Chapter III (2)

I think you will be amused with the _Memoirs of St. Simon_,[41] though written so incorrectly as to be sometimes unintelligible on first reading. They are more inaccurate as to punctuation than any book I ever saw; and you will frequently detect faults in the stopping so marked, that by a trifling change you can find a meaning in what, as now printed, appears absolute nonsense. You will see that those women who excited the envy of others paid very dear for their admission into the brilliant parties so extolled by Mad. de Sévigné. Once in that coach which she compares to Paradise, they must not presume to feel dust, sun, cold, heat, fatigue—always full-dressed, always tight-laced, always in high spirits, and always with great appetites. Pray read the chapter, which is curious. The author shows a strong mind, and paints with shadows as well as lights, which distinguishes him from most of those who have described the hero of that day.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, Oct., 1804.

I send you a little allegory, the first I ever wrote. It amused my _tristesse_ for above an hour, and I see I shall again be a scribbler.

THE BIRTH OF CALUMNY.

Dulness, who was daughter to the roving nymph Idleness, and whose other parent was unknown, found herself so favoured and enriched by the fondness of Wealth, one of her reputed fathers, and the most powerful, perhaps, amongst them, that she was often highly caressed, distinguished, and even invited to usurp the honours due to Learning and to Wit. Indeed, she was in many external circumstances peculiarly fortunate; though fond of tumult, noise, and show, she generally escaped unhurt from the dangers into which this taste seduced her; she seldom found her steps pursued by the prying eyes of Curiosity, and the snakes of Envy were scarcely ever seen to hiss at her as she passed. Her outward appearance, neither formed to excite admiration nor disgust, was that which many philosophers have professed to think we ought to desire for ourselves, and for the objects of our love. Her eyes never sparkled with intelligence, her cheeks never mantled with sensibility; but no irregularity was discoverable in her features, and when crowned with her favourite wreath of poppies, there were not wanting flatterers who attributed dignity to the slowness of her movements and the complacency of her countenance.

Amongst the foremost of these was Malice. He knew that Pride and Apathy, who would both have fain claimed her for their child, had joined to form her a shield of curious texture, which even his keen and poisoned arrows had no power to pierce. He felt a kind of involuntary respect for one who could repel without effort what caused such exquisite pain to Beauty, to Genius, and to Virtue. On the other hand, _she_ had a faint glimmering of gratitude to him, because her only enemy, the fiend Ennui, by whom she was constantly followed and often tormented, and who had the power of raising fogs and mists against which her shield was no defence, immediately fled when Malice advanced; for though frequently companions in other societies, they seldom appeared together before her eyes.

These circumstances in time gave Malice opportunities of paying successful court to one whom he saw enriched by the gifts of Wealth, and shielded from almost every species of accident or enmity by the hands of Pride and Apathy. He finally obtained her, and their union was followed by the birth of a daughter, to whom they gave the name of Calumny, and whom, in spite of her piercing and discordant cries, they cherished with equal fondness. Her mother prevailed on Credulity to be her nurse, and her father engaged Envy as her governess. Dulness insisted on forming her understanding, and Malice undertook the management of her heart, while each promised to second the other, even in the department they had resigned.

Such was the parentage and birth of Calumny. It would be superfluous to say more of one whose empire is so widely spread, and whose attributes are therefore so universally known.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, Nov., 1804.

At a private party last night, I saw a Spanish girl dance the _bolero_ and the _fandango_ with castanets to a Spanish guitar, played by a Spaniard. He sung to the _bolero_. The music, his voice, the instrument, were all very touching. By the bye, the Spanish guitar, with Spanish tunes, sung by a man’s tenor, is the most affecting music to me in the world. It was all I could do last night to avoid exposing myself, and it would have been very strange in appearance, while looking on at a gay dance; and I am sure no soul in the room but me listened to the music. The girl was pretty, with eyes so admired by the French, _à fleur de tête_, not ‘odious sunk eyes;’ and she held herself so much up and back as to have what Mons. Récamier very accurately called ‘_un air martial_.’ She sat by me, and told me all she was to do, in the beginning of the evening, and said she had danced the _bolero_ and _fandango_ at the Duchess of Somebody’s at Madrid, and was supposed to dance it perfectly, ‘_parceque pour cela il ne faut pas beaucoup de mouvements des pieds, mais infiniment de grâce_.’ She also told me she was thirteen, and the lady before her was her sister—two mistakes, I believe, as she looked about eighteen, and Mons. Récamier told me the other lady was her mother, who chooses to pass for her sister. Her costume was very pretty, and the applause was extreme; but none so loud in their applauses, _admires_, and broad flattery to her, and almost everybody else, as was the F——. Some women, conscious of envy, take this vulgar mode of hiding it. Frenchwomen, to do them justice, never do; you scarcely ever hear them admire another woman. The F. told the Baroness, who had a silver trimming, that ‘it was all beauty, modesty, and elegance, like herself,’ and many other things to different people _de cette force là_.

The company was totally a different class from what I had seen last year. If I was settled here I would not dress and go out, to mix with the society to which _only_ the English can _now_ be admitted. One always gains some advantages in the first circle, and one finds some members of the _corps diplomatique_ in other places, as one moves about; but once away from Paris, one would never hear of or see again those in the set our _compatriotes_ live with at present.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, Nov., 1804.

I often wonder the comparison between women and magpies has not been enlarged upon, taking their common love of hoarding into account. It is astonishing to what an extreme we carry this passion. My last female acquaintance, however, exceeds all I have ever met. I thought my aunt ——, Lady Yarmouth, and Mrs. F., were pretty strong instances; but this lady excels them all. She has the most extraordinary hoards of every kind of wearable, every sort of _bijou_, and is avidly inquisitive in search of _more, more_. Really, if women hoarded money, a younger child would sometimes be unexpectedly provided for; but it must be a provoking thing to a very generous husband to see them _buying up_ necessaries and trifles, which every hour can present, as if they feared the day would come on which they would not have a guinea to dispose of. It always gives me the idea of a _femme entretenue_, who is ‘making hay while the sun shines.’ This lady is collecting antiques, collecting precious stones, collecting _lace_—literally _collecting_; for on asking my opinion about giving 260 louis for a trimming, she said, ‘I have more in England, to be sure, than I can ever wear, but I can always _dispose of that_.’ What _noblesse_ Paris gives to the way of thinking!

* * * * *

Paris, Nov., 1804.

I was last night at a _thé_ of Mrs. P——’s, with one set of French country dances. It was one of those little parties she gives continually to practise and improve her very indifferent talent for dancing, in which she never can excel. I should not make such a _little_ remark, if she would allow one to think she danced to amuse herself; but she cannot refrain from telling how much she studies, and how many lessons she has had, and how she hopes to do better; and how she _can_ dance ‘pretty well for an Englishwoman;’ but that something or other interferes at the present moment, &c. &c. There were no fine dancers amongst the ladies, and only Mons. Lafitte (who looks like a flying hair-dresser) among the men. There were, however, more pretty women than I have seen in so small a society, and four or five of the noted Parisian beauties. Mad. Récamier was there, and looked much handsomer than ever I saw her before; indeed, I thought her very handsome, for the first time. She danced very heavily and _genteelly_, in the French country dances; somewhat like an English married woman—no steps, but a very good air.

TO THE SAME.

_Paris, Dec., 1804._

I was yesterday evening with all the English at Colonel ——’s. I played three rubbers of twenty sous casino with my Baroness and the Copes; never looked to the right hand or the left, and walked off. It is certain that being perfectly happy at home totally takes away one’s relish for the amusements one meets abroad. I always used to deny this, and conceived it was a vulgar error, and could argue very prettily upon the delight of mixing a certain degree of dissipation with the highest domestic happiness; but my mind is not expansive enough for both; and I now begin to see the truth of the commonplace observation, that people become less gay, and agreeable to the world, by being married and fond of each other. It is not because one loses one’s spirits, but because one makes involuntary comparisons between the _gêne_ and the unsatisfactoriness of common life, and the perfect confidence and fulness of pleasure in the company of those one loves.

The complaint here that the race of good servants is extinct, is not, I believe, ill-founded. The equalizing education of the Revolution, and the idea instilled so industriously into that class that servitude was at an end, and that the relation of master and servant was not that of a bargain, but of usurpation, together with the deep and growing love of _spectacle_ and contempt of religion, must all unite to give grounds for this complaint.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, Dec., 1804.

I never saw anything so affecting on any stage as the despair of Antiochus when he finds his brother assassinated, and doubts whether his mother or his bride was the murderer. It is the most _déchirante_ situation I ever saw; and the whole last act of _Rodogune_ is the finest display of theatrical effect and of the art of moving the passions. I now yield Racine up for Corneille. Mˡˡᵉ Raucourt, in my little opinion, is as far above Mˡˡᵉ Duchesnois as Mˡˡᵉ Duchesnois is above Mˡˡᵉ George. She bears the stamp of the character impressed on her whole air. She is always Rodogune, never Mˡˡᵉ Raucourt. You see her front _rongé de remords_, and wrinkled with artifice. You find her eye speak as much as her lips, nay, more; and she has the uncommon power of giving dignity to the blackest crimes. I wished much for you.

I saw Mrs. S—— this evening. I was surprised to see how much less well-looking her pretty daughter is at home than _au bal_. I am sure this is in the air of France; for in London a fine girl is prettier at home, at her ease, in her white dress and in her hair, than ever she is abroad; but this young lady had the lounge, the home-stoop, the loose dress, the big shawl, and the neglected hair, of a French beauty _chez elle_.

L—— has grown ten years older since I was last here. I believe, in spite of his apparent _insouciance_, he frets inwardly about the total want of all that domestic comfort which results from affection. Indeed, men or women who _afficher_ indifference on that subject often do it to hide strong feelings.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, Dec., 1804.

I do not think I shall often go into public with that party, for we were stuffed _eleven_ in a box, a thing as disagreeable as it is vulgar. We were ourselves nine—rather more than enough; but the Violent Gentleman introduced two odd women, whom the rest of the party hardly spoke to; one of them was a prettyish girl, whom he says he admires for her ‘mental QUAlifications.’ [Make the _Qua_ very broad, as he pronounces it.] She was certainly very humble to join a party where the women took no notice of her. I was very sorry to be jumbled with such heterogeneous matter; but the house was empty, else people must have laughed to see seven females in one box, like bees in a glass hive.

Mrs. F. gave me this day her two young ladies to take to the Bois de Boulogne. I found they knew, by name or sight, all the Parisian young men, without being acquainted with any. It is astonishing how some young ladies acquire this knowledge, and can _class_ every marriageable man according to his exact species and order, without any help from personal acquaintance.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, July, 1805.

I could not resist blinding myself with Mad. de Sévigné, whom for the first time I really taste and admire. She gives one, in the pleasantest and most easily remembered way, a very clear idea of the difference of manners, hours, value of money, &c. &c., in her time, from what they are at present. This is a very subordinate merit to her feeling, wit, humour, and spirit; but still it is a merit, particularly to me, who can never remember such circumstances except when they are connected with something which interests or amuses. I have always said that love depends on the merit of the person who _feels_, not who _inspires_ it. This is universally felt, though not always allowed. These letters which I have just read are a strong proof of it. They are filled from the beginning to the end with the praises of Mad. de Grignan’s perfections; yet one shuts the book quite indifferent about her, and really attached to Mad. de Sévigné, of whose character one knows but little, this all-pervading attachment excepted.

Have you a mind for a new French idiom? On my remonstrating with the hostess at Estampes for charging seven francs for the horses, she answered, ‘_Madame, vous ne pensez pas que je vous étrange_.’ Pray remember the new verb.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, July, 1805.

Thérèse dit que Paris est si beau, ‘que les yeux lui en font mal.’

‘C’est si beau, que les yeux m’en font mal’—on pourrait philosopher sur cette idée, appliquée aux plaisirs d’une grande ville. Son costume, qui contrastait avec une calêche, a un peu attiré les yeux, dans une ville où tout le monde entend toutes les convenances de l’habillement; ce qui me prive de la commodité de la mener quelquefois dans les boutiques: car je lui ferais du tort si je la faisais quitter son habillement de paÿsanne. Ou elle le reprendrait à regret, ou ses parents la blâmeraient de l’avoir quitté. Les femmes qu’on voit à pied actuellement dans les rues, sont plus élégantes que je ne me rappelle de les avoir jamais vues. La symmétrie et la légèreté de leurs tailles, les grâces de leur maintien, et le goût de leur parure, sont plus frappantes que dans aucun autre moment que je puis me rappeler. Elles portent presque toutes le blanc orné des couleurs à la fois gaies, vives, et délicates, et elles paraissent toutes entre dix-huit et vingt-cinq ans. Je crois qu’aprés cette époque on les envoie en province.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, July, 1805.

Mrs. —— has just the _no manner_ which, without being civil, always puts those at their ease who have not been used to good society; and though good-looking, has what I have heard some of the London women call, something ‘ordinary’ in her air, which counteracts the effects of a dress the most _magnifique_ as to expense so completely, that it cannot _écraser_ the plainest. Mad. Demidoff has the same _tournure_ (but without any pretensions whatever to beauty). I have just seen a gown of hers (Mad. Demidoff) at 260 louis, composed of one yard-and-half square of Brussels lace. Mad. Sueur brought it to show me, as a sop to Cerberus, for having disobliged me about Mrs. C——’s cloak. She is so civil and obliging (for she did all she could about that commission), that I pay her without regret, while I grudge all the other saucy _marchandes_ with whom I have any dealings.

I saw a birutsche to-day, which the Baroness has bought for 150 louis. It seems to my eyes clumsy, and has no resemblance to an English carriage, except in being perfectly plain. It is the ‘coloured gown,’ but _without_ the air of a first-rate mantua-maker. It is _all_ green, and looks like a great Muscovite duck. I asked the coachmaker to let me know when he had a good second-hand one, but in the true spirit of ‘_Ne voulez-vous pas que je gagne?_’ he assured me there was never any such thing. Certainly the Baroness encourages tradespeople to talk such nonsense; for though an extremely sensible, unaffected woman, her manner to them savours of a simplicity I cannot remark in her general character. It may possibly arise from not having always had the disposal of so much money as at present, and therefore thinking it beneath her to make the slightest effort to obtain the value of it.

Erard has, in the simplest manner possible, without saying one phrase, _lent_ me a pianoforte, which is to come home to-morrow. This is very German; no people are so silently obliging.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, July, 1805.

Isabey[42] cannot give me a _séance_ for a fortnight. After having had painters begging one to sit without their having any emolument by it, but merely to put one’s picture in their _atelier_, it seems odd not to be able to get one for money. I will write a poem called ‘The Progress of Woman;’ a fine occasion to show one’s skill in the degradation of the tints. I look, however, to living my vanities over again in my daughters.

I told you I had met Mr. Don at dinner at F——’s; but I did not tell you he was _dans un transport de bourgeois_ at having accidentally spoken to the Emperor in a retired part of the Bois de Boulogne, at a hunt, and informed him which way the stag went. The Emperor did not perhaps like to find himself _tête-à-tête_ there with a tall young Englishman, and was still less pleased, I suppose, at finding the person was one who remained here contrary to his last orders, and had escaped the vigilance of his police and _surveillance_ about two months. In short, poor Mr. Don’s civility cost him two nights’ lodging in prison and a removal to Verdun.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, July, 1805.

The Emperor has adopted an idea which I admire very much, of having a small garden under his windows, into which no creature ever enters, except himself and the Empress. I think the idea of having a little sacred spot, very beautiful; and I wonder it has never been thought of, as it is almost as practicable as it is refined.

I now find the convenience of having been well taught French. It is certain, the advantages of those branches of education rigid moralists consider as only ornamental, such as foreign languages, &c., are much oftener felt in life than it appears possible they could be when the matter is theoretically considered. Mothers who cultivate them as marriage-traps are mistaken; for, generally speaking, men do not marry women for what are called accomplishments; and upon the whole, except drawing, I think they deter as many as they attract. One man is afraid of a ‘learned lady,’ another of having his house the _rendezvous_ of wits and poets, of actors, or fiddlers, or singers, &c. &c. The stragglers who marry for them are those whose mothers and sisters are remarkably unaccomplished, and who therefore overrate little acquirements.

TO THE SAME.

_Paris, July, 1805._

Just home from a very pleasant dinner at Lord ——’s. The party were Hunt, Visconti, another _savant_, and the Italian who invited me to his house in Italy three years ago, but who did not know me again. She thanked me in the prettiest and most expressive manner for our civility, &c., to Lord ——, and said the time he passed with us were the only pleasant moments he had at Orleans. He appears to great advantage in his own house; and with her one is immediately at one’s ease: I felt more so in two minutes than I can be with any woman in Orleans after two years, so great is the difficulty of an Englishwoman’s coalescing with a French one. In the evening she showed me a number of fine _broderies_, laces, antiques; and as I love _les belles choses_ like a woman, and am as little envious of them as a man, I was very much amused at tumbling them over. She is _magnifique à l’excès_, beyond any woman I have yet seen. She presses me greatly to lodge in their hotel, and took me to see apartments in it. Like a true woman, she seems to think nothing good enough for herself, nor too bad for any one else; for, I assure you, I can never think without laughing of the miserable _trou_ she wanted to stuff me into, and to persuade me was comfortable. She begs I will go there every evening. The flame of friendship crackled and burned, and ten years ago I should have put myself anywhere to be near a person who seemed to express such a fancy for me, and talked so confidentially, telling me how much her family disliked her marrying Lord ——; how differently she would act, were it to do again, &c. &c.; but I have lost my _goût_ for sudden female intimacies; with me they have always led to vexation.

Berthier was at Cobenzl’s; so think how ill-natured to prevent me from going. There is a vast difference between asking a favour from a great person, when they are in the midst of business, and have their refusing powers all up in arms, and soliciting when they are in good humour, and surrounded by all that unbends the mind.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, July, 1805.

Twelve at night. Just returned from the F——’s. I went from _faiblesse_ and indolence, not knowing how to refuse peremptorily when people beg fiercely....

On reading over my letter, I feel ashamed to have guessed at Mrs.——’s _little_ motives long before _you_, who have so much more penetration in matters of consequence. The reason is probably because a man is always treated with more kindness and _bienveillance_ in proportion as he has any advantages which succeed in society; while a woman, in proportion to these advantages, though they may be the means of her being flattered and distinguished, is always the object of a degree of malice and ingenious spitefulness from her own sex, and from such men as resemble women in their worst qualities, which very soon enlightens her on the subject, and enables her to descry from afar the attacks of envy and littleness. A man never excites these feelings, except he is placed in a _petite ville_, or a country neighbourhood, with such characters as the poor sufferer in question.

In the midst of his civility, our countryman threw in yesterday with great address, that ‘none of the English were sent on the late occasion to Verdun, except those who had been teasing the Minister with applications.’ _Il me voyoit venir de loin_, and was beforehand with me.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, July, 1805.

General Berthier was very civil; I was not forced to wait in an ante-room, as I expected, with a variety of people in the same situation, but received as a visitor. He seemed unwilling to enter into any detail, and rather put aside all my attempts to give it to him. He asked me where you were, and seemed to know nothing about us. I said at Orleans. He said, were you not sent to Verdun? I told him you had got leave to stay at Orleans on account of your illness, and that the favour I asked was, leave for you to come to Paris to be treated by your physician here. He answered, ‘_J’aimerais mieux qu’il reste à Orléans. Pourquoi ne pas rester à Orléans? c’est une belle ville; il y a d’excellens médecins._’ I dwelt on your wish for a particular physician here, &c. &c. He said that this physician might go to you, that the French were all sent out of London, and that no English could come to Paris. I said you were Irish (to which he seemed to allow no weight), and said that I had hoped you would not be an exception to the indulgence he had shown _aux malheurs particuliers_. He said, at this moment no indulgence could be shown. I dwelt upon _illness_; he said, in that case, everybody would be ill, and that if one was allowed to come to Paris, all the others would expect it, and that _nobody_ was allowed to come. I had the boldness to contradict him, and quote F., upon which he said, ‘_Eh bien, nous verrons; qu’il reste à Orléans, et avec le temps je pourrais accorder quelque chose de plus peut-être. Mais il y avait des circonstances particulières dans la position de Monsieur F. Je ferai ce que je pourrais, mais n’en parlez pas, car cela entraine._’ I do not here remember the words, but the idea was that others would plague him. ‘_Vous restez à Paris?_’ ‘_Non, mon Général, je pars tout de suite pour Orléans._’ ‘_Je voudrais que vous pourriez rester deux ou trois jours, et revenir içi à la même heure Mardi._’ ‘_Vous me donnez donc l’espoir d’accorder cette grâce?_’ He was then very diplomatic, with ‘_Nous verrons_,’ and speeches that were neither yes nor no; but the result is that I am to go again, Tuesday. I then asked, how they were to know at Orleans that you were not to be sent to Verdun, and he said he would write on Monday. I had then to persecute him to write to-night, which he promised. What do you think of all this? I assure you he has left me in complete doubt. Certainly his reception and manner, &c., may give hope, if the stories Mrs. F. and Lady C. tell of his difficulty of access are true; but we do not know whether they are or not. The latter says she has been five weeks trying in vain to see him, or get at some one who can; and I wrote to you, I believe, that the former said she went every day for three weeks together in vain. At the same time he was very guarded in not making any promise.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, Aug., 1805.

Mrs. F. came yesterday again at three, and I only got rid of her by sending for a carriage, and setting her down where she was to dine, at the other end of the world, and out of the way of any affairs of my own. In the evening she ordered her carriage to wait for her _here_, and came again. She is the most terrible little caricature of the most determined dissipation I ever saw. It consoles one for being _farouche_, and not showing to advantage in society, when one sees how much more disagreeable the opposite extreme of living for the world may become. Other people whom one finds tiresome one loses in a great town, especially when they live three miles off; but her unfortunate activity multiplies her into twenty little _facettes_, all ready to blind your eyes and scratch your fingers.

Poor Mr. Palmer looks very ill. Indeed, my eyes are grown _difficile_, for it appears to me that people in general, whom I had known of old, look much worse than they are entitled to do by the lapse of time. Mad. Visconti, who has been detected by her Italian friends as having a grand-daughter of fifteen, and being fifty-six, and Vestris _the younger_, who is said to be fifty-four, both of whom I saw last night, are the only persons who persuade me of the truth of Hufeland’s doctrine, that those who do not live to two hundred are carried off prematurely, and that sixty is the flower of one’s youth.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, Aug., 1805.

Isabey is a fine _exact_ likeness-taker; but if he had read Winckelmann, he would know that as a painter cannot give the advantage of life and variety, he is bound to advance to the boundaries of the _beau ideal_, as far as he can consistently with resemblance, in order to endeavour to make some compensation. I saw a likeness of Mad. Cabarrus, beautifully done, but with a cruel truth of resemblance in the nose, which to those who do not carry _her idea_ in their heads from having seen her, makes it a very disagreeable negro-ish picture. Mine is growing formal and frightful, and just _me_ when I am tired of my company. I showed him your picture. As he has no pretensions to looks, he praised your beauty much; but he praised the painting just as one pretty woman, one actor, one musician, praises another, _c’est-à-dire, d’une manière froide, triste et contrainte_. Any person that applauds _warmly_ a person _going_, and still more _following_, in the same road, is deceitful;—I mean if they have ever brought their wares to market, and sought for admiration. Those who have not, can praise with sincerity. I am sure he admired it much, so you may safely tell Bertrand all he would like to hear. He begged leave to keep it to show to his _élèves, pour leur donner de l’émulation_. I am sure he thinks Bertrand _too good_ to come to Paris, and Madame desired me to advise him to go to Russia, where he would soon make his fortune.

TO THE SAME.

Fontainebleau, Aug., 1805.

I arrived last night at eleven—much frightened (without reason) at passing the forest so late. To-day I went out before breakfast, not to lose any opportunity; waited from ten till three in the roads, courts, and porter’s-lodge—Antoine a millstone, a damper, and an _épouvantail_, frightened at his shadow, and equally endeavouring to frighten me. At three every one said the Emperor would not go out to-day, and I found myself too weak to wait longer, from not having eaten a morsel. The Empress was walking in the garden, and I went to her, requesting she would _appuyer_ the _placet_, of which I gave her a copy. She received it graciously, and asked if I had presented the _placet_ itself. Upon my saying not, she desired me to give it to her, and _she would_. This I did, but consider it unlucky, as he is reputed to attend more to those immediately given to himself, than to those given in any indirect way. To-morrow I shall go again, and try for an opportunity to tell the Emperor I am the person who presented a _placet_ through the Empress to him. The Empress seems to me, as I at first thought her on my presentation, exceedingly attractive. The face was entirely covered by a fine lace veil and large rich bonnet; but her figure and _maintien_ are highly graceful and beautiful. She recollected my having been presented to her three years ago. A poor woman gave her a petition on her knees immediately after; and her distress and anxiety to make the woman get up was very interesting. Every one more than civil. I penetrated everywhere, in spite of the supposed difficulties.

TO THE SAME.

Fontainebleau, Aug., 1805.

Yesterday I had the pleasure of giving you a second proof of affection, and whether it succeeds or not, nothing can deprive me of the satisfaction I receive from the act. _A travers_ all the embarrassments and tumults of a _retour de chasse_, guns firing, horses prancing, _la meute des chiens_, _piqueurs_, gamekeepers, guards, in short, a thousand objects, from each of which I should have fled on any other occasion, I delivered my _placet_ to the Emperor, who received it willingly and graciously. He was just driving off in his _calèche_, after a successful hunt in the Park of Fontainebleau. Now the little agitation and fretfulness of the business is over, I have leisure to look back and be surprised at the kindness and politeness with which I was treated, and the respect I uniformly received in circumstances the least likely to inspire it. With the smallest knowledge of the _local_ customs or _entours_, I should not have suffered any fatigue or inconvenience; but being a total stranger, without one common acquaintance here, and Antoine a millstone, as I said yesterday, I had every disadvantage. It was not true, but a mistake, that I could not go into the court I mentioned yesterday. The Empress had ordered women should not remain there; but the wife of the _concièrge_, whose apartment was in it, offered me her _salon_, newspapers, &c., where I was quite retired, and much better lodged than travellers usually are anywhere. I never in the whole business met the slightest incivility, insinuation, freedom, or rebuff. I glided everywhere, whether others were refused or not, and I met with every mark of interest and _bienveillance_. By the bye, the _placet_ itself was a most pitiful performance, ten degrees lower than my address beginning ‘_Etrangère et seule_,’ which had something like style and energy. It is singular, too, that one who was First Secretary, &c., _made_ me, against my own opinion, make an official mistake in it—_Votre Majesté_ and _Vous_, instead of _Elle_. How few people know their own _métier_.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, Aug., 1805.

The Baroness, Col. ——, Mrs. F——, and her young ladies, passed the evening here yesterday. Mrs. F. was in great spirits. While I was at Fontainebleau they had all dined with Lady ——, and danced in the evening. They were in such raptures with _his_ dancing as I thought only Zephyr or Dupont could excite. I must tell you the —— show us particular respect in being so _happy together_ before us; for they have the most disgraceful fights in the presence of others. Not a word of truth in Mrs. ——’s elopement. I regret all the good morality I wasted upon it. As to your insisting on my not telling you all the scandal I hear, I am sorry to say it is a vain command. Until I get a female friend, you _must_ listen to it; for I will not be at the trouble, like Midas’ wife,[43] of digging a hole in the earth to tell it to; and ‘_un secret est un pesant fardeau_.’

We have really a curious set of Anglo-Parisians. Col. —— puts me in mind of some one in an English farce, when he tells one, _à propos_ of nothing, how he and his wife always travel separately, with two equipages each; and how they never go to sea in the same ship, as ’twould be hazarding too much in one bottom; and how he ‘likes things in a Great Style, because he has always been accustomed to things in a Great Style.’ In short, if you were to be ever so angry, I must be diverted with these people, and must tell you what diverts me. My mind reposes on my little Baroness, who, I see, is quietly making the best of a tiresome husband, and, seeming completely meek and gentle, is yet always contriving to rein him in from exposing himself by heat of temper and vanity, which he is ever on the point of doing; educating her son so well, and giving all the credit of it to him; keeping clear of all the _petite ville_ squabbles, civil to everybody, and intimate with none except one, to whom she is uniformly and impressively attentive.

* * * * *

Paris, Jan., 1806.

No woman dined at the Baroness’s but Mrs. ——, a banker’s wife, brimful of all sorts of vanity, but all easily ranged under three general heads—vanity of _wealth_, of _extensive acquaintance_, of _accomplishments_. She asked the Baroness and me to go home with her to a rehearsal of dancing, and I was obliged to go, as the Baroness would not leave me, and was visibly anxious not to lose the party. The rehearsal was dull, as the dancers were mediocre. The dancing-master attended, and it was exactly an academy. Mrs. —— told me she had had but _seven_ lessons, and forgot she had told me a few months ago she had had but ten; so they go _diminuendo_. She also told me that she took particular pains when at Hamburg, ‘not to be _more elegant_ than other people;’ and if you saw the little woman you would say she might have spared herself so very unnecessary an exertion.

I hear every one is reading _Alphonsine_. A lady, speaking of the author’s introducing _un enfant de l’amour_ into all her novels, remarked, ‘_Il n’y a rien de_ naturel _dans les romans de Mad. de Genlis que les enfans_.’

TO THE SAME.

Paris, Jan., 1806.

This morning I went with Mrs. —— to the Gallery. She is the same obliging creature as ever, and always ready _to go_ anywhere. We had a sensible white-eyed German Minister, from some little Court, who took care of us, and knew enough to point out the most remarkable amongst the new paintings. _Les Pestiférés_ is, I believe, fine in grouping and colouring; at least it looks very _distingué_ amongst the figures like waxen images or scenes from the opera, without _ensemble_, expression, or truth, which form the greater part of the new Exhibition of historical painting. We hurried so much, as one always does the first time, that nothing struck me but _Les Pestiférés_, and a very pretty drawing by Isabey, in black and white, of the Emperor and Empress visiting the manufactory de Bazin, and some beautiful little highly-finished paintings that remind one of the Dutch pieces in point of nicety, and of Wright of Derby in the choice of subjects and the effects of perspective. I am not in the least ashamed of talking to you on subjects I know nothing about. I know that if by chance I make a lucky hit, you will give me credit for it; and that if I am guilty of the greatest error, you will not like me less; so I have a possibility of winning, and cannot lose.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, Jan., 1806.

I have been asked yesterday and to-day to the F.’s, but sent an excuse each day. All I regret there now is Col. ——, for he is _so_ like a character in an English farce, from his broad comic look, provincial accent, strange phraseology, undisguised vanity, and perpetual surprise and joy at finding himself a rich man, that though he provokes me at the moment, I laugh ten times a day by myself afterwards in recollecting him. I am sure if the playwriters and actors could lay hold of him, they would turn him to good account. He not only diverts me, but I feel a _besoin_ of somebody to mimic him.

By the bye, Mr. F. and Col. —— are strong instances of what you have often said, that the Irish can sooner conquer the want of refinement in early life than those of other nations. Both entered late into the world, and both obtained an unexpected rise in circumstances. The one improves every day; the other has his vulgarity burnt in. The one may not please, but never offends; the other shocks some one or other in company every time he speaks.

It was very ill-natured of me not to seize the idea of our taking the little Yarico, and I shall be unhappy and feel remorse if you do not do it. If you find upon _reniflé_-ing that she is sweet (for some of them are insupportable), I will educate her for a little nursery-maid; if not, we will make of her something which comes less close. Pray let us not neglect this good action which Providence throws in our way.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, Jan., 1806.

In the evening we saw Mˡˡᵉ George in _Phèdre_. I have learned how liable one is to error in judging of merit except by comparison. Till I felt the _ennui_ of seeing her in that part, and the damp it threw on the play in general, I did not perceive the full excellence of Duchesnois, who _vivifies_ the whole piece. I am told I must not judge of her in that _rôle_, as it is of all she plays the least favourable to her looks, which are her only merit. The _abandon_, so necessary in the attitudes of Phèdre, betrays her want of _mollesse_ and softness in her motions, and particularly displays those strangely-formed feet, of which the shape and movements are so uncommonly ugly; while her anxiety to hide their defects often gives her a constraint in the moments which ought to be the most devoted to passion. The chief merit of her expression, dignity, is lost in a character always given up to strong emotions; and its chief fault, harshness, is absolutely contrary to all one’s ideas of a creature

‘dissolved away
In dreams all night, in sighs and tears all day.’

Mad. Demidoff called for her diamonds a day or two after her ball, to show a new _aigrette_ to a lady of her acquaintance. Her maid, on opening the box, and missing this very _bijou_, fell into fits. She was taxed with either dishonesty or carelessness, as she had the care of her mistress’s jewels, and in defending herself, said that she suspected Madame (I forget the name), a German Countess, who was the intimate friend of Mad. D.,—did not live in the house, but dined there almost every day. Her grounds for this suspicion were that this lady had asked her to show the diamonds a very few days before, and had examined them narrowly. Mad. D. silenced her, and continued to have some suspicion she was the guilty person. The next time she saw her friend, she mentioned what the maid had said as to having shown them, which this lady positively denied. Upon this denial, the maid was so convinced of her guilt, that she insisted on a police-officer searching the house, which he did next morning, and found the _aigrette_ in a cup of _aqua fortis_, where it had been left to dissolve the setting. She was of course immediately taken to prison. This is a _mesquin_ mean story to return for your magnificent anecdote, but is now the chief subject of conversation.

* * * * *

Paris, Jan., 1806.

Kitty is, I believe, settled. Her plausible manner of abusing us, and of telling her own story, is such that the hotel-keeper here, and all my tradespeople, think her a very ill-used person; and trifling as is this prejudice against me, I have been accustomed to being so much considered a good kind of person at least, that it frets me. I believe she has gone about to everybody I know, of every rank; for all have said to me with an air of coldness and mystery, ‘_Quoi, votre femme-de-chambre vous quitte—c’est bien extraordinaire. Elle vous aimait tant. Elle vous a servie si long temps._’ Antoine was as busy for her at the prefecture as her counsel. I am sorry I am awakened from my _beau rêve_ about the good qualities of servants, to two truths—one, that a servant who has lived with you ten years, will prefer to you the partner who has arrived yesterday; the next, that although they may be at the point of the sword together, they will always unite against you. The expression of the ancient, ‘humble friends,’ was not half so just as that of the modern antique, the old Duke of Queensberry, whom I heard say, ‘They are spies upon you, whom you pay yourself.’ I am afraid the ancient philosopher had not so many to attend on him as ‘old Q.,’ and was not so good a judge.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, Feb., 1806.

I went yesterday with Mr. S. to Mons. ——, an artist, to see some very fine drawings. They are chiefly copies from Raphael, and one of the ‘Last Supper,’ of Leonardo da Vinci, which is beautiful. He values them, I believe, too highly, as he asks a hundred louis for this last, and the others in proportion. He uses no colours but sepia, a _soupçon_ of yellow, the same of blue, and some white body colour. From thence I returned to dine at Mrs. F——’s with Mrs. —— and Mr. Crispy. Mrs. ——, with a volubility seldom equalled, gave me all the details possible of her domestic management, tending to prove that she was at once as fine a lady and as good a housekeeper as any in Paris—that she lived magnificently, had a great establishment, and spent a very large fortune with the highest degree of taste and economy united. Amongst other details, she was so minute as to tell me that on the last great dinner she gave to twenty-four persons, _she saw_ 134 pounds of beef cut up merely for soup and sauces. I was a little astonished at this aldermanic puff, and everybody else showed symptoms of surprise, the greater in proportion to their knowledge of housekeeping. I forgot to say the little baronet, our former fellow-lodger, also dined there; whiskers and eyebrows were all japanned and blackened like your boots, and a light _couleur de rose_ on his cheeks, and his figure set up as if he had got a pair of Coutant’s new corsets; and after we left the room, he showed love-letters to the gentlemen. It is a great comfort to the poor husbands whose wives expect constancy and all their affections, that gallantry seems to have got into such hands as it has of late. I declare it seems to me as if that vice had seen its best days, and was fallen into complete disrepute. I hope it will not rise again till Fred’s character is formed; for though some escape with undiminished sensibility and refinement, I think the dispositions of nine men out of ten are miserably injured by it for all the rest of their lives.

I laughed out loud at your description of the _Pétillant_; and I must say I have a generosity of soul about a good story, which makes me uneasy at having no one to tell it to. I feel about it like a hospitable epicure about a delicacy, quite uneasy, if I must feast on it alone.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, Feb., 1806.

I had rather a pleasantish day at the Baroness’s. Mad. de Richelieu is a very pleasing old dame _de l’ancienne cour_. There were some others of her society, and they all showed me that sort of politeness which, when thoroughly ground into the manners, bears the semblance of interest and preference. I met also a gentleman who lodges in the house, and whose servant ran up to him on the day of my arrival, to announce it, telling him I was _la veuve d’un Général tué à la bataille d’Austerlitz_. So because I was not _sémillante_, but dressed _en couleurs tendres_, I must be described as a Melpomene.

Think of my having _given a breakfast_ to-day. My company were the F——’s, who expressed a wish to hear Tarchi, and who, according to the custom of the world, attended more to their veal cutlets and their chat, than to _us_, to Tarchi’s evident displeasure. _She_ had thought of learning from him, and as she is a tolerable musician, with a harsh voice, he might have made something of her; but the twelve francs she could not submit to, and takes Blanquini at six, who will teach her nothing. So much for economy. You may see I have nothing to say on the grand point, by beginning with these _frivolités_. I called again on the _bella Italiana_, who did not return my former visit, but I swallow _couleuvres_ now. I send you a note, a volunteer from my Irishman. You see by his writing _apropos_ of nothing, he seems to take a certain interest in our business. Fred is _gros et gras_ and florid; and admired, as whatsoever deserves to be so always is in a great town, where pretensions do not come so close as elsewhere. The unaffected admiration the F——s show of him gives me continual pleasure. Both the ladies nurse him, literally nurse him, for half an hour together. He thinks Mrs. F.’s violent manner and clamorous talk is to amuse him, and when she is engaged in general conversation he _coos_ at her with evident acknowledgment.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, Feb., 1806.

The Emperor was last night at the _Théâtre François_, where the applause was very moderate. It is said he goes to the opera to-morrow, notwithstanding which scarce a third of the boxes are taken. The ladies of Paris are a little mortified that the few balls and _fêtes_ of this winter are interrupted by his arrival, instead of receiving fresh vigour, as was expected. He has announced his desire that all the great ones intended for him should be put off till May; and the small ones, no one knows why, have felt a sort of _contre-coup_. Mad. Duboyne’s, however, took place last night; but it made so much sensation as proved that a ball was a scarce thing. How different from London, where half a dozen East Indians might give one the same night, and out of their own circle no one know a word about it. I do not wonder the class of women who place their happiness in show and entertainments, and whose rank and fortune do not allow them to _briller_ in that way in London, are very anxious to settle here. I think it fortunate for England that it is not known how easy it is; and that the respect for the _elegance_ and _manners_ of _Paris_ awes a London citizen’s wife, or we should have a rebellion amongst them against their husbands, who would be brought over here to perish of _ennui_, like poor Cope.

Poor Fred is here, ‘wasting his beauty on the desert air;’ for I know no one who receives morning visits. I proposed bringing him to show to one lady; but she seems to think a woman, who had been _established_ once before, having taken a husband _since her_ daughter came out, is the most odious of all monopolies, forestalling and regrating; and, though unaccountably civil in other things, she threw cold water on the offer, and always turns any conversation which could lead to the idea.

I have just seen McMahon. I must tell you a pretty trait of Lord Elgin. He obtained, somehow or other, a statement of Mad. Thiebault’s case; assembled all the first physicians at Paris, had a consultation, and sent the opinion resulting from it to the General. I think it was a trait of genius in good-nature.

TO THE SAME.

Paris, Feb., 1806.

Lady Clavering’s party was very good indeed—rooms well furnished, well lighted, well disposed—agreeable music, by professors, a good supper (which I saw, though I did not wait till people sat down), and everything going off, not like a _first_ or _second_ party (which it was), but as if they were given habitually. The company were of the _ancien régime_, or English. The F—— was so dirty last night I was ashamed of her; as the French, who deny us _goût_, allow us _une propreté exquise_; and she had a muslin of such extraordinary beauty and costliness, it could not escape observation; and ‘I assure you, ma’am, it looked as if it had cleaned the floor.’ I heard Gérat for the first time, the Orpheus of France. They swear by him. I confess I liked his singing a simple romance, of which the words and music are Rousseau’s, most exceedingly. I find it is possible for French music, _rendue_ by a French singer, to delight me. By the bye, the last phrase is a strong proof that, whatever people assume steadily and boldly, one yields to them at last; for here am I, giving Jean Jaques to the French, and merely because _ils l’ont crié, je le répète après eux_. Unluckily, I went too late to hear Gérat sing Italian. The Baroness, who is a good judge, and has, I hear, been a good singer in her day, disliked it much, and so does Tarchi; but from his manner of singing the romance, I am afraid I should have approved.