Book: Blackwood\'s Edinburgh Magazine, No. CCCXXIX.

V >> Various >> Blackwood\'s Edinburgh Magazine, No. CCCXXIX.




The affectations of a French cit, when that nondescript animal
condescends to be affected, are more varied and interesting than those
of their brethren here. He has a taste for the fine arts--he talks about
the opera--likes to know artists and authors--and, though living up five
or six pairs of stairs in a narrow lane, gives _soirees_ and
_conversaziones_. More ludicrous all this, and decidedly less
disgusting, than the assumptions of our man-milliners and fishmongers.
There is short sketch by Paul de Kock, called a _Soiree Bourgeoise_,
which we translate entire, as an illustration of this curious phase of
French character; and we shall take an early opportunity of bringing
before our readers the essays of the daily feuilletonists of the
Parisian press, which give a clearer insight into the peculiarities of
French domestic literature than can be acquired in any other quarter.


A CIT'S SOIREE.

Lights were observed some time ago, in the four windows of an apartment
on the second floor of a house in the Rue Grenetat. It was not quite so
brilliant as the Cercle des Etrangers, but still it announced something.
These four windows, with lights glancing in them all, had an air of
rejoicing, and the industrious inhabitants of the Rue Grenetat, who
don't generally go to much expense for illumination, even in their
shops, looked at the four windows which eclipsed the street lamps in
their brilliancy, and said, "There's certainly something very
extraordinary going on this evening at M. Lupot's!" M. Lupot is an
honest tradesman, who has retired from business some time. After having
sold stationary for thirty years, without ever borrowing of a neighbour,
or failing in a payment, M. Lupot, having scraped together an income of
three hundred and twenty pounds, disposed of his stock in trade, and
closed his ledger, to devote himself entirely to the pleasures of
domestic life with his excellent spouse, Madam Felicite Lupot--a woman
of an amazingly apathetic turn of mind, who did admirably well in the
shop as long as she had only to give change for half-crowns, but whose
abilities extended no further. But this had not prevented her from
making a very good wife to her husband, (which proves that much talent
is not required for that purpose,) and presenting him with a daughter
and a son.

The daughter was the eldest, and had attained her seventeenth year; and
M. Lupot, who spared nothing on her education, did not despair of
finding a husband for her with a soul above sticks of sealing-wax and
wafers--more especially as it was evident she had no turn for trade, and
believed she had a decided genius for the fine arts--for she had painted
her father as a shepherd with his crook, when she was only twelve, and
had learned a year after to play "Je suis Lindore" by ear on the piano.
M. Lupot was proud of his daughter, who was thus a painter and a
musician; who was a foot taller than her papa; who held herself as
upright as a Prussian grenadier; who made a curtsy like Taglioni, who
had a Roman nose three times the size of other people's, a mouth to
match, and eyes so arch and playful, that it was difficult to discover
them. The boy was only seven; he was allowed to do whatever he chose--he
was so very young; and Monsieur Ascanius availed himself of the
permission, and was in mischief from morning to night. His father was
too fond of him to scold him, and his mother wouldn't take the trouble
to get into a passion.

Well, then, one morning M. Lupot soliloquized--"I have a good fortune, a
charming family, and a wife who has never been in a rage; but all this
does not lead to a man's being invited, courted, and made much of in the
world. Since I have cut the hotpress-wove and red sealing-wax, I have
seen nobody but a few friends--retired tradesmen like myself--who drop
in to take a hand at _vingt-et-un_, or loto; but I wish more than
that--my daughter must not live in so narrow a circle; my daughter has a
decided turn for the arts; I ought to have artists to my house. I will
give soirees, tea-parties--yes, with punch at parting, if it be
necessary. We shall play _bouillote_ and _ecarte_, for my daughter can't
endure loto. Indeed, I wish to set people talking about my re-unions,
and to find a husband for Celanire worthy of her." M. Lupot was seated
near his wife, who was seated on an elastic sofa, and was caressing a
cat on her knee. He said to her--

"My dear Felicite, I intend to give soirees--to receive lots of company.
We live in too confined a sphere for our daughter, who was born for the
arts--and for Ascanius, who, it strikes me, will make some noise in the
world."

Madame Lupot continued to caress the cat, and replied, "Well, what have
I to do with that? Do I hinder you from receiving company? If it doesn't
cause me any trouble--for I must tell you first of all, you musn't count
on me to help you"--

"You will have nothing at all to do, my dear Felicite, but the honours
of the house."

"I must be getting up every minute"--

"You do it so gracefully," replied the husband--"I will give all the
orders, and Celanire will second me."

Mademoiselle was enchanted with the intention of her sire, and threw her
arms round his neck.

"Oh yes! papa," she said, "invite as many as you can, I will learn to
play some country-dances that we may have a ball, and finish my head of
Belisarius--you must get it framed for the occasion."

And the little Ascanius whooped and hollo'd in the middle of the room.
"I shall have tea and punch and cakes. I'll eat every thing!"

After this conversation M. Lupot had set to work. He went to his friends
and his friends' friends--to people he hardly knew, and invited them to
his party, begging them to bring any body with them they liked. M. Lupot
had formerly sold rose-coloured paper to a musician, and drawing pencils
to an artist. He went to his ancient customers, and pressed them to come
and to bring their professional friends with them. In short, M. Lupot
was so prodigiously active that in four days he had run through nearly
the whole of Paris, caught an immense cold, and spent seven shillings in
cab hire. Giving an entertainment has its woes as well as its pleasures.

The grand day, or rather the grand evening, at last arrived. All the
lamps were lighted, and they had even borrowed some from their
neighbours; for Celanire had discovered that their own three lamps
did not give light enough both for the public-room and the
supper-room--(which on ordinary occasions was a bed-chamber.) It was the
first time that M. Lupot had borrowed any thing--but also it was the
first time that M. Lupot gave a soiree.

From the dawn of day M. Lupot was busy in preparation: He had ordered in
cakes and refreshments; bought sundry packs of cards, brushed the
tables, and tucked up the curtains. Madame Lupot had sat all the time
quietly on the sofa, ejaculating from time to time, "I'm afraid 'twill
be a troublesome business all this receiving company."

Celanire had finished her Belisarius, who was an exact likeness of Blue
Beard, and whom they had honoured with a Gothic frame, and placed in a
conspicuous part of the room. Mademoiselle Lupot was dressed with
amazing care. She had a new gown, her hair plaited _a la Clotilde_. All
this must make a great sensation. Ascanius was rigged out in his best;
but this did not hinder him from kicking up a dust in the room, from
getting up on the furniture, handling the cards, and taking them to make
houses; from opening the cupboards, and laying his fingers on the cakes.

Sometimes M. Lupot's patience gave way, and he cried, "Madame, I beg
you'll make your son be quiet." But Madame Lupot answered without
turning her head, "Make him quiet yourself, M. Lupot--You know very well
it's _your_ business to manage him."

It was now eight o'clock, and nobody was yet arrived. Mademoiselle
looked at her father, who looked at his wife, who looked at her cat. The
father of the family muttered every now and then--"Are we to have our
grand soiree all to ourselves?" And he cast doleful looks on his lamps,
his tables, and all his splendid preparations. Mademoiselle Celanire
sighed and looked at her dress, and then looked in the mirror. Madame
Lupot was as unmoved as ever, and said, "Is this what we've turned every
thing topsy-turvy for?" As for little Ascanius, he jumped about the
room, and shouted, "If nobody comes, what lots of cakes we shall have!"
At last the bell rang. It is a family from the Rue St Denis, retired
perfumers, who have only retained so much of their ancient profession,
that they cover themselves all over with odours. When they enter the
room, you feel as if a hundred scent-bottles were opened at once. There
is such a smell of jasmine and vanille, that you have good luck if you
get off without a headache. Other people drop in. M. Lupot does not know
half his guests, for many of them are brought by others, and even these
he scarcely knows the names of. But he is enchanted with every thing. A
young fashionable is presented to him by some unknown third party, who
says, "This is one of our first pianists, who is good enough to give up
a great concert this evening to come here." The next is a famous singer,
a lion in musical parties, who is taken out every where, and who will
give one of his latest compositions, though unfortunately labouring
under a cold. This man won the first prize at the Conservatory, an
unfledged Boildieu, who will be a great composer of operas--when he can
get librettos to his music, and music to his librettos. The next is a
painter. He has shown at the exhibition--he has had wonderful success.
To be sure nobody bought his pictures, because he didn't wish to sell
them to people that couldn't appreciate them. In short, M. Lupot sees
nobody in his rooms that is not first-rate in some way or other. He is
delighted with the thought--ravished, transported. He can't find words
enough to express his satisfaction at having such geniuses in his house.
For their sakes he neglects his old friends--he scarcely speaks to them.
It seems the new-comers, people he has never seen before, are the only
people worthy of his attentions. Madame Lupot is tired of getting up,
curtsying, and sitting down again. But her daughter is radiant with joy;
her husband goes from room to room, rubbing his hands, as if he had
bought all Paris, and got it a bargain. And little Ascanius never comes
out of the bed-room without his mouth full. But it is not enough to
invite a large party; you must know how to amuse them; it is a thing
which very few people have the art of, even those most accustomed to
have soirees. In some you get tired, and you are in great ceremony; you
must restrict yourself to a conversation that is neither open, nor
friendly, nor amusing. In others, you are pestered to death by the
amphitryon, who is perhaps endowed with the bump of music, and won't
leave the piano for fear some one else should take his place. There are
others fond of cards, who only ask their friends that they may make up a
table. Such individuals care for nothing but the game, and don't trouble
themselves whether the rest of their guests are amused or not. Ah! there
are few homes that know how to receive their company, or make every body
pleased. It requires a tact, a cleverness, an absence of self, which
must surely be very unusual since we see so few specimens of them in the
soirees we attend.

M. Lupot went to and fro--from the reception-room to the bed-chamber,
and back again--he smiled, he bowed, and rubbed his hands. But the
new-comers, who had not come to his house to see him smile and rub his
hands, began to say, in very audible whispers, "Ah, well, do people pass
the whole night here looking at each other? Very delightful--very!"

M. Lupot has tried to start a conversation with a big man in spectacles,
with a neckcloth of great dimensions, and who makes extraordinary faces
as he looks round on the company. M. Lupot has been told, that the
gentleman with the large neckcloth is a literary man, and that he will
probably be good enough to read or recite some lines of his own
composition. The ancient stationer coughs three times before venturing
to address so distinguished a character, but says at last--"Enchanted to
see at my house a gentleman so--an author of such----"

"Ah, you're the host here, are you?--the master of the house?"--said the
man in the neckcloth.

"I flatter myself I am--with my wife, of course--the lady on the
sofa--you see her? My daughter, sir--she's the tall young lady, so
upright in her figure. She designs, and has an excellent touch on the
piano. I have a son also--a little fiend--it was he who crept this
minute between my legs--he's an extraordinary clev----"

"There is one thing, sir," replied the big man, "that I can't
comprehend--a thing that amazes me--and that is, that people who live in
the Rue Grenetat should give parties. It is a miserable street--a horrid
street--covered eternally with mud--choked up with cars--a wretched part
of the town, dirty, noisy, pestilential--bah!"

"And yet, sir, for thirty years I have lived here."

"Oh Lord, sir, I should have died thirty times over! When people live in
the Rue Grenetat they should give up society, for you'll grant it is a
regular trap to seduce people into such an abominable street. I"----

M. Lupot gave up smiling and rubbing his hands. He moves off from the
big man in the spectacles, whose conversation had by no means amused
him, and he goes up to a group of young people who seem examining the
Belisarius of Mademoiselle Celanire.

"They're admiring my daughter's drawing," said M. Lupot to himself; "I
must try to overhear what these artists are saying." The young people
certainly made sundry remarks on the performance, plentifully intermixed
with sneers of a very unmistakable kind.

"Can you make out what the head is meant for?"

"Not I. I confess I never saw any thing so ridiculous."

"It's Belisarius, my dear fellow."

"Impossible!--it's the portrait of some grocer, some relation, probably,
of the family--look at the nose--the mouth--"

"It is intolerable folly to put a frame to such a daub."

"They must be immensely silly."

"Why, it isn't half so good as the head of the Wandering Jew at the top
of a penny ballad."

M. Lupot has heard enough. He slips off from the group without a word,
and glides noiselessly to the piano. The young performer who had
sacrificed a great concert to come to his soiree, had sat down to the
instrument and run his fingers over the notes.

"What a spinnet!" he cried--"what a wretched kettle! How can you expect
a man to perform on such a miserable instrument? The thing is
absurd--hear this A--hear this G--it's like a hurdygurdy--not one note
of it in tune!" But the performer stayed at the piano notwithstanding,
and played incessantly, thumping the keys with such tremendous force,
that every minute a chord snapped; when such a thing happened--he burst
into a laugh, and said, "Good! there's another gone--there will soon be
none left."

M. Lupot flushed up to the ears. He felt very much inclined to say to
the celebrated performer, "Sir, I didn't ask you here to break all the
chords of my piano. Let the instrument alone if you don't like it, but
don't hinder other people from playing on it for our amusement."

But the good M. Lupot did not venture on so bold a speech, which would
have been a very sensible speech nevertheless; and he stood quietly
while his chords were getting smashed, though it was by no means a
pleasant thing to do.

Mademoiselle Celanire goes up to her father. She is distressed at the
way her piano is treated; she has no opportunity of playing her air; but
she hopes to make up for it by singing a romance, which one of their old
neighbours is going to accompany on the guitar.

It is not without some difficulty that M. Lupot obtains silence for his
daughter's song. At sight of the old neighbour and his guitar a
smothered laugh is visible in the assembly. It is undeniable that the
gentleman is not unlike a respectable Troubadour with a barrel organ,
and that his guitar is like an ancient harp. There is great curiosity to
hear the old gentleman touch his instrument. He begins by beating time
with his feet and his head, which latter movement gives him very much
the appearance of a mandarin that you sometimes see on a mantelpiece.
Nevertheless Mademoiselle Lupot essays her ballad; but she can never
manage to overtake her accompanier, who, instead of following the
singer, seems determined to make no alteration in the movement of his
head and feet. The ballad is a failure--Celanire is confused, she has
mistaken her notes--she loses her recollection; and, instead of hearing
his daughter's praises, M. Lupot overhears the young people
whispering--"It wouldn't do in a beer-shop."

"I must order in the tea," thought the ex-stationer--"it will perhaps
put them into good-humour."

And M. Lupot rushes off to give instructions to the maid; and that old
individual, who has never seen such a company before, does not know how
to get on, and breaks cups and saucers without mercy, in the effort to
make haste.

"Nannette, have you got ready the other things you were to bring in with
the tea?--the muffins--the cakes?"

"Yes, sir"--replied Nannette--"all is ready--every thing will be in in a
moment."

"But there is another thing I told you, Nannette--the sandwiches."

"The witches, sir?--the sand?"--enquired the puzzled Nannette.

"It is an English dish--I explained it to you before--slices of bread
and butter, with ham between."

"Oh la, sir!" exclaimed the maid--"I have forgotten that ragout--oh
dear!"

"Well--make haste, Nannette; get ready some immediately, while my
daughter hands round the tea and muffins--you can bring them in on a
tray."

The old domestic hurries into the kitchen grumbling at the English
dainty, and cuts some slices of bread and covers them with butter; but
as she had never thought of the ham, she cogitates a long time how she
can supply the want of it--at last, on looking round, she discovers a
piece of beef that had been left at dinner.

"Pardieu," she says, "I'll cut some lumps of this and put them on the
bread. With plenty of salt they'll pass very well for ham--they'll drive
me wild with their English dishes--they will."

The maid speedily does as she says, and then hurries into the room with
a tray covered with her extempore ham sandwiches.

Every body takes one,--for they have grown quite fashionable along with
tea. But immediately there is an universal murmur in the assembly. The
ladies throw their slices into the fire, the gentlemen spit theirs on
the furniture, and they cry--"why the devil do people give us things
like these?--they're detestable."

"It's my opinion, God forgive me! the man means to feed us with scraps
from the pig-trough," says another.

"It's a regular do, this soiree," says a third.

"The tea is disgustingly smoked," says a fourth.

"And all the little cakes look as if they had been fingered before,"
says the fifth.

"Decidedly they wish to poison us," says the big man in the neckcloth,
looking very morose.

M. Lupot is in despair. He goes in search of Nannette, who has hidden
herself in the kitchen; and he busies himself in gathering up the
fragments of the bread and butter from the floor and the fireplace.

Madame Lupot says nothing; but she is in very bad humour, for she has
put on a new cap, which she felt sure would be greatly admired; and a
lady has come to her and said--

"Ah, madame, what a shocking head-dress!--your cap is very
old-fashioned--those shapes are quite gone out."

"And yet, madame," replies Madame Lupot, "I bought it, not two days ago,
in the Rue St Martin."

"Well, madame--Is that the street you go to for the fashions? Go to
Mademoiselle Alexina Larose Carrefous Gaillon--you'll get delicious caps
there--new fashions and every thing so tasteful: for Heaven's sake,
madame, never put on that cap again. You look, at least, a hundred."

"It's worth one's while, truly," thought Madame Lupot, "to tire one's
self to death receiving people, to be treated to such pretty
compliments."

Her husband, in the meanwhile, continued his labours in pursuit of the
rejected sandwiches.

The big man in spectacles, who wondered that people could live in the
Rue Grenetat, had no idea, nevertheless, of coming there for nothing. He
has seated himself in an arm-chair in the middle of the room, and
informs the company that he is going to repeat a few lines of his own to
them.--The society seems by no means enchanted with the announcement,
but forms itself in a circle, to listen to the poet. He coughs and
spits, wipes his mouth, tales a pinch of snuff, sneezes, has the lamps
raised, the doors shut, asks a tumbler of sugar and water, and passes
his hand through his hair. After continuing these operations for some
minutes, the literary man at last begins. He spouts his verses in a
voice enough to break the glasses; before he has spoken a minute, he has
presented a tremendous picture of crimes, and deaths, and scaffolds,
sufficient to appal the stoutest hearts, when suddenly a great crash
from the inner room attracts universal attention. It is the young
Ascanius, who was trying to get a muffin on the top of a pile of dishes,
and has upset the table, with muffin, and dishes, and all on his own
head. M. Lupot runs off to ascertain the cause of the dreadful cries of
his son; the company follow him, not a little rejoiced to find an excuse
for hearing no more of the poem; and the poet, deprived in this way of
an audience, gets up in a furious passion, takes his hat, and rushes
from the room, exclaiming--"It serves me right. How could I have been
fool enough to recite good verses in the Rue Grenetat!"

Ascanius is brought in and roars lustily, for two of the dishes have
been broken on his nose; and as there is no chance now, either of poetry
or music, the party have recourse to cards--for it is impossible to sit
all night and do nothing.

They make up a table at _bouillote_, and another at _ecarte_. M. Lupot
takes his place at the latter. He is forced to cover all the bets when
his side refuses; and M. Lupot, who never played higher than shilling
stakes in his life, is horrified when they tell him--"You must lay down
fifteen francs to equal our stakes."

"Fifteen francs!" says M. Lupot, "what is the meaning of all this?"

"It means, that you must make up the stakes of your side, to what we
have put down on this. The master of the house is always expected to
make up the difference."

M. Lupot dare not refuse. He lays down his fifteen francs and loses
them; next game the deficiency is twenty. In short, in less than half an
hour, the ex-stationer loses ninety francs. His eyes start out of his
head--he scarcely knows where he is; and to complete his misery, the
opposite party, in lifting up the money they have won, upset one of the
lamps he had borrowed from his neighbours, and smashed it into fifty
pieces.

At last the hour of separation comes. The good citizen has been anxious
for it for a long time. All his gay company depart, without even wishing
good-night to the host who has exerted himself so much for their
entertainment. The family of the Lupots are left alone; Madame, overcome
with fatigue, and vexed because her cap had been found fault with;
Celanire, with tears in her eyes, because her music and Belisarius had
been laughed at; and Ascanius sick and ill, because he has nearly burst
himself with cakes and muffins; M. Lupot was, perhaps, the unhappiest of
all, thinking of his ninety francs and the broken lamp. Old Annette
gathered up the crumbs of the sandwiches, and muttered--"Do they think
people make English dishes to have them thrown into the corners of the
room?"

"It's done," said M. Lupot; "I shall give no more soirees. I begin to
think I was foolish in wishing to leave my own sphere. When people of
the same class lark and joke each other, it's all very well; but when
you meddle with your superiors, and they are uncivil, it hurts your
feelings. Their mockery is an insult, and you don't get over it soon. My
dear Celanire, I shall decidedly try to marry you to a stationer."

* * * * *




THE WORLD OF LONDON. SECOND SERIES. PART III.

THE ARISTOCRACIES OF LONDON LIFE.

OF GENTILITY-MONGERING.


The HEAVY SWELL was recorded in our last for the admiration and
instruction of remote ages. When the nineteenth century shall be long
out of date, and centuries in general out of their _teens_, posterity
will revert to our delineation of the heavy swell with pleasure
undiminished, through the long succession of ages yet to come; the
macaroni, the fop, the dandy, will be forgotten, or remembered only in
our graphic portraiture of the heavy swell. But the heavy swell is,
after all, a harmless nobody. His curse, his besetting sin, his
_monomania_, is vanity tinctured with pride: his weak point can hardly
be called a crime, since it affects and injures nobody but himself, if,
indeed, it can be said to injure him who glories in his vocation--who is
the echo of a sound, the shadow of a shade.

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