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The Paris Sketch Book

W >> William Makepeace Thackeray >> The Paris Sketch Book




The adventures of Doctor Macaire need not be described, because the
different degrees in quackery which are taken by that learned
physician are all well known in England, where we have the
advantage of many higher degrees in the science, which our
neighbors know nothing about. We have not Hahnemann, but we have
his disciples; we have not Broussais, but we have the College of
Health; and surely a dose of Morrison's pills is a sublimer
discovery than a draught of hot water. We had St. John Long, too--
where is his science?--and we are credibly informed that some
important cures have been effected by the inspired dignitaries of
"the church" in Newman Street which, if it continue to practise,
will sadly interfere with the profits of the regular physicians,
and where the miracles of the Abbé of Paris are about to be acted
over again.

In speaking of M. Macaire and his adventures, we have managed so
entirely to convince ourselves of the reality of the personage,
that we have quite forgotten to speak of Messrs. Philipon and
Daumier, who are, the one the inventor, the other the designer, of
the Macaire Picture Gallery. As works of esprit, these drawings
are not more remarkable than they are as works of art, and we never
recollect to have seen a series of sketches possessing more
extraordinary cleverness and variety. The countenance and figure
of Macaire and the dear stupid Bertrand are preserved, of course,
with great fidelity throughout; but the admirable way in which each
fresh character is conceived, the grotesque appropriateness of
Robert's every successive attitude and gesticulation, and the
variety of Bertrand's postures of invariable repose, the exquisite
fitness of all the other characters, who act their little part and
disappear from the scene, cannot be described on paper, or too
highly lauded. The figures are very carelessly drawn; but, if the
reader can understand us, all the attitudes and limbs are perfectly
CONCEIVED, and wonderfully natural and various. After pondering
over these drawings for some hours, as we have been while compiling
this notice of them, we have grown to believe that the personages
are real, and the scenes remain imprinted on the brain as if we had
absolutely been present at their acting. Perhaps the clever way in
which the plates are colored, and the excellent effect which is put
into each, may add to this illusion. Now, in looking, for
instance, at H. B.'s slim vapory figures, they have struck us as
excellent LIKENESSES of men and women, but no more: the bodies want
spirit, action, and individuality. George Cruikshank, as a
humorist, has quite as much genius, but he does not know the art of
"effect" so well as Monsieur Daumier; and, if we might venture to
give a word of advice to another humorous designer, whose works are
extensively circulated--the illustrator of "Pickwick" and "Nicholas
Nickleby,"--it would be to study well these caricatures of Monsieur
Daumier; who, though he executes very carelessly, knows very well
what he would express, indicates perfectly the attitude and
identity of his figure, and is quite aware, beforehand, of the
effect which he intends to produce. The one we should fancy to be
a practised artist, taking his ease; the other, a young one,
somewhat bewildered: a very clever one, however, who, if he would
think more, and exaggerate less, would add not a little to his
reputation.

Having pursued, all through these remarks, the comparison between
English art and French art, English and French humor, manners, and
morals, perhaps we should endeavor, also, to write an analytical
essay on English cant or humbug, as distinguished from French. It
might be shown that the latter was more picturesque and startling,
the former more substantial and positive. It has none of the
poetic flights of the French genius, but advances steadily, and
gains more ground in the end than its sprightlier compeer. But
such a discussion would carry us through the whole range of French
and English history, and the reader has probably read quite enough
of the subject in this and the foregoing pages.

We shall, therefore, say no more of French and English caricatures
generally, or of Mr. Macaire's particular accomplishments and
adventures. They are far better understood by examining the
original pictures, by which Philipon and Daumier have illustrated
them, than by translations first into print and afterwards into
English. They form a very curious and instructive commentary upon
the present state of society in Paris, and a hundred years hence,
when the whole of this struggling, noisy, busy, merry race shall
have exchanged their pleasures or occupations for a quiet coffin
(and a tawdry lying epitaph) at Montmartre, or Père la Chaise; when
the follies here recorded shall have been superseded by new ones,
and the fools now so active shall have given up the inheritance of
the world to their children: the latter will, at least, have the
advantage of knowing, intimately and exactly, the manners of life
and being of their grandsires, and calling up, when they so choose
it, our ghosts from the grave, to live, love, quarrel, swindle,
suffer, and struggle on blindly as of yore. And when the amused
speculator shall have laughed sufficiently at the immensity of our
follies, and the paltriness of our aims, smiled at our exploded
superstitions, wondered how this man should be considered great,
who is now clean forgotten (as copious Guthrie before mentioned);
how this should have been thought a patriot who is but a knave
spouting commonplace; or how that should have been dubbed a
philosopher who is but a dull fool, blinking solemn, and pretending
to see in the dark; when he shall have examined all these at his
leisure, smiling in a pleasant contempt and good-humored
superiority, and thanking heaven for his increased lights, he will
shut the book, and be a fool as his fathers were before him.

It runs in the blood. Well hast thou said, O ragged Macaire,--"Le
jour va passer, MAIS LES BADAUDS NE PASSERONT PAS."




LITTLE POINSINET.


About the year 1760, there lived, at Paris, a little fellow, who
was the darling of all the wags of his acquaintance. Nature
seemed, in the formation of this little man, to have amused
herself, by giving loose to half a hundred of her most comical
caprices. He had some wit and drollery of his own, which sometimes
rendered his sallies very amusing; but, where his friends laughed
with him once, they laughed at him a thousand times, for he had a
fund of absurdity in himself that was more pleasant than all the
wit in the world. He was as proud as a peacock, as wicked as an
ape, and as silly as a goose. He did not possess one single grain
of common sense; but, in revenge, his pretensions were enormous,
his ignorance vast, and his credulity more extensive still. From
his youth upwards, he had read nothing but the new novels, and the
verses in the almanacs, which helped him not a little in making,
what he called, poetry of his own; for, of course, our little hero
was a poet. All the common usages of life, all the ways of the
world, and all the customs of society, seemed to be quite unknown
to him; add to these good qualities, a magnificent conceit, a
cowardice inconceivable, and a face so irresistibly comic, that
every one who first beheld it was compelled to burst out a-
laughing, and you will have some notion of this strange little
gentleman. He was very proud of his voice, and uttered all his
sentences in the richest tragic tone. He was little better than a
dwarf; but he elevated his eyebrows, held up his neck, walked on
the tips of his toes, and gave himself the airs of a giant. He had
a little pair of bandy legs, which seemed much too short to support
anything like a human body; but, by the help of these crooked
supporters, he thought he could dance like a Grace; and, indeed,
fancied all the graces possible were to be found in his person.
His goggle eyes were always rolling about wildly, as if in
correspondence with the disorder of his little brain and his
countenance thus wore an expression of perpetual wonder. With such
happy natural gifts, he not only fell into all traps that were laid
for him, but seemed almost to go out of his way to seek them;
although, to be sure, his friends did not give him much trouble in
that search, for they prepared hoaxes for him incessantly.

One day the wags introduced him to a company of ladies, who, though
not countesses and princesses exactly, took, nevertheless, those
titles upon themselves for the nonce; and were all, for the same
reason, violently smitten with Master Poinsinet's person. One of
them, the lady of the house, was especially tender; and, seating
him by her side at supper, so plied him with smiles, ogles, and
champagne, that our little hero grew crazed with ecstasy, and wild
with love. In the midst of his happiness, a cruel knock was heard
below, accompanied by quick loud talking, swearing, and shuffling
of feet: you would have thought a regiment was at the door. "Oh
heavens!" cried the marchioness, starting up, and giving to the
hand of Poinsinet one parting squeeze; "fly--fly, my Poinsinet:
'tis the colonel--my husband!" At this, each gentleman of the
party rose, and, drawing his rapier, vowed to cut his way through
the colonel and all his mousquetaires, or die, if need be, by the
side of Poinsinet.

The little fellow was obliged to lug out his sword too, and went
shuddering down stairs, heartily repenting of his passion for
marchionesses. When the party arrived in the street, they found,
sure enough, a dreadful company of mousquetaires, as they seemed,
ready to oppose their passage. Swords crossed,--torches blazed;
and, with the most dreadful shouts and imprecations, the contending
parties rushed upon one another; the friends of Poinsinet
surrounding and supporting that little warrior, as the French
knights did King Francis at Pavia, otherwise the poor fellow
certainly would have fallen down in the gutter from fright.

But the combat was suddenly interrupted; for the neighbors, who
knew nothing of the trick going on, and thought the brawl was real,
had been screaming with all their might for the police, who began
about this time to arrive. Directly they appeared, friends and
enemies of Poinsinet at once took to their heels; and, in THIS
part of the transaction, at least, our hero himself showed that he
was equal to the longest-legged grenadier that ever ran away.

When, at last, those little bandy legs of his had borne him safely
to his lodgings, all Poinsinet's friends crowded round him, to
congratulate him on his escape and his valor.

"Egad, how he pinked that great red-haired fellow!" said one.

"No; did I?" said Poinsinet.

"Did you? Psha! don't try to play the modest, and humbug US; you
know you did. I suppose you will say, next, that you were not for
three minutes point to point with Cartentierce himself, the most
dreadful swordsman of the army."

"Why, you see," says Poinsinet, quite delighted, "it was so dark
that I did not know with whom I was engaged; although, corbleu, I
DID FOR one or two of the fellows." And after a little more of
such conversation, during which he was fully persuaded that he had
done for a dozen of the enemy at least, Poinsinet went to bed, his
little person trembling with fright and pleasure; and he fell
asleep, and dreamed of rescuing ladies, and destroying monsters,
like a second Amadis de Gaul.

When he awoke in the morning, he found a party of his friends in
his room: one was examining his coat and waistcoat; another was
casting many curious glances at his inexpressibles. "Look here!"
said this gentleman, holding up the garment to the light; "one--
two--three gashes! I am hanged if the cowards did not aim at
Poinsinet's legs! There are four holes in the sword arm of his
coat, and seven have gone right through coat and waistcoat. Good
heaven! Poinsinet, have you had a surgeon to your wounds?"

"Wounds!" said the little man, springing up, "I don't know--that
is, I hope--that is--O Lord! O Lord! I hope I'm not wounded!" and,
after a proper examination, he discovered he was not.

"Thank heaven! thank heaven!" said one of the wags (who, indeed,
during the slumbers of Poinsinet had been occupied in making these
very holes through the garments of that individual), "if you have
escaped, it is by a miracle. Alas! alas! all your enemies have not
been so lucky."

"How! is anybody wounded?" said Poinsinet.

"My dearest friend, prepare yourself; that unhappy man who came to
revenge his menaced honor--that gallant officer--that injured
husband, Colonel Count de Cartentierce--"

"Well?"

"IS NO MORE! he died this morning, pierced through with nineteen
wounds from your hand, and calling upon his country to revenge his
murder."

When this awful sentence was pronounced, all the auditory gave a
pathetic and simultaneous sob; and as for Poinsinet, he sank back
on his bed with a howl of terror, which would have melted a
Visigoth to tears, or to laughter. As soon as his terror and
remorse had, in some degree, subsided, his comrades spoke to him of
the necessity of making his escape; and, huddling on his clothes,
and bidding them all a tender adieu, he set off, incontinently,
without his breakfast, for England, America, or Russia, not knowing
exactly which.

One of his companions agreed to accompany him on a part of this
journey,--that is, as far as the barrier of St. Denis, which is, as
everybody knows, on the high road to Dover; and there, being
tolerably secure, they entered a tavern for breakfast; which meal,
the last that he ever was to take, perhaps, in his native city,
Poinsinet was just about to discuss, when, behold! a gentleman
entered the apartment where Poinsinet and his friend were seated,
and, drawing from his pocket a paper, with "AU NOM DU ROY"
flourished on the top, read from it, or rather from Poinsinet's own
figure, his exact signalement, laid his hand on his shoulder, and
arrested him in the name of the King, and of the provost-marshal of
Paris. "I arrest you, sir," said he, gravely, "with regret; you
have slain, with seventeen wounds, in single combat, Colonel Count
de Cartentierce, one of his Majesty's household; and, as his
murderer, you fall under the immediate authority of the provost-
marshal, and die without trial or benefit of clergy."

You may fancy how the poor little man's appetite fell when he heard
this speech. "In the provost-marshal's hands?" said his friend:
"then it is all over, indeed! When does my poor friend suffer,
sir?"

"At half-past six o'clock, the day after to-morrow," said the
officer, sitting down, and helping himself to wine. "But stop,"
said he, suddenly; "sure I can't mistake? Yes--no--yes, it is. My
dear friend, my dear Durand! don't you recollect your old
schoolfellow, Antoine?" And herewith the officer flung himself
into the arms of Durand, Poinsinet's comrade, and they performed a
most affecting scene of friendship.

"This may be of some service to you," whispered Durand to
Poinsinet; and, after some further parley, he asked the officer
when he was bound to deliver up his prisoner; and, hearing that he
was not called upon to appear at the Marshalsea before six o'clock
at night, Monsieur Durand prevailed upon Monsieur Antoine to wait
until that hour, and in the meantime to allow his prisoner to walk
about the town in his company. This request was, with a little
difficulty, granted; and poor Poinsinet begged to be carried to the
houses of his various friends, and bid them farewell. Some were
aware of the trick that had been played upon him: others were not;
but the poor little man's credulity was so great, that it was
impossible to undeceive him; and he went from house to house
bewailing his fate, and followed by the complaisant marshal's
officer.

The news of his death he received with much more meekness than
could have been expected; but what he could not reconcile to
himself was, the idea of dissection afterwards. "What can they
want with me?" cried the poor wretch, in an unusual fit of candor.
"I am very small and ugly; it would be different if I were a tall
fine-looking fellow." But he was given to understand that beauty
made very little difference to the surgeons, who, on the contrary,
would, on certain occasions, prefer a deformed man to a handsome
one; for science was much advanced by the study of such
monstrosities. With this reason Poinsinet was obliged to be
content; and so paid his rounds of visits, and repeated his dismal
adieux.

The officer of the provost-marshal, however amusing Poinsinet's
woes might have been, began, by this time, to grow very weary of
them, and gave him more than one opportunity to escape. He would
stop at shop-windows, loiter round corners, and look up in the sky,
but all in vain: Poinsinet would not escape, do what the other
would. At length, luckily, about dinner-time, the officer met one
of Poinsinet's friends and his own: and the three agreed to dine at
a tavern, as they had breakfasted; and here the officer, who vowed
that he had been up for five weeks incessantly, fell suddenly
asleep, in the profoundest fatigue; and Poinsinet was persuaded,
after much hesitation on his part, to take leave of him.

And now, this danger overcome, another was to be avoided. Beyond a
doubt the police were after him, and how was he to avoid them? He
must be disguised, of course; and one of his friends, a tall, gaunt
lawyer's clerk, agreed to provide him with habits.

So little Poinsinet dressed himself out in the clerk's dingy black
suit, of which the knee-breeches hung down to his heels, and the
waist of the coat reached to the calves of his legs; and,
furthermore, he blacked his eyebrows, and wore a huge black
periwig, in which his friend vowed that no one could recognize him.
But the most painful incident, with regard to the periwig, was,
that Poinsinet, whose solitary beauty--if beauty it might be
called--was a head of copious, curling, yellow hair, was compelled
to snip off every one of his golden locks, and to rub the bristles
with a black dye; "for if your wig were to come off," said the
lawyer, "and your fair hair to tumble over your shoulders, every
man would know, or at least suspect you." So off the locks were
cut, and in his black suit and periwig little Poinsinet went
abroad.

His friends had their cue; and when he appeared amongst them, not
one seemed to know him. He was taken into companies where his
character was discussed before him, and his wonderful escape spoken
of. At last he was introduced to the very officer of the provost-
marshal who had taken him into custody, and who told him that he
had been dismissed the provost's service, in consequence of the
escape of the prisoner. Now, for the first time, poor Poinsinet
thought himself tolerably safe, and blessed his kind friends who
had procured for him such a complete disguise. How this affair
ended I know not,--whether some new lie was coined to account for
his release, or whether he was simply told that he had been hoaxed:
it mattered little; for the little man was quite as ready to be
hoaxed the next day.

Poinsinet was one day invited to dine with one of the servants of
the Tuileries; and, before his arrival, a person in company had
been decorated with a knot of lace and a gold key, such as
chamberlains wear; he was introduced to Poinsinet as the Count de
Truchses, chamberlain to the King of Prussia. After dinner the
conversation fell upon the Count's visit to Paris; when his
Excellency, with a mysterious air, vowed that he had only come for
pleasure. "It is mighty well," said a third person, "and, of
course, we can't cross-question your lordship too closely;" but at
the same time it was hinted to Poinsinet that a person of such
consequence did not travel for NOTHING, with which opinion
Poinsinet solemnly agreed; and, indeed, it was borne out by a
subsequent declaration of the Count, who condescended, at last, to
tell the company, in confidence, that he HAD a mission, and a most
important one--to find, namely, among the literary men of France, a
governor for the Prince Royal of Prussia. The company seemed
astonished that the King had not made choice of Voltaire or
D'Alembert, and mentioned a dozen other distinguished men who might
be competent to this important duty; but the Count, as may be
imagined, found objections to every one of them; and, at last, one
of the guests said, that, if his Prussian Majesty was not
particular as to age, he knew a person more fitted for the place
than any other who could be found,--his honorable friend, M.
Poinsinet, was the individual to whom he alluded.

"Good heavens!" cried the Count, "is it possible that the
celebrated Poinsinet would take such a place? I would give the
world to see him?" And you may fancy how Poinsinet simpered and
blushed when the introduction immediately took place.

The Count protested to him that the King would be charmed to know
him; and added, that one of his operas (for it must be told that
our little friend was a vaudeville-maker by trade) had been acted
seven-and-twenty times at the theatre at Potsdam. His Excellency
then detailed to him all the honors and privileges which the
governor of the Prince Royal might expect; and all the guests
encouraged the little man's vanity, by asking him for his
protection and favor. In a short time our hero grew so inflated
with pride and vanity, that he was for patronizing the chamberlain
himself, who proceeded to inform him that he was furnished with
all the necessary powers by his sovereign, who had specially
enjoined him to confer upon the future governor of his son the
royal order of the Black Eagle.

Poinsinet, delighted, was ordered to kneel down; and the Count
produced a large yellow ribbon, which he hung over his shoulder,
and which was, he declared, the grand cordon of the order. You
must fancy Poinsinet's face, and excessive delight at this; for as
for describing them, nobody can. For four-and-twenty hours the
happy chevalier paraded through Paris with this flaring yellow
ribbon; and he was not undeceived until his friends had another
trick in store for him.

He dined one day in the company of a man who understood a little of
the noble art of conjuring, and performed some clever tricks on the
cards. Poinsinet's organ of wonder was enormous; he looked on with
the gravity and awe of a child, and thought the man's tricks sheer
miracles. It wanted no more to set his companions to work.

"Who is this wonderful man?" said he to his neighbor.

"Why," said the other, mysteriously, "one hardly knows who he is;
or, at least, one does not like to say to such an indiscreet fellow
as you are." Poinsinet at once swore to be secret. "Well, then,"
said his friend, "you will hear that man--that wonderful man--
called by a name which is not his: his real name is Acosta: he is a
Portuguese Jew, a Rosicrucian, and Cabalist of the first order, and
compelled to leave Lisbon for fear of the Inquisition. He performs
here, as you see, some extraordinary things, occasionally; but the
master of the house, who loves him excessively, would not, for the
world, that his name should be made public."

"Ah, bah!" said Poinsinet, who affected the bel esprit; "you don't
mean to say that you believe in magic, and cabalas, and such
trash?"

"Do I not? You shall judge for yourself." And, accordingly,
Poinsinet was presented to the magician, who pretended to take a
vast liking for him, and declared that he saw in him certain marks
which would infallibly lead him to great eminence in the magic art,
if he chose to study it.

Dinner was served, and Poinsinet placed by the side of the miracle-
worker, who became very confidential with him, and promised him--
ay, before dinner was over--a remarkable instance of his power.
Nobody, on this occasion, ventured to cut a single joke against
poor Poinsinet; nor could he fancy that any trick was intended
against him, for the demeanor of the society towards him was
perfectly grave and respectful, and the conversation serious. On a
sudden, however, somebody exclaimed, "Where is Poinsinet? Did any
one see him leave the room?"

All the company exclaimed how singular the disappearance was; and
Poinsinet himself, growing alarmed, turned round to his neighbor,
and was about to explain.

"Hush!" said the magician, in a whisper; "I told you that you
should see what I could do. I HAVE MADE YOU INVISIBLE; be quiet,
and you shall see some more tricks that I shall play with these
fellows."

Poinsinet remained then silent, and listened to his neighbors, who
agreed, at last, that he was a quiet, orderly personage, and had
left the table early, being unwilling to drink too much. Presently
they ceased to talk about him, and resumed their conversation upon
other matters.

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