not, only I want to tell so much I can’t keep from it! I was invited to
a friend’s Christmas Eve tree party. She has a lovely, cozy little
_apartment_. The tree was “a thing of beauty,” and we guests made a jam
that occupied every available square inch of standing room. The elders
proved to be more childish than the children themselves, clutching their
presents as generous “Old Chris.” called their names, and screaming and
laughing with glee at and with each other. Not the tree, nor the
presents, nor the toilets, nor “the goodies” overcame me; but one
superb, inexpressible specimen of the genus _homo_--an Apollo in silver
locks, the frosty though kindly glow of at least seventy years. One
sweeping glance sufficed for all the rest of that hilarious throng. Then
I settled myself in the roomiest, deepest, sinkiest of spring-cushioned
“arm-chairs,” and fastened my gaze on him, to wander no more while he
stayed. His wife did not come. How I did wish she had, so I could see
what manner of woman had dared to mate with that grand creature.
We, my hostess and myself, had a New Year’s Eve gathering. Nothing so
commonplace as a tree, though. We put our heads together to devise
something unique, and with that complacency characteristic of the “salt
of the earth,” we feel assured we were a success. Here’s the program.
See if you like it.
Salutatory, an _impromptu_ poem, most carefully _written out beforehand_
and _read_ by _me_. This elicited great applause. Some amusing little
characterizations by other ladies of our household. A metrical version
of one of the many legends of that half-saint, half-angel of a
woman--no, I don’t know where the woman came in--Elizabeth of Hungary,
by my hostess, who is a woman of much culture and many gifts. This was
received, as it should have been, with the hush and silence of deep
feeling. Music and games. Then a fishing frolic; a big pond in which
every guest was invited to fish, as he or she had a _bite_, which meant
a present. You can believe the fun waxed “uproarious.” I was in the pond
to do the biting and put the fishes on the hook; but didn’t I make them
tug! Some of them got so many bites they sang out, “Fishes, you needn’t
bite any more if you don’t want to.” Just on the stroke of midnight,
madame recited a moan of farewell to the passing year, and in the next
breath hallelujahed into the New. We all joined in at the top of our
lungs, and immediately turned to each other with hearty hand-shakings,
warm wishes and some kisses. Enjoying thus with much merry and kindly
talk that held us together till 2 a. m. Then I spoke the lines I have
copied for you and we broke up. We had our _salon_ ornamented with
American and French flags and evergreens from Fountainbleau.
They have a custom here of keeping “Twelfth Night.” I never heard of it
elsewhere. The shops are full of cakes baked expressly, each one
containing “a charm,” as tiny as possible. A nice china pig, or “baby”
most frequently; at least I saw nothing else. If a gentleman gets the
charm, he names some lady for his “queen” throughout the year; if a
lady, she names her “king.” I got the “baby,” the weest of manikins in
china. For the rest, the days come and go as swiftly as so many rays of
light, scarcely here till they are gone. I have grown to begrudge the
hours I have to give to sleep. I never go to bed till midnight, oftenest
later, recklessly sacrificing my “beauty sleep!”--and then with the
utmost reluctance, and in the main feeling as if just risen from
refreshing slumber. It takes, I can tell you, all my awe of the laws of
physiology to force me to that.
“Heaven of the weary head,
Bed, bed, delicious bed!”
I am not writing a book, painting a picture, composing an opera,
inventing a new fangled bit of machinery, or even devising a new fashion
in woman’s gear! No, nor am I planning any extra wickedness; have not
committed such sins as banish sleep, and yet I shun sleep. What’s the
trouble then? Of the most serious kind, because beyond remedy. Not all
the narcotics known to science can lull me to that acceptance of “tired
nature’s sweet restorer” that should come as naturally as breathing and
loving; it is this, it is this:
“The years they are going,
And ah! I am growing
Quite old, yes, quite old, Gaffer Gray.”
To think of sparing five or six hours out of twenty-four for oblivion!
Would it could be otherwise. For you see “of the making of books there
is no end,” and readers must be found for them. None more eager or
indefatigable than I. If only the days had more hours, the years more
months, and sleep did not claim!
I have “Characteristics.” I am your debtor for all the years to come for
having written such a book. “‘T would be but little could I say how
much.” I thank you for your publisher’s promptness in sending me the
book itself. It is one to have and to hold as a possession forever; to
pick up and pore over, lay down and meditate on, and it has this quality
of every genuine work: you cannot take much at a time; it forces you to
pause and ponder, and once begun you cannot put it away for long; it
claims you like a cluster of luscious grapes, one at a time, and,
indeed, with pauses between, but no cessation till the bunch is
finished. I shall not tell you yet which I like best, but I will tell
you which I had already read and read first _before_ your letter came,
with its suggestion of what I would most probably prefer, and which you
evidently prefer yourself--the last two! I am lending the book around.
“The old beauty” has it now, and she quotes from it and uses its
anecdotes, by way of illustration, always with due acknowledgment of
their source. “That book I am reading of Mrs. Collins’ friend.” I think
I never showed such unselfishness. My reward is great, though; she is
charmed, and intends to get both it and “Library Notes” as soon as she
goes home. I had a letter from Miss B---- since she received her copy,
and she is so enthusiastic: “It is a capital book. The article on Burns
I like best so far. I can’t tell what re-reading may do for the others.
I like the drift of his mind exceedingly, and his Essays--themes,
whatever they are--are unique, and the flavor is sharp and wholesome.
There is nothing better I have read--that is _modern_--that reads in his
direction.” There! Are those not good words, indeed? May it have half
the success it so richly merits!
Well, I must hurry to the finis. But first, such is the vanity of a wise
woman, I am going to give you an excerpt from a love-letter that came in
the same budget with yours: “I must write to you to-night, because I
have been thinking and thinking of you, and wishing with all my heart I
was with you, if only for these holidays; for I am sure you are like
myself, and feel loneliest at this time, when all are rejoicing; but if
we were together, there would be such a glow of affection that the
proverbial yule log would fade by comparison, and it would take several
families to supply an amount of devotion equal to ours. But let us hope
we shall spend many Christmases together. I must and will have you, for
I don’t believe there is any one cares half so much for me, and I am
sure your place in my affection is simply unapproachable to the rest of
woman or mankind either.”
Isn’t she a darling of darlings who wrote that? And it was not Miss
B----.
L. G. C.
Paris, January 1, 1884.
[Illustration]
PARIS.
Have been enjoying Paris to the last degree. Weather as near perfection
as this sublunary sphere allows. “The season” in full blast. Opera,
theater and concerts for ourselves, these and all kinds of social
entertainments, balls, parties, dinners, etc., for those who belong here
and are “to the manner born.”
President Grevy gives jams and crushes; the remains of the aristocracy
seem most given to _the races_, which occur almost daily somewhere in
and around Paris; the ambassadors give their dinners and receptions; the
artists, the literateurs, the everybody, are giving their particular
kind of entertainment. Arsene Houssaye gave one the other day--his
“Assembly,” it is called. It is peculiar, called “The Chase of the
Dominos.” Everybody has to wear a domino. To insure an invitation, wit,
vivacity and gayety are indispensable, while, in addition, behind the
masks of the women _must be beauty_. Eulogy exhausts itself on the
brilliancy of the success of this host. A dreamland palace, the earth
despoiled of its treasures to adorn it, an exquisite cuisine, and the
incomparable host. There is no hostess. One’s private character has
nothing to do with it; only genius, it would seem. Such a curious medley
of guests as were mentioned, Sarah Bernhardt heading the list of the
feminine! I--I--wouldn’t have minded being there, not “incog,” but
invisible! Just to have heard and seen that constellation of blazing
stars. Every name was one known to fame.
I am having my chance at the musical side of Paris.
A pleasant American family, father, mother and two young lady daughters,
give me the opportunity; always ready to go and eager to have me along.
I am more than gratified. Will you be shocked if I admit to a Sunday
afternoon concert? You know Sunday has none of our sacredness to
Parisians; it is only a better, freer sort of fête day for those who
have time to spare. Not all have. On my way to the concert, a week ago
Sunday, I saw the house-painters busy; great wagons full of
house-plunder--families changing their abodes, etc. Once in the
concert-hall, “The Conservatoire,” the music made everything divine, I
am sure. I do not coax impressions; so I think I may tell you, as proof
of the character of the music, that at one part I seemed suddenly to
have escaped from earth to that sphere we think of as Heaven. Hosts and
hosts of orchestras were playing in perfect harmony with choruses
joining in of countless myriads of voices, and through it all I was
catching the music of the spheres. To give the least idea of how I felt,
is beyond me. I was more than lifted up into “the seventh heaven.” The
entire audience seemed equally under the unutterable influence. It is
considered the finest audience in every respect that Paris has.
Am to spend to-morrow at the Luxembourg with one of the charming, young
American girls. Don’t you wish you could be along? She is bright, well
informed, amiable--a girl worth knowing and not too young--say about
twenty-six or twenty-seven. She talks well, has an active mind, is
ambitious for knowledge, and I like her. Besides, she cossets me if I
feel under the weather. I think I like that best of all! Would not you?
I can answer for you--yes. I am too tired for another sheet. Are you not
glad?
L. G. C.
Paris, April 1, 1884.
PARIS.
Was very glad to get your letter. It came several days ago, and I have
been watching for that opportunity that never comes to those who have
nothing to do to answer it. You know my trick of promptness. I never
feel quite comfortable with the consciousness of a duty awaiting its
performance. Consciousness or force of habit--which? _N’importe_; the
result is the same. And any way, are they not interchangeable?
Yes, I am again a wandering star; or, if you will not let me go up into
the empyrean, a genuine nomad. How some old Bedouin would delight in my
companionship, if he could not make a big ransom off of me! But the
delights of such a life are not without qualification. The passage in
the Etruria was diabolical. Such pitching and tossing--why, long before
it was over, I felt more like a jelly-fish than a mermaid! I was not
sea-sick, but just so tired out with trying to keep my feet and
my--rations--existence became loathsome. Ever so many distinguished
fellow-voyagers, but I did not care even to look at them.
But--I had a beautiful week in London (not in point of weather!), seeing
sights and people. Lambeth Palace--I cannot stop to tell anything about
it that you ought to know; only I read in his own handwriting that
curious sentence,
“Dum spiro, spero. Charles R.,”
of the poor king who lost his head. How I wondered when and moved by
what impulse he wrote it! And a story told by the custodian as we passed
an empty niche which had once contained the statue of Thomas a Becket:
Some repairs were being made. It was remarked by one of the workmen:
“That niche once held a saint; now the niche remains, but the saint is
gone.” Immediately another spoke up: “Did he leave his address?”
We gave the good part of a day to Whitehall afterwards, and saw the spot
where Charles was beheaded, and looked through the window of the
banqueting-hall, now a chapel, which he walked out of on his way to the
scaffold. “Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it.”
The Government Buildings, too, proved absorbingly interesting,
especially as getting to see them is a privilege. An English cousin is
an official, fortunately for us. I saw Gladstone’s seat in the Cabinet
chamber. And Salisbury’s, too, removed to the opposite side of the
table. I did not care so much for it. And from there to Temple Bar; the
church first, which I had seen several times. Also the dining-hall of
the barristers. A member of that honorable body was of our party, a
friend of my cousin, and a cousin of the sculptor Flaxman. He is a
bachelor and “lives in chambers.” As often as I have read that
expression, I never thought of trying to realize what it meant. Imagine
my excitement and delight when he insisted on our going with him to his
chambers for “five o’clock tea.” It was raining, dismal and chilly
outside. Such a lot of crazy, queer, enchanting little cuddy-holes as we
were ushered into! I’ll tell you all about them by and by. He saw my
fascinated gaze at an old clock, and at once invited me to a prowl with
him. I don’t know how many little dens he took me into, each stuffed
full as they could hold of antique gems, curios, etc.; among them
several lovely old clocks, aged three hundred years and more. The
conclusion of our prowl was the crowning delight: _he gave me one_! I
don’t know what I said, but I know he will live forever in my heart. He
was a charming host, and I hope he will invite us again!
Next, we spent two days at Canterbury, not only “doing” the cathedral,
but rambling about the quaint and curious old town, and getting
impressions of its inhabitants, so unlike ourselves. We attended vesper
services in “Little St. Martin’s on the Hill,” where Christianity was
first preached in Great Britain by St. Augustine. Some parts of its
walls are 1,500 years old. I am not going to make a guide-book of my
letter, but if you don’t know about this church it is worth your while
“to read up” on it. Then we crossed the channel, and brought up at
Amiens. Its cathedral and museum are temptations to all tourists. We
loitered two days before coming here. The time was well put in. I fear I
am more humane than esthetic though, for I was more interested in an
institution, quite modern and altogether practical, into which we
stumbled, as it were. It was for children whose mothers were out doing
work by the day. They are clothed, fed and educated, as well as kept
from morning till night. I had read about such an institution years ago
in a book by Sir Francis Head, called “A Faggot of French Sticks.”
And here--well Paris _is Paris_! The weather interferes though. It is
rain, or clouds, or fog, or dampness, almost all the time. Sight-seeing
does not prosper under such auspices. Still we have seen a great deal.
Among those that have fastened on my memory, like tar on one’s best
gown, is “a sight I saw” at the Jardin des Plantes. In one of the cages
of the wildest of the wild beasts a dog and tigress are dwelling, and
have dwelt together in peace and harmony for six years! And the birds
and the animals seemed as conscious of observation and as eager to
excite admiration as their kindred, the human race. There is nothing
more interesting here, I think, than this garden. The collection and
arrangement of the plants are something wonderful. Then its age, 250
years, and the association of great names, such as Cuvier, Buffon,
Humboldt, etc., give a vivid impression of the value of men to mankind.
I have had some new experiences in various ways. Several trips on the
Seine in long, slender steamers called swallows, both by day and night,
moonlight and gaslight. And drives on the quais, the most magnificent I
know of. Palaces and palaces, and gardens and gardens, on the one hand,
and the grand balustrade overhanging the river, with its myriad crafts,
all repeated on the opposite bank, the drive bordered by double rows of
trees. One can’t help owning the beauty, grandeur and completeness of
this Paris, not all of it like that of youth “La Beaute du Diable.” I
have met some pleasant people, too. And was at a Thanksgiving Dinner,
turkey and mince pies, American fashion. Everything tempting, but the
pies looked so delicious, I said to myself as the hostess was cutting
them, “If she does not give me a big piece, I shall wish I had not
come.” She did!
L. G. C.
Paris, December 6, 1885.
[Illustration]
PARIS.
My return will be delayed a few weeks longer. It was a trial to feel I
must submit to this at first, but since these dreadful storms have been
raging on the ocean and coasts I have become reconciled. I have had my
share of “old ocean’s buffetings.”
I am here en route for home. Miss B---- came from Sweden to Berlin and
remained there a week. She had never been there before. Then she came
here, to join the lady with whom she had crossed and was to recross. On
reaching here, our program had to be changed. The Arizona was not to
sail at the appointed time, being postponed to meet the new postal
arrangements. Miss B----’s friend got her head set on the Nile trip.
Miss B---- was all eagerness. They would not go without me. The position
was embarrassing. So I had to consent. We leave day after to-morrow.
Think of it! You have bantered me to write to you from Europe, Asia,
Africa, and so on! Perhaps you will get a line or so from under old
Cheop’s unfathomable countenance, or from melodious Memnon’s colossal
knee. How I wish he--it--would burst forth once more into that mournful
plaint, just for me!
L. G. C.
Paris, December 3, 1886.
[Illustration]
PARIS.
Yours of the 23d February came last night. I had spent the evening out.
It was pleasant, indeed, to find letters and papers on my table awaiting
me.
Sorry I disappointed you about the Jerusalem trip. “It was not my
fault,” you may be sure. That is one of the drawbacks of traveling in a
party. The composing members are much given to pulling different ways
and not making any sacrifice of individual preferences. This friction is
trying, but the “kindly race of men” (Heaven save the mark!) is
gregarious, and traveling alone is almost worse. So--o--o--h! Next time
you shall have a letter written in the shadow of the temple; perhaps
another under a canopy of the boughs of the Cedars of Lebanon; and yet
another within sound of the purling brook of Hebron. Be consoled. Above
all, do not doubt that I shall make contributions from every “grand
division” to your entertainment. It is not so long ago you prodded me
with that expectation on your part. Not that I missed its flavor of
mockery, _ma foi!_ Ah! the “golden fair enchanted” future, that holds
the goals of all our ambitions, the realities of all our dreams, the
crowns of all our victories!
Do not send the book. Anxious and eager as I am to see it, I am not
willing to run the risk of missing it. I am no nearer a decision as to
the date of sailing than this: it will not be earlier than the 26th of
this, or later than the middle of next month. If the latter, because I
will have waited for company. Some very agreeable ladies are going then,
and have urged me to wait. When I persisted in holding the negative
attitude, one became exasperated and burst forth, “I bet five dollars
you will.” Didn’t “Old Kaintuck” speak out then? And if I must tell on
myself, I have not felt so sure I would not since!
I like the title of the book more and more. There is genius in it.
Whose? Don’t tell me not yours. It is “so smart,” as they say in
Kentucky. I never think of it without its stirring my brain to try “to
think up” a better one. It must be “a brilliant success.”
We are in a tremendous hubbub. “Madame” is “moving.” We are going to be
almost “next-door neighbors” to Queen Isabella.
As soon as in order, “Madame” gives a house-warming. She is a generous
soul, and ought to be a _chatelaine_. Her grandmother was a duchess at
the court of Louis XVI. She never not only omits them, but makes chances
to give entertainments. An invalid heiress follows with “a five o’clock
tea” in her private salon. There will be rivalry of _tea-gowns_; mine is
ready. Ever since I gave it a trial donning on its coming from “the
man-tailor,” they have called me “Lady Collins.” Bloom and beauty having
departed, age and wrinkles are--knighted. Heigh, ho! why could not one
have all honors together?
L. G. C.
Paris, March 8, 1887.
[Illustration]
PARIS.
Here I am still. You will doubtless be surprised. I am.
Day after to-morrow will be a birthday anniversary, and everybody has
found it out! Ugh! Think what a nightmare the prospect of that tell-tale
cake, with its little wax tapers to the number of my years!
You don’t know about the cake. My dear good landlady _will_ observe the
birthdays of her guests with a grand dinner. This cake is the “grand
pièce de résistance,” borne into the room and making the circuit of the
table with its little tapers, for the inspection of everybody. Would you
like such a fireworks’ display of your years?
Well, being a man, maybe you would not care. But do not pronounce on me.
Just wait till you are transmigrated into a woman to come into a
knowledge of our much abused reserve on this point.
If a woman ever is “the weaker vessel,” believe me just here is where it
comes in. The idea of home dominates her, though the home itself has
been desolated and broken up forever. This is not all in my case.
Do you know what it is to have dispensations of conscientiousness? I am
sorely troubled at times, and the trouble grows. It seems such a life of
idleness and self-gratification this I am living, one of luxurious
wandering and enjoyment of the fair face of this lovely mother earth,
and beautiful accumulations from all times and nations and peoples. The
flight of time--Schiller says--
“Arrowy swift the present fleeth.”
But to me the years now seem come and gone like lightning flashes.
Shall I tell you how the days go? Will you care to hear? It cannot be
but that much of interest should come into them. The “sight-seeing,” of
course, never comes to an end. Think how impossible when I tell you the
“Salon,” just opened for its annual exposition, numbers largely over
5,000 works; thirty-seven rooms of pictures! I spent yesterday afternoon
in them. Guess the wear on eyes, feet and brain of the most cursory
survey. At last I had to sit down, and close my eyes to shut them all
out, _if_ I could. As if I could!
Why I could not even sleep for their haunting, though I went to bed
before ten to spare my eyes from further seeing. One gorgeous
“Cleopatra,” Cabanal’s, proved as irresistible a sorceress to me as if I
had been a Caesar or an Anthony. It represents that incident given by
Plutarch in his “Life of Anthony,” when, after the battle of Actium,
dreading what may happen to herself, she is having deadly poisons tried
on prisoners condemned to death, to find out which would cause the least
suffering. I shall not go into a description, but, if possible, will get
a photograph, and show you that to give you some idea. Another
historical incident, from the brush of Charrier, is that of the Empress
Ariadne, who, becoming disgusted with the excesses and cruelties of her
husband, the Emperor Zeno, had him, when he was--some say in an
epileptic fit, others drunk--walled up in the royal tomb. She is
standing beside it, bending in the attitude of listening to his furious
struggle. Such a picture has a dreadful fascination. Another, by
Constant, is of “Theodora,” throned in all her oriental barbaric
magnificence. This is Sara Bernhardt’s great character, and the picture
is very like her, whether or not meant for a portrait. I saw her in it.
Do not think I am going to surfeit you on pictures though.