Volume I Part 6 (1/2)
His description of the old church itself, too, is delicious: for though it has little of architectural reality or strict graphic fidelity about it, there is such a powerful air of truth in every word he says respecting it, that one looks out and about upon the rugged stones, and studies every angle, b.u.t.tress, and parapet, with the lively interest of old acquaintance.
I should like to have a legend, as fond and lingering in its descriptions, attached to some of our glorious and mysterious old Gothic cathedrals at home. This sort of reading gives a pleasure in which imagination and reality are very happily blended; and I can fancy nothing more agreeable than following an able romancer up and down, through and amongst, in and out, the gloomy, shadowy, fanciful, unintelligible intricacies of such a structure. How well might Winchester, for instance, with its solemn crypts, its st.u.r.dy Saxon strength, its quaintly-coffined relics of royal bones, its Gothic shrines, its monumental splendour, and its stately magnitude, furnish forth the material for some such spirit-stirring record!
Having spent an hour of first-rate interest and gratification in wandering inside and outside of this very magnificent church, we crossed the Place, or _Parvis_, of Notre Dame, to see the celebrated hospital of the Hotel Dieu. It is very particularly large, clean, airy, and well-ordered in every way; and I never saw sick people look less miserable than some scores of men and women did, tucked snugly up in their neat little beds, and most of them with a friend or relative at their side to console or amuse them.
The access to the wards of this building is as free as that into a public bazaar; but there is one caution used in the admission of company which, before I understood it, puzzled me greatly. There are three doors at the top of the fine flight of steps which leads to the building. The centre one is used only as an exit; at the other two are placed guards, one a male, the other a female. Through these side-doors all who enter must pa.s.s--the men on one side, the women on the other; and all must submit to be pretty strictly examined, to see that they are conveying nothing either to eat or drink that might be injurious to the invalids.
The covered bridge which opens from the back part of the Hotel Dieu, connecting _l'Isle de la Cite_ with the left bank of the Seine, with its light gla.s.s roof, and safe shelter from wind, dust, or annoyance of any kind, forms a delightful promenade for the convalescent.
The evening of this day we spent at a _soiree_, where we met, among many other pleasant persons, a very sensible and gentlemanlike American. I had the pleasure of a long conversation with him, during which he said many things extremely worth listening to. This gentleman has held many distinguished diplomatic situations, appears to have acquired a great deal of general information, and moreover to have given much attention to the inst.i.tutions and character of his own country.
He told me that Jefferson had been the friend of his early life; that he knew his sentiments and opinions on all subjects intimately well, and much better than those who were acquainted with them no otherwise than by his published writings. He a.s.sured me most positively that Jefferson was NOT a democrat in principle, but believed it expedient to promulgate the doctrine, as the only one which could excite the general feeling of the people, and make them hang together till they should have acquired strength sufficient to be reckoned as one among the nations. He said, that Jefferson's ulterior hope for America was, that she should, after having acquired this strength, give birth to men distinguished both by talent and fortune; that when this happened, an enlightened and powerful aristocracy might be hoped for, without which HE KNEW that no country could be really great or powerful.
As I am a.s.sured that the word of this gentleman may be depended on, these observations--or rather, I should say, statements--respecting Jefferson appear to me worth noting.
LETTER XIII.
”Le Monomane.”
As a distinguished specimen of fas.h.i.+onable horror, I went last night to the Porte St. Martin to see ”The Monomane,” a drama in five acts, from the pen of a M. Duveyrier. I hardly know whether to give you a sketch of this monstrous outrage against common sense or not; but I think I will do so, because I flatter myself that no one will be silly enough to translate it into English, or import it in any shape into England; and, therefore, if I do not tell you something about it, you may chance to die without knowing to what prodigious lengths a search after absurdity may carry men.
But first let me mention, as not the least extraordinary part of the phenomenon, that the theatre was crowded from floor to roof, and that Shakspeare was never listened to with attention more profound.
However, it does not follow that approval or admiration of any kind was either the cause or the effect of this silent contemplation of the scene: no one could be more devoted to the business of the hour than myself, but most surely this was not the result of approbation.
If I am not very clear respecting the plot, you must excuse me, from my want of habitual expertness in such an a.n.a.lysis; but the main features and characters cannot escape me.
An exceedingly amiable and highly intellectual gentleman is the hero of this piece; a part personated by a M. Lockroi with a degree of ability deserving a worthier employment. This amiable man holds at Colmar the office of _procureur du roi_; and, from the habit of witnessing trials, acquires so vehement a pa.s.sion for the shedding of blood on the scaffold, that it amounts to a mania. To ill.u.s.trate this singular trait of character, M. Balthazar developes his secret feelings in an opening speech to an intimate friend. In this speech, which really contains some very good lines, he dilates with much enthusiasm on the immense importance which he conceives to attach to the strict and impartial administration of criminal justice. No man could deliver himself more judge-like and wisely; but how or why such very rational and sober opinions should lead to an unbounded pa.s.sion for blood, is very difficult to understand.
The next scene, however, shows the _procureur du roi_ hugging himself with a kind of mysterious rapture at the idea of an approaching execution, and receiving with a very wild and mad-like sort of agony some attempts to prove the culprit innocent. The execution takes place; and after it is over, the innocence of the unfortunate victim is fully proved.
The amiable and excellent _procureur du roi_ is greatly moved at this; but his repentant agony is soon walked off by a few well-trod melodramatic turns up and down the stage; and he goes on again, seizing with ecstasy upon every opportunity of bringing the guilty to justice.
What the object of the author can possibly be in making out that a man is mad solely because he wishes to do his duty, I cannot even guess.
It is difficult to imagine an honest-minded magistrate uttering more common-place, uncontrovertible truths upon the painful duties of his station, than does this unfortunate gentleman.
M. Victor Hugo, speaking of himself in one of his prefaces, says, ”Il (Victor Hugo) continuera donc fermement; et chaque fois qu'il croira necessaire de faire bien voir a tous, dans ses moindres details, une idee utile, une idee sociale, une idee humaine, il posera le theatre dessus comme un verre grossissant.”[3]
It strikes me that M. Duveyrier, the ingenious author of the Monomane, must work upon the same principle, and that in this piece he thinks he has put a magnifying-gla.s.s upon ”une idee sociale.”
But I must return to my a.n.a.lysis of this drama of five mortal acts.--After the execution, the real perpetrator of the murder for which the unfortunate victim of legal enthusiasm has innocently suffered appears on the scene. He is brought sick or wounded into the house of a physician, with whom the _procureur du roi_ and his wife are on a visit. Balthazar sees the murderer conveyed to bed in a chamber that opens from that of his friend the doctor. He then goes to bed himself with his wife, and appears to have fallen asleep without delay, for we presently see him in this state come forth from his chamber upon a gallery, from whence a flight of stairs descends upon the stage. We see him walk down these stairs,--take some instrument out of a case belonging to the doctor,--enter the apartment where the murderer has been lodged,--return,--replace the instrument,--wash his b.l.o.o.d.y hands and wipe them upon a hand-towel,--then reascend the staircase and enter his lady's room at the top of it; all of which is performed in the silence of profound sleep.
The attention which hung upon the whole of this long silent scene was such, that one might have supposed the lives of the audience depended upon their not waking this murderous sleeper by any sound; and the applause which followed the mute performance, when once the awful _procureur du roi_ was again safely lodged in his chamber, was deafening.
The following morning it is discovered that the sick stranger has been murdered; and instantly the _procureur du roi_, with his usual ardour in discovering the guilty, sets most ably to work upon the investigation of every circ.u.mstance which may throw light upon this horrible transaction. Everything, particularly the case of instruments, of which one is b.l.o.o.d.y, and the hand-towel found in his room, stained with the same accusing dye--all tends to prove that the poor innocent physician is the murderer: he is accordingly taken up, tried, and condemned.
This unfortunate young doctor has an uncle, of the same learned profession, who is addicted to the science of animal magnetism. This gentleman having some suspicion that Balthazar is himself the guilty person, imagines a very cunning device by which he may be made to betray himself if guilty. He determines to practise his magnetism upon him in full court while he is engaged in the duties of his high office, and flatters himself that he shall be able to throw him into a sleep or trance, in which state he may _par hasard_ let out something of the truth.
This admirable contrivance answers perfectly. The attorney-general does fall into a most profound sleep the moment the old doctor begins his magnetising manoeuvres, and in this state not only relates aloud every circ.u.mstance of the murder, but, to give this confession more sure effect, he writes it out fairly, and sets his name to it, being profoundly asleep the whole time.