Part 3

The bride is led to the altar by her father. When the clergyman says: "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" the father advances, and replies: "I do." The dear man always appears to me radiant on these occasions; with happy heart and beaming countenance he answers: "I do." It is true he gives his daughter, but as that is generally all he gives, it is a clear profit for him: one mouth less to fill.

A suitor never thinks of asking for a _dot_ with his bride, as I have said elsewhere. I even added: "Girls of the middle class in England have no _dot_; or when they have, it is the exception, and not the rule." This assertion brought down upon me a plethora of recriminations. "What, Sir," wrote the indignant British parents, "we give no _dots_ to our daughters! But, begging your pardon, we do so when we have the means."

All I can say is that the exceptions may be a little more frequent than I thought, although I doubt it; and whichever way the case may stand, I know personally a great number of Englishmen very well off, rich even, who have led their daughters to the altar, dowered them with a few chemises and handkerchiefs, and ... wished them good luck.

The young couple manage as best they may.

V.

After the Ball--My Wife makes me a little Confidence (from the Diary of a Frenchman married to an Englishwoman).

I am not jealous; yet, every time I reach home after a ball, I experience a certain feeling of relief and satisfaction: I cannot help it.

When you have seen your wife whirled round a room, in the arms of a score of men, who have plunged their eyes in her _corsage_, inhaled the perfume of her hair, held her waist and hand, felt her near them at the distance of a hair's breadth, you are happy to find yourself once more alone with her, and to feel that, after all, she is your very own. Besides, there is another sentiment that animates you. The dance has made your little wife radiant; it has brought a new glow to her cheeks; her eyes are brighter; her whole being seems to exhale I know not what intoxicating perfume; she is lovelier than ever in your eyes; and those thousand little jealous ideas that have been passing through your head have added fuel to the flame of your love ... in short, I know nothing more pleasant, more delightful, than to return from a ball with one's wife, to a cosy fire-side, to thrust her little feet into her satin slippers, to pull off her gloves, and ask her for a cup of tea.

We had had a little room arranged quite expressly for these _tête-à-tête_. We called it the _reposoir_. We only used it on returning from the play or a ball. What long confabulations we have had in it! What delicious little chats its walls have heard! And, thank Heaven, they often hear them still: I do not see why I should not put all my verbs in the present tense.

This sanctum is about the size of a nutshell: there is just room for two. The furniture consists of a table, a sofa, two inviting-looking arm-chairs, and a Pleyel piano of the sweetest tone. A Turkey carpet covers the floor, and two lamps with blue tulip-shaped globes throw a soft, most exquisite light over the room. When the curtains are drawn, we can imagine ourselves alone in the world.

My wife has more than once confessed to me that, to her, the greatest pleasure about going to a ball or a theatre, was the thought of the little _reposoir_ all ready to receive us on our return, and she never forgot to give strict orders with regard to it before setting out.

I have more than once, at a party, caught her throwing me little glances that seemed to say: "Have patience, darling; Parker is just lighting us a lovely little fire; in a few moments we shall be all alone, and I will soon drive that frown from your brow."

* * * * *

One evening we came home and went to the _reposoir_ as usual, my wife 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.