I

Dedication

To Leon Gozlan as a Token of Literary Good-fellowship.

At Paris there are almost always two separate parties going on at

every ball and rout. First, an official party, composed of the persons

invited, a fashionable and much-bored circle. Each one grimaces for

his neighbor's eye; most of the younger women are there for one person

only; when each woman has assured herself that for that one she is the

handsomest woman in the room, and that the opinion is perhaps shared

by a few others, a few insignificant phrases are exchanged, as: "Do

you think of going away soon to La Crampade?" "How well Madame de

Portenduere sang!" "Who is that little woman with such a load of

diamonds?" Or, after firing off some smart epigrams, which give

transient pleasure, and leave wounds that rankle long, the groups thin

out, the mere lookers on go away, and the waxlights burn down to the

sconces.

The mistress of the house then waylays a few artists, amusing people

or intimate friends, saying, "Do not go yet; we will have a snug

little supper." These collect in some small room. The second, the real

party, now begins; a party where, as of old, every one can hear what

is said, conversation is general, each one is bound to be witty and to

contribute to the amusement of all. Everything is made to tell, honest

laughter takes the place of the gloom which in company saddens the

prettiest faces. In short, where the rout ends pleasure begins.

The Rout, a cold display of luxury, a review of self-conceits in full

dress, is one of those English inventions which tend to /mechanize/

other nations. England seems bent on seeing the whole world as dull as

itself, and dull in the same way. So this second party is, in some

French houses, a happy protest on the part of the old spirit of our

light-hearted people. Only, unfortunately, so few houses protest; and

the reason is a simple one. If we no longer have many suppers

nowadays, it is because never, under any rule, have there been fewer

men placed, established, and successful than under the reign of Louis

Philippe, when the Revolution began again, lawfully. Everybody is on

the march some whither, or trotting at the heels of Fortune. Time has

become the costliest commodity, so no one can afford the lavish

extravagance of going home to-morrow morning and getting up late.

Hence, there is no second soiree now but at the houses of women rich

enough to entertain, and since July 1830 such women may be counted in

Paris.

In spite of the covert opposition of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, two

or three women, among them Madame d'Espard and Mademoiselle des

Touches, have not chosen to give up the share of influence they

exercised in Paris, and have not closed their houses.

The salon of Mademoiselle des Touches is noted in Paris as being the

last refuge where the old French wit has found a home, with its

reserved depths, its myriad subtle byways, and its exquisite

politeness. You will there still find grace of manner notwithstanding

the conventionalities of courtesy, perfect freedom of talk

notwithstanding the reserve which is natural to persons of breeding,

and, above all, a liberal flow of ideas. No one there thinks of

keeping his thought for a play; and no one regards a story as material

for a book. In short, the hideous skeleton of literature at bay never

stalks there, on the prowl for a clever sally or an interesting

subject.

The memory of one of these evenings especially dwells with me, less by

reason of a confidence in which the illustrious de Marsay opened up

one of the deepest recesses of woman's heart, than on account of the

reflections to which his narrative gave rise, as to the changes that

have taken place in the French woman since the fateful revolution of

July.

On that evening chance had brought together several persons, whose

indisputable merits have won them European reputations. This is not a

piece of flattery addressed to France, for there were a good many

foreigners present. And, indeed, the men who most shone were not the

most famous. Ingenious repartee, acute remarks, admirable banter,

pictures sketched with brilliant precision, all sparkled and flowed

without elaboration, were poured out without disdain, but without

effort, and were exquisitely expressed and delicately appreciated. The

men of the world especially were conspicuous for their really artistic

grace and spirit.

Elsewhere in Europe you will find elegant manners, cordiality, genial

fellowship, and knowledge; but only in Paris, in this drawing-room,

and those to which I have alluded, does the particular wit abound

which gives an agreeable and changeful unity to all these social

qualities, an indescribable river-like flow which makes this profusion

of ideas, of definitions, of anecdotes, of historical incidents,

meander with ease. Paris, the capital of taste, alone possesses the

science which makes conversation a tourney in which each type of wit

is condensed into a shaft, each speaker utters his phrase and casts

his experience in a word, in which every one finds amusement,

relaxation, and exercise. Here, then, alone, will you exchange ideas;

here you need not, like the dolphin in the fable, carry a monkey on

your shoulders; here you will be understood, and will not risk staking

your gold pieces against base metal.

Here, again, secrets neatly betrayed, and talk, light or deep, play

and eddy, changing their aspect and hue at every phrase. Eager

criticism and crisp anecdotes lead on from one to the next. All eyes

are listening, a gesture asks a question, and an expressive look gives

the answer. In short, and in a word, everything is wit and mind.

The phenomenon of speech, which, when duly studied and well handled,

is the power of the actor and the story-teller, had never so

completely bewitched me. Nor was I alone under the influence of its

spell; we all spent a delightful evening. The conversation had drifted

into anecdote, and brought out in its rushing course some curious

confessions, several portraits, and a thousand follies, which make

this enchanting improvisation impossible to record; still, by setting

these things down in all their natural freshness and abruptness, their

elusive divarications, you may perhaps feel the charm of a real French

evening, taken at the moment when the most engaging familiarity makes

each one forget his own interests, his personal conceit, or, if you

like, his pretensions.

At about two in the morning, as supper ended, no one was left sitting

round the table but intimate friends, proved by intercourse of fifteen

years, and some persons of great taste and good breeding, who knew the

world. By tacit agreement, perfectly carried out, at supper every one

renounced his pretensions to importance. Perfect equality set the

tone. But indeed there was no one present who was not very proud of

being himself.