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.
