I’m a big fan of Honoré de Balzac, a 19th c. French novelist, probably in great part because I can actually understand his French. Thus, out of the five books that I’ve read in French, three are by Balzac (and, just to give you an idea of the quality of my French, one of the others was Harry Potter et la Chambre des Secrets). Nonetheless, the Maison de Balzac was a big splotch of disappointment on my day. Even the museum itself calls its location a “banal apartment,” chosen by Balzac because the rooms and neighborhood were so boring that they would offer no distractions while he wrote for 16 hours a day. Most of the objects on display are pretty banal as well, e.g. some armchairs which belonged not to Balzac but to someone to whom Balzac occasionally wrote letters – try not to be overcome with excitement! The best part is his study, with his heavily-scarred desk, where he wrote overlooked on one side by a more than usually painful looking crucifix and, on the other side, by an over-life-sized heroic bust of himself. There are some other personal relics, such as his favorite cane and a cast of his hand, both so small that it seems as if the great writer would have barely come up to my armpit. There’s also his custom-made coffeepot, from which he claimed that he drank “torrents” but which looks like it would barely hold the contents of a Starbucks tall.
The whole thing is tiny – and free – so perhaps worth dropping by if you’re in the area for the Musée Marmottan-Monet or the tasty shops surrounding Passy’s covered market. Just be aware that the spirit of Balzac has left the building…
