MY DEAR FRIEND: Yesterday I received a letter from Mr. Harte, of the 31st
December, N. S., which I will answer soon; and for which I desire you to
return him my thanks now. He tells me two things that give me great
satisfaction: one is that there are very few English at Rome; the other
is, that you frequent the best foreign companies. This last is a very
good symptom; for a man of sense is never desirous to frequent those
companies, where he is not desirous to please, or where he finds that he
displeases; it will not be expected in those companies, that, at your
age, you should have the ‘Garbo’, the ‘Disinvoltura’, and the
‘Leggiadria’ of a man of five-and-twenty, who has been long used to keep
the best companies; and therefore do not be discouraged, and think
yourself either slighted or laughed at, because you see others, older and
more used to the world, easier, more familiar, and consequently rather
better received in those companies than yourself. In time your turn will
come; and if you do but show an inclination, a desire to please, though
you should be embarrassed or even err in the means, which must
necessarily happen to you at first, yet the will (to use a vulgar
expression) will be taken for the deed; and people, instead of laughing
at you, will be glad to instruct you. Good sense can only give you the
great outlines of good-breeding; but observation and usage can alone give
you the delicate touches, and the fine coloring. You will naturally
endeavor to show the utmost respect to people of certain ranks and
characters, and consequently you will show it; but the proper, the
delicate manner of showing that respect, nothing but observation and time
can give.
I remember that when, with all the awkwardness and rust of Cambridge
about me, I was first introduced into good company, I was frightened out
of my wits. I was determined to be, what I thought, civil; I made fine
low bows, and placed myself below everybody; but when I was spoken to, or
attempted to speak myself, ‘obstupui, steteruntque comae, et vox faucibus
haesit’. If I saw people whisper, I was sure it was at me; and I thought
myself the sole object of either the ridicule or the censure of the whole
company, who, God knows, did not trouble their heads about me. In this
way I suffered, for some time, like a criminal at the bar; and should
certainly have renounced all polite company forever, if I had not been so
convinced of the absolute necessity of forming my manners upon those of
the best companies, that I determined to persevere and suffer anything,
or everything, rather than not compass that point. Insensibly it grew
easier to me; and I began not to bow so ridiculously low, and to answer
questions without great hesitation or stammering: if, now and then, some
charitable people, seeing my embarrassment, and being ‘desoevre’
themselves, came and spoke to me, I considered them as angels sent to
comfort me, and that gave me a little courage. I got more soon afterward,
and was intrepid enough to go up to a fine woman, and tell her that I
thought it a warm day; she answered me, very civilly, that she thought so
too; upon which the conversation ceased, on my part, for some time, till
she, good-naturedly resuming it, spoke to me thus: “I see your
embarrassment, and I am sure that the few words you said to me cost you a
great deal; but do not be discouraged for that reason, and avoid good
company. We see that you desire to please, and that is the main point;
you want only the manner, and you think that you want it still more than
you do. You must go through your noviciate before you can profess
good-breeding: and, if you will be my novice, I will present you my
acquaintance as such.”
You will easily imagine how much this speech pleased me, and how
awkwardly I answered it; I hemmed once or twice (for it gave me a bur in
my throat) before I could tell her that I was very much obliged to her;
that it was true, that I had a great deal of reason to distrust my own
behavior, not being used to fine company; and that I should be proud of
being her novice, and receiving her instructions.
As soon as I had fumbled out this answer, she called up three or four
people to her, and said: Savez-vous (for she was a foreigner, and I was
abroad) que j’ai entrepris ce jeune homme, et qu’il le faut rassurer?
Pour moi, je crois en avoir fait----[Do you know that I have undertaken
this young man, and he must be encouraged? As for me, I think I have made
a conquest of him; for he just now ventured to tell me, although
tremblingly, that it is warm. You will assist me in polishing him. He
must necessarily have a passion for somebody; if he does not think me
worthy of being the object, he will seek out some other. However, my
novice, do not disgrace yourself by frequenting opera girls and
actresses; who will not require of you sentiments and politeness, but
will be your ruin in every respect. I repeat it to you, my friend, if
you should get into low, mean company, you will be undone. Those
creatures will destroy your fortune and your health, corrupt your morals,
and you will never acquire the style of good company.]
The company laughed at this lecture, and I was stunned with it. I did not
know whether she was serious or in jest. By turns I was pleased, ashamed,
encouraged, and dejected. But when I found afterward, that both she, and
those to whom she had presented me, countenanced and protected me in
company, I gradually got more assurance, and began not to be ashamed of
endeavoring to be civil. I copied the best masters, at first servilely,
afterward more freely, and at last I joined habit and invention.
All this will happen to you, if you persevere in the desire of pleasing
and shining as a man of the world; that part of your character is the
only one about which I have at present the least doubt. I cannot
entertain the least suspicion of your moral character; your learned
character is out of question. Your polite character is now the only
remaining object that gives me the least anxiety; and you are now in the
right way of finishing it. Your constant collision with good company
will, of course, smooth and polish you. I could wish that you would say,
to the five or six men or women with whom you are the most acquainted,
that you are sensible that, from youth and inexperience, you must make
many mistakes in good-breeding; that you beg of them to correct you,
without reserve, wherever they see you fail; and that you shall take such
admonition as the strongest proofs of their friendship. Such a confession
and application will be very engaging to those to whom you make them.
They will tell others of them, who will be pleased with that disposition,
and, in a friendly manner, tell you of any little slip or error. The Duke
de Nivernois--[At that time Ambassador from the Court of France to
Rome.]--would, I am sure, be charmed, if you dropped such a thing to him;
adding, that you loved to address yourself always to the best masters.
Observe also the different modes of good-breeding of several nations, and
conform yourself to them respectively. Use an easy civility with the
French, more ceremony with the Italians, and still more with the Germans;
but let it be without embarrassment and with ease. Bring it by use to be
habitual to you; for, if it seems unwilling and forced; it will never
please. ‘Omnis Aristippum decuit color, et res’. Acquire an easiness and
versatility of manners, as well as of mind; and, like the chameleon, take
the hue of the company you are with.
There is a sort of veteran women of condition, who having lived always in
the ‘grande monde’, and having possibly had some gallantries, together
with the experience of five-and-twenty, or thirty years, form a young
fellow better than all the rules that can be given him. These women,
being past their bloom, are extremely flattered by the least attention
from a young fellow; and they will point out to him those manners and
ATTENTIONS that pleased and engaged them, when they were in the pride of
their youth and beauty. Wherever you go, make some of those women your
friends; which a very little matter will do. Ask their advice, tell them
your doubts or difficulties as to your behavior; but take great care not
to drop one word of their experience; for experience implies age; and the
suspicion of age, no woman, let her be ever so old, ever forgives. I long
for your picture, which Mr. Harte tells me is now drawing. I want to see
your countenance, your air, and even your dress; the better they all
three are, the better I am not wise enough to despise any one of them.
Your dress, at least, is in your own power, and I hope that you mind it
to a proper degree. Yours, Adieu.