_Dec. 8, 1802._
MY DEAR AUNT CHARLOTTE--One of the great objects of a visit to Paris
was, you know, to see Buonaparte; the review is, as you see by the
papers, over, and my father has not spoken to the great man--no, he did
not wish it. All of our distant friends will be I am afraid
disappointed, but some here think that my father's refusal to be
presented to him shows a proper pride. All the reasons for this mode of
conduct will serve perhaps for debate, certainly for conversation when
we return.
Madame Suard says that those societies are most agreeable where there
are fewest women: if there were not women superior to her I should not
hesitate to assent to her proposition, and I should with pleasure read
Madame de Staël's book called _Le Malheur d'être femme._ If, on the
contrary, all women were Madame de Pastorets, or Madame Delesserts, or
Madame Gautiers, I think I should take up the book with the intention
not to be convinced.
Some of the most horrible revolutionists were the most skilled in the
sciences, and are held in the utmost detestation by numbers of sensible
men who admire their ingenuity and talents. We saw one of these, a
teacher at one of the chief Academies, and my father, who was standing
near him, heard him, after having been talking on several most amusing
and interesting subjects, give one of the deepest sighs he ever heard.
The Abbé de Lille reads poetry particularly well, his own verses in a
superior manner: we heard him, and were extremely pleased. He is very
old, and so blind that his wife, whom he calls "Mon Antigone," is
obliged to lead him.
As you may suppose, we go as often as we can to the Gallery. I thank my
dear Aunt Mary for thinking of the pleasure I should have in seeing the
Venus de Medicis; she has not yet arrived, but I have seen the Apollo,
who did surprise me! On our way here we had seen many casts of him, and
I have seen with you some prints: I could not have believed that there
could have been so much difference between a copy and the original.
_10th._ You see I am often interrupted. I will introduce you to our
company last night at the Delesserts'. All soirées here begin at nine
o'clock.
"Madame Edgeworth" is announced:--room full without being
crowded--enough light and warmth. M. Delessert _père_ at a card-table
with a gentleman who is a partner in his bank, and an elderly lady.
There is a warm corner in the room, which is always large enough to
contain Madame Delessert and two or three ladies and gentlemen. Madame
Delessert advances to receive Madame Edgeworth, and invites her to sit
beside her with many kind words and looks. Madame Gautier expresses her
joy at seeing us. Now we are seated. M. Benjamin Delessert advances with
his bow to the ladies. Madame Gautier, my father, and Maria, get
together. M. Pictet, nephew to our dear Pictet, makes his bow and adds a
few words to each. "Mademoiselle Charlotte," says Madame Delessert to
me, "I was just speaking of you." I forget now what she had been saying,
I have only the agreeable idea. Madame Grivel enters, a clever,
good-natured little woman, wife to the partner who is at cards. Enter M.
François Delessert and another gentleman. How the company divides and
changes itself I am not at present supposed to know, for young M. Pictet
has seated himself between my mother and me, and has a long conversation
with me, in which Madame Grivel now and then joins: she is on the other
side of me. Mademoiselle Lullin, our friend Pictet's sister, and his and
her virtues are discussed. Physics and meta-physics ensue; harmony,
astonishing power of chords in music, glass broken by vibration, dreams,
Spain--its manners and government. Young M. Pictet has been there:
people there have little to do, because their wants are easily supplied.
Here come tea and cakes, sweetmeats, grapes, cream, and all the goods of
life. The lady who was playing at cards now came and sat beside me,
amusing me for a long time with a conversation on--what do you
think?--Politics and the state of France! M. François repeats some good
lines very well. Laughter and merriment. Now we are obliged to go, and
with much sorrow we part.
I see I never told you that we saw the Review, and we _saw_ a man on a
white horse ride down the ranks; we _saw_ that he was a little man with
a pale face, who seemed very attentive to what he was about, and this
was all we _saw_ of Buonaparte.
MARIA EDGEWORTH to MISS SOPHY RUXTON.