The Diary of an Ennuyée | Page 4

are full of scenes from Le Solitaire; it is on
every toilette, on every work-table;--ladies carry it about in their
reticules to show each other that they are à la mode; and the men--what
can they do but humble their understandings and be extasiés, when
beautiful eyes sparkle in its defence and glisten in its praise, and ruby
lips pronounce it divine, delicious; "quelle sublimité dans les
descriptions, quelle force dans les caractères! quelle âme! feu! chaleur!
verve! originalité! passion!" etc.
"Vous n'avez pas lu le Solitaire?" said Madame M. yesterday. "Eh mon
dieu! il est donc possible! vous? mais, ma chère, vous êtes perdue de
réputation, et pour jamais!"
To retrieve my lost reputation, I sat down to read Le Solitaire, and as I
read my amazement grew, and I did in "gaping wonderment abound,"

to think that fashion, like the insane root of old, had power to drive a
whole city mad with nonsense; for such a tissue of abominable
absurdities, bombast and blasphemy, bad taste and bad language, was
never surely indited by any madman, in or out of Bedlam: not Maturin
himself, that king of fustian,
"----ever wrote or borrowed Any thing half so horrid!"
and this is the book which has turned the brains of half Paris, which has
gone through fifteen editions in a few weeks, which not to admire is
"pitoyable," and not to have read "quelque chose d'inouie."
The objects at Paris which have most struck me, have been those least
vaunted.
The view of the city from the Pont des Arts, to-night, enchanted me. As
every body who goes to Rome views the Coliseum by moonlight, so
nobody should leave Paris without seeing the effect from the Pont des
Arts, on a fine moonlight night:--
"Earth hath not any thing to show more fair."
It is singular I should have felt its influence at such a moment: it
appears to me that those who, from feeling too strongly, have learnt to
consider too deeply, become less sensible to the works of art, and more
alive to nature. Are there not times when we turn with indifference
from the finest picture or statue--the most improving book--the most
amusing poem; and when the very commonest, and every-day beauties
of nature, a soft evening, a lovely landscape, the moon riding in her
glory through a clouded sky, without forcing or asking attention, sink
into our hearts? They do not console,--they sometimes add poignancy
to pain; but still they have a power, and do not speak in vain: they
become a part of us; and never are we so inclined to claim kindred with
nature, as when sorrow has lent us her mournful experience. At the
time I felt this (and how many have felt it as deeply, and expressed it
better!) I did not think it, still less could I have said it; but I have
pleasure in recording the past impression. "On rend mieux compte de
ce qu'on a senti que de ce qu'on sent."

September 8.--Paris is crowded with English; and I do not wonder at it;
it is, on the whole, a pleasant place to live in. I like Paris, though I shall
quit it without regret as soon as I have strength to travel. Here the
social arts are carried to perfection--above all, the art of conversation:
every one talks much and talks well. In this multiplicity of words it
must happen of course that a certain quantum of ideas is intermixed:
and somehow or other, by dint of listening, talking, and looking about
them, people do learn, and information to a certain point is general.
Those who have knowledge are not shy of imparting it, and those who
are ignorant take care not to seem so; but are sometimes agreeable,
often amusing, and seldom bêtes. Nowhere have I seen unformed
sheepish boys, nowhere the surliness, awkwardness, ungraciousness,
and uneasy proud bashfulness, I have seen in the best companies in
England. Our French friend Lucien has, at fifteen, the air and
conversation of a finished gentleman; and our English friend C---- is at
eighteen, the veriest log of a lumpish school-boy that ever entered a
room. What I have seen of society, I like: the delicious climate too, the
rich skies, the clear elastic atmosphere, the out of doors life the people
lead, are all (in summer at least) delightful. There may be less comfort
here; but nobody feels the want of it; and there is certainly more
amusement--and amusement is here truly "le suprême bonheur."
Happiness, according to the French meaning of the word, lies more on
the surface of life: it is a sort of happiness which is cheap and ever at
hand. This is the place to live in for the merry poor man, or the
melancholy rich one: