or rather with a full conviction that the
military measures were necessary and right, entering
with all my heart into the rebellious movements of the
students, and boiling with indignation at every dispersion
by force. The students of Paris are probably the
worst subjects the king has. They are mostly young
men of from twenty to twenty-five, full of bodily vigor
and enthusiasm, and excitable to the last degree.
Many of them are Germans, and no small proportion
Americans. They make a good amalgam for a mob,
dress being the last consideration, apparently, with a
medical or law student in Paris. I never saw such a
collection of atrocious-looking fellows as are to be
met at the lectures. The polytechnic scholars, on
the other hand, are the finest looking body of young
men I ever saw. Aside from their uniform, which is
remarkably neat and beautiful, their figures and faces
seem picked for spirit and manliness. They have always
a distinguished air in a crowd, and it is easy, after
seeing them, to imagine the part they played as
leaders in the revolution of the three days.
Contrary to my expectation, night came on without
any serious encounter. One or two individuals attempted
to resist the authority of the troops, and were
considerably bruised; and one young man, a student,
had three of his fingers cut off by the stroke of a dra
goon's sabre. Several were arrested, but by eight
o'clock all was quiet, and the shops on the Boulevards
once more exposed their tempting goods, and lit
up their brilliant mirrors without fear. The people
thronged to the theatres to see the political pieces, and
evaporate their excitement in cheers at the liberal allusions;
and so ends a tumult that threatened danger,
but operated, perhaps, as a healthful event for the accumulating
disorders of public opinion.
