Yesterday, at two o'clock, I went to drive in the Champs-Elysees and the
Bois de Boulogne. It was one of those autumn days which we used to find
so beautiful on the banks of the Loire. So I have seen Paris at last!
The Place Louis XV. is certainly very fine, but the beauty is that of
man's handiwork.
I was dressed to perfection, pensive, with set face (though inwardly
much tempted to laugh), under a lovely hat, my arms crossed. Would you
believe it? Not a single smile was thrown at me, not one poor youth was
struck motionless as I passed, not a soul turned to look again; and yet
the carriage proceeded with a deliberation worthy of my pose.
No, I am wrong, there was one--a duke, and a charming man--who suddenly
reined in as we went by. The individual who thus saved appearances for
me was my father, and he proclaimed himself highly gratified by what he
saw. I met my mother also, who sent me a butterfly kiss from the tips
of her fingers. The worthy Griffith, who fears no man, cast her glances
hither and thither without discrimination. In my judgment, a young woman
should always know exactly what her eye is resting on.
I was mad with rage. One man actually inspected my carriage without
noticing me. This flattering homage probably came from a carriage-maker.
I have been quite out in the reckoning of my forces. Plainly, beauty,
that rare gift which comes from heaven, is commoner in Paris than I
thought. I saw hats doffed with deference to simpering fools; a purple
face called forth murmurs of, "It is she!" My mother received an immense
amount of admiration. There is an answer to this problem, and I mean to
find it.
The men, my dear, seemed to me generally very ugly. The very few
exceptions are bad copies of us. Heaven knows what evil genius has
inspired their costume; it is amazingly inelegant compared with those
of former generations. It has no distinction, no beauty of color or
romance; it appeals neither to the senses, nor the mind, nor the eye,
and it must be very uncomfortable. It is meagre and stunted. The hat,
above all, struck me; it is a sort of truncated column, and does not
adapt itself in the least to the shape of the head; but I am told it
is easier to bring about a revolution than to invent a graceful hat.
Courage in Paris recoils before the thought of appearing in a round
felt; and for lack of one day's daring, men stick all their lives to
this ridiculous headpiece. And yet Frenchmen are said to be fickle!
The men are hideous anyway, whatever they put on their heads. I have
seen nothing but worn, hard faces, with no calm nor peace in the
expression; the harsh lines and furrows speak of foiled ambition and
smarting vanity. A fine forehead is rarely seen.
"And these are the product of Paris!" I said to Miss Griffith.
"Most cultivated and pleasant men," she replied.
I was silent. The heart of a spinster of thirty-six is a well of
tolerance.
In the evening I went to the ball, where I kept close to my mother's
side. She gave me her arm with a devotion which did not miss its
reward. All the honors were for her; I was made the pretext for charming
compliments. She was clever enough to find me fools for my partners, who
one and all expatiated on the heat and the beauty of the ball, till you
might suppose I was freezing and blind. Not one failed to enlarge on the
strange, unheard-of, extraordinary, odd, remarkable fact--that he saw me
for the first time.
My dress, which dazzled me as I paraded alone in my white-and-gold
drawing-room, was barely noticeable amidst the gorgeous finery of most
of the married women. Each had her band of faithful followers, and they
all watched each other askance. A few were radiant in triumphant
beauty, and amongst these was my mother. A girl at a ball is a mere
dancing-machine--a thing of no consequence whatever.
The men, with rare exceptions, did not impress me more favorably here
than at the Champs-Elysees. They have a used-up look; their features
are meaningless, or rather they have all the same meaning. The proud,
stalwart bearing which we find in the portraits of our ancestors--men
who joined moral to physical vigor--has disappeared. Yet in this
gathering there was one man of remarkable ability, who stood out from
the rest by the beauty of his face. But even he did not rouse in me the
feeling which I should have expected. I do not know his works, and he is
a man of no family. Whatever the genius and the merits of a plebeian
or a commoner, he could never stir my blood. Besides, this man was
obviously so much more taken up with himself than with anybody else,
that I could not but think these great brain-workers must look on us as
things rather than persons. When men of intellectual power love, they
ought to give up writing, otherwise their love is not the real thing.
The lady of their heart does not come first in all their thoughts. I
seemed to read all this in the bearing of the man I speak of. I am told
he is a professor, orator, and author, whose ambition makes him the
slave of every bigwig.
My mind was made up on the spot. It was unworthy of me, I determined,
to quarrel with society for not being impressed by my merits, and I gave
myself up to the simple pleasure of dancing, which I thoroughly enjoyed.
I heard a great deal of inept gossip about people of whom I know
nothing; but perhaps it is my ignorance on many subjects which prevents
me from appreciating it, as I saw that most men and women took a lively
pleasure in certain remarks, whether falling from their own lips or
those of others. Society bristles with enigmas which look hard to solve.
It is a perfect maze of intrigue. Yet I am fairly quick of sight and
hearing, and as to my wits, Mlle. de Maucombe does not need to be told!
I returned home tired with a pleasant sort of tiredness, and in all
innocence began describing my sensations to my mother, who was with me.
She checked me with the warning that I must never say such things to any
one but her.
"My dear child," she added, "it needs as much tact to know when to be
silent as when to speak."
This advice brought home to me the nature of the sensations which ought
to be concealed from every one, not excepting perhaps even a mother. At
a glance I measured the vast field of feminine duplicity. I can assure
you, sweetheart, that we, in our unabashed simplicity, would pass for
two very wide-awake little scandal-mongers. What lessons may be conveyed
in a finger on the lips, in a word, a look! All in a moment I was seized
with excessive shyness. What! may I never again speak of the natural
pleasure I feel in the exercise of dancing? "How then," I said to
myself, "about the deeper feelings?"
I went to bed sorrowful, and I still suffer from the shock produced by
this first collision of my frank, joyous nature with the harsh laws
of society. Already the highway hedges are flecked with my white wool!
Farewell, beloved.