radiant and lovely enough to turn the head of a hermit, I a little
sulky. I took off her pelisse, laid it carefully on the sofa, and
threw myself dreamily into one of the chairs. My wife took possession
of the other, gave me a wicked little glance, and unceremoniously
burst out laughing in my face.
"I am sure you are jealous. Don't tell me you are not," she added,
placing five glowing perfumed fingers on my lips.
----"Well, yes, I am; it was not nice of you to waltz with that great
fop of a...."
----"Now don't talk about that; I was punished enough for it. I never
saw such an awkward fellow."
----"It served you right."
----"Come, don't scold me. I had it in my head--I don't know
why--that it was to be a polka. You know very well that I don't care
to waltz with anybody but you. First of all, because you waltz
beautifully, and then, with you there is no danger."
----"There is no danger? What do you mean?"
----"Did I say that?"
----"You did."
----"Oh! I don't know what I say. Yes, as I was remarking, you waltz
beautifully ... only...."
----"Only...."
----"Only you go too fast."
----"Too fast! How can that be? The waltz should be rapid, giddy."
----"Oh! you silly! Ahem! I mean to say, you are wrong."
----"Explain yourself, sweet one."
----"Well then, I mean that I like a waltz to be slow, dreamy, sad,
almost dying away; I should like them composed entirely of the kind of
airs they generally begin with--slow and solemn."
----"What!" I exclaimed, "you don't like the intoxicating kind of
waltz?"
----"You know nothing about it," replied she cunningly.
----"I tell you I am an inveterate waltzer."
----"That proves nothing at all."
----"I tell you a waltz should be an intoxicating whirl."
----"Just at the end, perhaps; though I am not so sure of that either.
Listen, I'll show you the kind of movement I like."
And, seating herself at the piano, my wife began to play a few bars of
the _Colonel_ waltz.
"That is a waltz," she said, seating herself on my knees, and laying
her head upon my shoulder.
----"Indeed!" I replied, growing reflective. "I say, darling, if you
don't mind--I don't know why I ask you that again, but more than ever
... I had rather you waltzed with no one but me."
----"Oh! you need not ask me; and if that poor fellow had not set
about it so awkwardly, I should very soon have thanked him and excused
myself.... Just time enough to perceive that it was a waltz: and that
would have settled it, you may be sure."
----"I don't follow you at all."
----"It is so lovely to waltz with you! You are not afraid to hold me
firmly, and besides ... when I get giddy, I just lay my head on your
shoulder and close my eyes, and then I feel quite safe."
----"It's a curious thing. The waltz makes me a little giddy too, but
still I...."
----"Well, you are not like me."
----"Does it make your head swim?"
----"What a dear old goosey you are!"
----"Not such a goose as I look.... Once more, what on earth is the
effect that the waltz does produce upon you?"
----"I ... do not know."
----"Try to find out."
And as I foresaw that my wife was about to make me a little
confidence, and my wife's confidences have always deeply interested
me, I turned down the lamps, made her turn her back to the light, and
applied an attentive ear to her pretty mouth.
"Now, come," I said to her; "do tell me."
----"I am sure, I don't know."
----"Oh yes, you do."
----"It's only nonsense...."
----"All the more reason why you should say it out. Go on, my own
darling: there is nothing so dangerous as nonsense turned inwards."
----"Little shivers ... ever so small ... you know.... Don't kiss me
in the neck: you'll make me shriek...."
----"Little _frissons_!... Where?"
----"All over...."
----"Humph! I begin to understand the danger you were speaking of just
now.... Now, darling, explain yourself more clearly, you know; I have
not got it yet."
----"I adore you!" she said rising, and, taking my head in her two
hands, she kissed me tenderly.
We took a delicious cup of tea together, and it was agreed that in
future my wife should only waltz with me.
It would appear that, when I waltz, I do not set about it too
awkwardly. At any rate, it is the conclusion that I drew from our
resolution.
VI.
The Beauty of Englishwomen--Their Dress--Their Hair--Advice to French
Ladies--Hyde Park--Interior of English Theatres--O Routine! such is
thy handiwork.
The French women are more graceful and more piquant than the English;
but they are less healthy and less fresh-looking. Their eyes are
brighter, their mouths much prettier, and their figures a great deal
finer; but their complexion is not so clear, nor nearly so fine.
Regular walks and baths are the secret of the health and beauty of the
English woman. She fears neither draught nor douche. She sleeps with
her window open, and, on rising, inundates herself with cold water. In
winter weather, the least hardy wrings a hard towel in water, and rubs
herself with it from head to foot to promote the circulation of the
blood, till her skin shrieks for mercy. The appetite thus awakened,
she descends, fresh and vigorous, to breakfast heartily on eggs and
cold meat, and then sets out for the lawn-tennis ground, or goes about
her daily task.
It is in the fields, or on the lawns of their gardens; always in open
air, that most Englishwomen pass six months of the year.
* * * * *
The neck is very freely displayed in England by ladies in evening
dress; less so, however, than formerly, I am told. It would seem as
if, starting from the head downwards, an Englishwoman did not mind how
much she uncovered herself: provided she does not show her feet, she
is happy. When the streets are muddy--and Heaven knows what black,
dirty mud we have in London--you will never see the women lift their
skirts as they walk; they seem by instinct to prefer getting them
muddy to the waist. Consequently, the gentleman who follows a neat
pair of ankles in Paris is never seen in London.
The Englishwoman's skin is generally fine, and beautifully white and
smooth; satin and alabaster; a neck like the swan's. The shoulders and
hips are frequently too narrow; and, unfortunately, the bosom is too
often a _quantité négligeable_ in the enumeration of an Englishwoman's
charms. But when there is something to display, good heavens, how
proud they are of it! They carry it like church banners.
The first thing that strikes one in Paris on arriving from England is
the embonpoint of the women. By the powers! they seem to be having a
good time under the Republic. What development! What exuberance!
Ladies, it is really alarming: a little moderation, pray, or you will
soon have to throw your corsets over the hedge.
* * * * *
The Englishwoman walks on the flat foot, and lets her arms hang; the
Frenchwoman puts her toes to the ground first, and her arms are folded
in front of her: it is more graceful, but not so comfortable. The last
time I visited Paris, I saw with pleasure that the high, pointed
heels, that were stuck in the centre of the sole, had begun to give
place to the English heels: this is a great progress.
And, _mesdames_, since you are beginning to imitate what is sensible
in the English _toilette_, allow me to give you a piece of advice that
your husbands will be very pleased to see you follow.
It is you who have the honour of setting the fashion to the civilized
world. You wear your clothes so gracefully, and you are so charming,
that even a frying-pan would look pretty on your heads. But I object
to your hats and bonnets. Yes, those _tyroliens_, loaded with
feathers, aigrettes, pompons, birds, fruit, and what not, are very
dear and exceedingly ugly. You seek too much to attract to your hats
that attention which should be bestowed entirely on your matchless
eyes.
The wife of a clerk in Paris with about a hundred and fifty pounds
a-year, will tell you that it is impossible to get a decent bonnet for
less than forty or fifty francs. What folly! I know perfect ladies in
England, who, for about five or ten shillings, make their own, and
charming bonnets they are: simple, quiet, and most stylish. In
England, only dealers in cast-off clothing would think of getting
themselves up in those gigantic constructions, covered with currants,
cherries--when shall we have the pumpkin?--that I noticed in the
windows of the grand bonnet shops in Paris.
Come, _mesdames_, turn over a new leaf. Let me recommend you, for
instance, the little "Princess" bonnet, so called because of the
partiality shown for it by the Princess of Wales. It is a simple
little form, made of straw, framed in velvet, that is not perched on
the top of the head, but encases it, just leaving a small chignon
visible at the back. How pretty women look in it! I would recommend
also the Peg Woffington hat, which completely frames the face. Every
picture needs a frame to throw up its beauty, as even a child in art
knows. How else explain why the nun's head-dress, the hood, the
turban, and the mantilla are so becoming to all young women?
Try these _coiffures_, ladies, and I assure you that you will find
them charming. Real distinction consists in simplicity, as you know
very well, and you are quite pretty enough to be able to do without
those absurd piles of head gear, that do not suit you at all, and that
must seriously interfere with your husbands' peace of mind. Do not
wait until your milliners introduce the reform. It is to their
interest to persuade you that the more furbelows you put on, the
prettier you look. Take the matter into your own hands: put on a
little Princess bonnet next Easter, and all the nymphs of the Bois de
Boulogne will drive to their milliners, and order one of the same
pattern, on their way home from the Avenue des Acacias.
* * * * *
Englishwomen wear their hair very simply dressed, even at balls. I
admire that. To my taste, those locks, a little curly and rough on the
top of the head, and coiled into a knot at the back of the neck, are
much prettier than the complicated monuments that are the production
of some fashionable hairdresser's brain, and need a hundred hair pins
to keep them together. These edifices that have taken hours to build,
seem to awaken no idea in the mind, unless it be the idea of the
length of time it would take to undo them, and the danger of touching
them, lest the symmetry should be spoiled. On the contrary, those
loosely twisted knots suggest a thousand charming ideas to the mind.
Everything about a woman should be suggestive. You fancy you are going
to see two pretty round arms uplifted to fasten the swaying tresses.
And that is the prettiest movement of a woman, much the prettiest, you
will admit. Besides this, the unfastening is but the work of an
instant, and "_o'er a neck's rose-misted marble_" flows a mantle of
gold or ebony. Yes, decidedly the English way of doing the hair
suggests many pretty thoughts.
Love feeds on suggestion: I had almost said on illusion. The greatest
charm about a woman's dress lies less in what it displays than in what
it only hints at. As an illustration, take the success of a dress that
was a great favourite in England two years ago. It was fastened at the
neck; but, lower down, it yawned open, as if burst through the
pressure of _abondance de biens_, showing little, but leaving much to
be guessed at. It was provoking and exceedingly piquant. Besides--let
us say here all we think--this kind of bodice allowed a little
cheating, and the dissimulation of a small salt-cellar here and
there, which naturally made it very popular in England.
It is all very well for the fair sex to tell us that it is out of pure
vanity they delight in dressing prettily. I do not believe a word of
it. I should not dare to affirm that they did not take a secret
delight in eclipsing or crushing a rival, but I am infatuated enough
to believe that it is principally to please us that they study to look
lovely. It seems to me then, that we ought to have a voice in the
matter, a consultative if not a deliberative voice, and to be allowed
to tell them the kind of attire that pleases us most.
The more so, fair ladies, that it is one of our privileges to pay the
milliner's bills.
* * * * *
Just as glaring and showy as are the colours the lower class women
array themselves in, just so quiet and simple are those worn in the
street by ladies.
The dresses you see in the carriages, in Hyde Park, are noticeable for
their sober tints and a studied, almost Puritan, simplicity.
There is something to the credit of Englishmen, which may aptly be
added here, and that is, that, with the exception of the old or
infirm, very few gentlemen accompany the ladies in the carriages: they
are on horseback. You will see no young idlers of the order of St.
Dandy and St. Dangler lolling among cushions, taking their solitary
drive in Hyde Park to while away an hour or two. It would be going a
little too far to say that in England every man works, although it
would be very near to the truth; but what is perfectly sure is that
they all have some occupation.
All display of toilette is reserved for the evening: for balls,
theatres, and dinners.
The auditorium of a London theatre presents a very much more brilliant
appearance than that of a Parisian one. It is an exceedingly pretty
sight to see all the boxes, stalls, and dress circle full of gaily
dressed ladies; in fact, if you except the Opera and two or three such
houses as the Lyceum, the Haymarket, and the St. James's, it is, in my
opinion, about the only thing there is interesting for a Frenchman to
see in a London theatre, even though he may understand English well.
Evening dress is not optional, it is compulsory; unless you are bound
for the upper regions of the house, the attendants, before showing you
to your place, conduct the ladies who may accompany you, to the
cloak-room, where hats and bonnets are left.
Of course, most ladies drive to the theatre in evening dress, and have
no hat to remove.
It is needless to say that in England, where routine is not so
deep-rooted as in France, ladies are admitted to the stalls. And why
should they not be? They are the best seats in the house, and why in
most of our Parisian theatres they are still closed to ladies, is
something that passes my comprehension.
Long ago: about two hundred years back, the pit was not supplied with
seats, and naturally women did not go there. This is why the ground
floor, although now provided with excellent accommodation, is still
interdicted to ladies. It seems too idiotic, but nevertheless, it is
in vain one looks for any other explanation.
Almost three hundred years ago men left off wearing belts. And yet, in
spite of that, on the backs of our coats may still be seen the two
buttons that served for their support--and it is probable we shall see
them there many a year yet.
O Routine! such is thy handiwork.
VII.
The Word and the Thing--Little Essay on the English Language--There
is nothing like a good telescope if you want to see well--Master
Dubius--Puritan Parlance--Salvation Fair--May Meetings and Spring
Cleanings--Are you _Pooty_ Well?--A suitable Menu.
It is the name of a thing that shocks an English woman, not so much
the thing itself.
That which we call a pair of _indispensables_ goes by the name of a
pair of _unmentionables_ over here. If you remark in a room, that the
trousers Mr. So-and-so wears are always irreproachable, you will send
all the ladies behind their fans. If you were to follow up the
subject, you would soon create a veritable panic in the room. But go
to any athletic meeting--to Lord's Cricket Ground, or Lillie
Bridge--there you will see gentlemen who, for all covering, have on
their skin a thin flannel jersey, and drawers of the same, about the
size of a fig leaf; saturated with perspiration, these elementary
articles of the toilette cleave to the form as if their wearers had
come straight out of a bath. Nevertheless, all around the course,
looking, admiring, and applauding, you will see a crowd of the fair
sex, that will convince you that an Englishwoman's eyes are not so
easily shocked as her ears.
In the room that contains the Elgin marbles, at the British Museum, I
have seen young girls shading Apollos, whose nakedness was
distressing. The glance of the passer-by did not disconcert them; with
a firm hand, they continued their work unmoved. I have more than once
run away blushing from those faithful reproductions.
Some English girls make studies from the nude figure, under the
guidance of a male professor. I must add, however, in order to be
just, that this latter does not make his observations directly to his
pupils: the young ladies retire to another room, while the master
writes on the margin of their drawings the remarks that their work
suggests to him. I am told that Sir Frederick Leighton, the celebrated
English painter, interdicts the undraped model to his pupils of the
Royal Academy, of which he is President.
Everyone must still remember the indignation which was aroused among
righteous upper circles by the revelations of the _Daily News_, when
that paper had the courage to make known the atrocities that were
being committed in Bulgaria. The ancient spinsters of philanthropic
England have never forgiven the great organ of the Liberal party for
having dared to enter into those details that froze the whole
civilized world with horror and affright. "To think that I should have
lived until to-day," wrote one of them to a Conservative paper, "to
read such things in a newspaper! Have we lost all sentiment of shame?
Must we women be exposed to see these hideous, revolting accounts in
print? That such things should be is bad enough; but that they should
be described in detail ought not to be allowed."
Thanks to the courage of the lamented Mac Gahan, the valorous
correspondent of the _Daily News_, these atrocities were brought to
light, too late, perhaps, to repair the evil already done, but not too
late to hinder the utter annihilation of a poor nation, which was
trying to shake off a shameful yoke that had weighed it down for four
centuries. Let us hope that, in future, the worthy maiden lady will
not venture to open any other paper than her _Myra's Journal_ and the
_Animal World_.
I find the following anecdote in the _Pall Mall Gazette_:--
"A foreigner well known in English society sends us the following
amusing account of his bathing experiences in England:--
"'I have been much amused by your suggesting to the ladies who object
to bathers in the River Thames the use of their inevitable companion,
the parasol. Let me relate what happened to me last year while a
temporary resident in a quiet seaside place of great renown. I was in
the habit of bathing off a boat, for which purpose I was rowed out a
couple of hundred yards or so from the shore, where I divested myself
of my "many" clothes and donned the "few" generally worn by bathers. I
practised this favourite pursuit of mine unmolested for several days;
but one fine afternoon I indulged in a game of tennis with the vicar
of some parish or other in the neighbourhood, and he gravely "took the
opportunity" to inform me that among his pious flock there were two
venerable old ladies, who--having a house facing the sea and close to
the spot whence I embarked for my daily revelry--were much distressed
in their minds by my proceedings, and, as they had disburdened their
souls to him for consolation, he earnestly begged me to see my way to
relieve the old ladies from their dire grievance. I told him I should
get myself rowed out a hundred yards further from shore, and the good
priest much applauded this resolution which would in his opinion
prevent any further mischief. However, the gods willed it otherwise.
The next day the vicar informed me--not without a suspicion of a smile
on his face--that the two "venerable dames" could still see me quite
plainly ... by means of a "capital binocular."'"
We would rather not attempt to describe the despair of the noble
foreigner.
There is nothing like a good telescope, if you want to see well.
That is evident.
* * * * *
The most striking feature of the English language is euphemism: it is
its very genius. So, "to be taken in adultery" is in English law
phraseology, "to be surprised in criminal conversation." Conversation!
Charming, is it not? A cosy talk, a bit of a chat, you know.
If, in France, you must turn your tongue in your mouth seven times
before speaking, in England, you must turn it at least eight. You get
used to it in time.
In France, when something is offered us at table we say: "With
pleasure," or "No, thank you, not any more." "Thank you," alone, is
sufficient, if you wish to refuse. In England, _thank you_, alone,
signifies that you are ready to allow yourself to be helped to
such-and-such a dish, as I once or twice found to my dismay and the
distress of my poor stomach.
However, these are not the usual ways of accepting or refusing. At
the family table, when the master of the house asks you if you will
have a little more of the dish he has before him, if you are still
hungry, you reply: "I think I will." If you are satisfied, you answer:
"I don't think I'll have any more," or, "I would rather not have any
more."
A Frenchman, taking leave of his friends, says: "Well, I must leave
you; so, good-bye," and he shakes hands and goes. An Englishman will
say: "I am afraid I must go." He is _afraid_ it must be late; he
_thinks_ he must leave you; he _fears_ so: anyhow, he is not very
sure; and if you were to ask an Englishman if it is true that his nose
is in the middle of his face, he would reply that he hopes and
presumes it is in the place you mention:
"Dubius is such a scrupulous good man,
Yes, you may catch him tripping if you can.
He would not, with a peremptory tone,
Assert the nose upon his face his own;
With hesitation, admirably slow,
He humbly hopes--presumes--it may be so."
I happened the other day to be travelling, in a first-class carriage,
with half a dozen young people who were going to Hammersmith, to do a
little boating on the Thames. One of the young men was smoking. Up
comes the guard to the carriage door. "You are not in a
smoking-compartment, sir," said he to the young fellow, "and I see
you are smoking."
----"You make a mistake, I am not," promptly replied my smoker, who
had taken his pipe from his mouth at the approach of the guard, and
was holding it out of sight.
He was right: while he was answering the guard, it was his pipe that
was smoking, not he.
In a nation that boasts of its truthfulness, that punishes perjury with
transportation, but which is not more virtuous than its neighbours, it
was necessary to find _avec le ciel des accommodements_, and so white
lies were invented: lies more or less innocent.
How many good Englishmen do I know who would not for the world say,
"My God," but who get over the difficulty by saying _mon Dieu_ or
_mein Gott_, as if the Deity only understood English!
* * * * *
But it is the Puritans that you should hear, if you would form an idea
of the genius of the English language. Their phraseology hangs about
their tongues like so much treacle.
It is quite a study apart.
If you would be thoroughly edified, take a walk along the Strand in
the month of May.
There stands in this thoroughfare an immense hall belonging to the
Young Men's Christian Association. This building, which ought to be
called Salvation Hall, is simply named Exeter Hall. It is in this
place that, from the first to the thirty-first of May, the various
angelical, evangelical, and archangelical societies, successively hold
their annual conferences, called May Meetings.
It is Salvation Fair.
To Exeter Hall throng _la gent trotte-menu_ from all parts of the
United Kingdom to do their souls' spring-cleaning.
For a whole month, the air of the Strand is impregnated with an odour
of sanctity ... of which it stands sadly in need, to speak the truth:
it is a spectacle thoroughly English, to see on one side of a
street--the north side of the Strand--edifying groups, unctuous
specimens of the most austere virtue; on the other side, a few yards
off, groups of unfortunate, shameless women, dirty, intoxicated,
daring specimens of the lowest debauch: on the right, hymns; on the
left, obscene songs: on the right, the Bible and the Gospel; on the
left, beer, gin ... and the rest.
In this pious society the note resembles the plumage.