Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  We do now and then get a new tragedy, — witness “Fazio” and “Rienzi;” but Comedy — genuine, easy, graceful, flowing, talking Comedy — is dead: I think she followed Sheridan to the grave and was buried with him! But never is one so conscious of the loss, or so inclined to mourn it, as after seeing a comedy of Molière’s of the first order, — for his pieces should be divided into classes, like diamonds. What a burst of new enjoyment would rush over all England, or all France, if a thing like “The School for Scandal” or “Les Femmes Savantes” were to appear before them!

  Fancy the delight of sitting to hear wit — wit that one did not know by rote, bright, sparkling, untasted as yet by any — new and fresh from the living fountain! — not coming to one in the shape of coin, already bearing the lawful stamp of ten thousand plaudits to prove it genuine, and to refuse to accept which would be treason; but as native gold, to which the touchstone of your own intellect must be applied to test its worth! Shall we ever experience this?

  It is strange that the immense mass of material for comedy which the passing scenes of this singular epoch furnish should not be worked up by some one. Molière seems not to have suffered a single passing folly to escape him. Had he lived in these days, what delicious whigs, radicals, “penny-rint” kings, from our side of the water, — what tragic poets, republicans, and parvenus from his own, would he have cheered us withal!

  Rousseau says, that when a theatre produces pieces which represent the real manners of the people, they must greatly assist those who are present at them to see and amend what is vicious or absurd in themselves, “comme on ôte devant un miroir les taches de son visage.” The idea is excellent; and surely there never was a time when it would be so easy or so useful to put it in practice. Would the gods but send a Sheridan to England and a Molière to France, we might yet live to see some of our worst misfortunes turned to jest, and, like the man choking in a quinsey, laugh ourselves into health again.

  LETTER XXXV.

  Soirée dansante. — Young Ladies. — Old Ladies. — Anecdote. — The Consolations of Chaperones. — Flirtations. — Discussion upon the variations between young Married Women in France and in England. — Making love by deputy. — Not likely to answer in England.

  Last night we were at a ball, — or rather, I should say, a “soirée dansante;” for at this season, though people may dance from night to morning, there are no balls. But let it be called by what name it may, it could not have been more gay and agreeable were this the month of January instead of May.

  There were several English gentlemen present, who, to the great amusement of some of the company, uniformly selected their partners from among the young ladies. This may appear very natural to you; but here it is thought the most unnatural proceeding possible.

  To a novice in French society, there is certainly no circumstance so remarkable as the different position which the unmarried hold in the drawing-rooms of England and les salons of France. With us, the prettiest things to look at, and the partners first sought for the dance, are the young girls. Brilliant in the perfection of their youthful bloom, graceful and gay as young fawns in every movement of the most essentially juvenile of all exercises, and eclipsing the light elegance of their own toilet by loveliness that leaves no eyes to study its decoration, — it is they who, in spite of diamonds and of blonde, of wedded beauty or of titled grace, ever appear to be the principal actors in a ball-room. But “they manage these matters” quite otherwise “in France.”

  Unfortunately, it may sometimes happen among us, that a coquettish matron may be seen to lead the giddy waltz with more sprightliness than wisdom; but she always does it at the risk of being mal notée in some way or other, more or less gravely, by almost every person present; — nay, I would by no means encourage her to be very certain that her tonish partner himself would not be better pleased to whirl round the mazy circle with one of the slight, light, sylph-like creatures he sees flying past him, than with the most fashionable married woman in London.

  But in Paris all this is totally reversed; and, what is strange enough, you will find in both countries that the reason assigned for the difference between them arises from national attention to good morals.

  On entering a French ball-room, instead of seeing the youngest and loveliest part of the company occupying the most conspicuous places, surrounded by the gayest men, and dressed with the most studied and becoming elegance, you must look for the young things quite in the background, soberly and quietly attired, and almost wholly eclipsed behind the more fully-blown beauties of their married friends.

  It is really marvellous, considering how very much prettier a girl is at eighteen than she can possibly be some dozen years afterwards, to see how completely fashion will nevertheless have its own way, making the worse positively appear the better beauty.

  All that exceeding charm and fascination which is for ever and always attributed to an elegant Frenchwoman, belongs wholly, solely, and altogether to her after she becomes a wife. A young French girl, “parfaitement bien élevée,” looks ... “parfaitement bien élevée;” but it must be confessed, also, that she looks at the same time as if her governess (and a sharp one) were looking over her shoulder. She will be dressed, of course, with the nicest precision and most exact propriety; her corsets will forbid a wrinkle to appear in her robe, and her friseur deny permission to any single hair that might wish to deviate from the station appointed for it by his stiff control. But if you would see that graceful perfection of the toilet, that unrivalled agacerie of costume which distinguishes a French woman from all others in the world, you must turn from mademoiselle to madame. The very sound of the voice, too, is different. It should seem as if the heart and soul of a French girl were asleep, or at least dozing, till the ceremony of marriage awakened them. As long as it is mademoiselle who speaks, there is something monotonous, dull, and uninteresting in the tone, or rather in the tune, of her voice; but when madame addresses you, all the charm that manner, cadence, accent can bestow, is sure to greet you.

  In England, on the contrary, of all the charms peculiar to youthful loveliness, I know none so remarkable as the unconstrained, fresh, natural, sweet, and joyous sound of a young girl’s voice. It is as delicious as the note of the lark, when rising in the first freshness of morning to meet the sun. It is not restrained, held in, and checked into tameness by any fear lest it should too early show its syren power.

  Even in the dance itself, the very arena for the display of youthful gracefulness, the young French girl fails, when her well-taught steps are compared with the easy, careless, fascinating movements of the married woman.

  In the simple kindness of manner too, which, if there were no other attraction, would ever suffice to render an unaffected, good-natured young girl charming, there must be here a cautious restraint. A demoiselle Française would be prevented by bienséance from showing it, were she the gentlest-hearted creature breathing.

  A young Englishman of my acquaintance, who, though he had been a good deal in French society, was not initiated into the mysteries of female education, recounted to me the other day an adventure of his, which is german to the matter, though not having much to do with our last night’s ball. This young man had for a long time been very kindly received in a French family, had repeatedly dined with them, and, in fact, considered himself as admitted to their house on the footing of an intimate friend.

  The only child of this family was a daughter, rather pretty, but cold, silent, and repulsive in manner — almost awkward, and utterly uninteresting. Every attempt to draw her into conversation had ever proved abortive; and though often in her company, the Englishman hardly thought she could consider him as an acquaintance.

  The young man returned to England; but, after some months, again revisited Paris. While standing one day in earnest contemplation of a picture at the Louvre, he was startled at being suddenly addressed by an extremely beautiful woman, who in the kindest and most friendly manner imaginable asked him a multitude of ques
tions — made a thousand inquiries after his health — invited him earnestly to come and see her, and concluded by exclaiming— “Mais c’est un siècle depuis que je vous ai vu.”

  My friend stood gazing at her with equal admiration and surprise. He began to remember that he had seen her before, but when or where he knew not. She saw his embarrassment and smiled. “Vous m’avez oublié donc?” said she. “Je m’appelle Eglé de P —— .... Mais je suis mariée....”

  But to return to our ball.

  As I saw the married women taken out to dance one after the another, till at last there was not a single dancing-looking man left, I felt myself getting positively angry; for, notwithstanding the assistance given by my ignorant countrymen, there were still at least half a dozen French girls unprovided with chevaliers.

  They did not, however, look by many degrees so sadly disappointed as English girls would do did the same misfortune betide them. They, like the poor eels, were used to it; and the gentlemen, too, were cruelly used to the task of torture, — making their pretty little feet beat time upon the floor, while they watched the happy wedded in pairs — not wedded pairs — swim before their eyes in mazes which they would most gladly have threaded after them.

  When at length all the married ladies, young and old, were duly provided for, several staid and very respectable-looking gentlemen emerged from corners and sofas, and presenting themselves to the young expectants, were accepted with quiet, grateful smiles, and permitted to lead them to the dance.

  Old ladies like myself, whose fate attaches them to the walls of a ball-room, are accustomed to find their consolation and amusement from various sources. First, they enjoy such conversation as they can catch; or, if they will sit tolerably silent, they may often hear the prettiest airs of the season exceedingly well played. Then the whole arena of twinkling feet is open to their criticism and admiration. Another consolation, and frequently a very substantial one, is found in the supper; — nay, sometimes a passing ice will be caught to cheer the weary watcher. But there is another species of amusement, the general avowal of which might lead the younger part of the civilized world to wish that old ladies wore blinkers: I allude to the quiet contemplation of half a dozen sly flirtations that may be going on around them, — some so well managed! ... some so clumsily!

  But upon all these occasions, in England, though well-behaved old ladies will always take especial care not so to see that their seeing shall be seen, they still look about them with no feeling of restraint — no consciousness that they would rather be anywhere else than spectators of what is going forward near them. They feel, at least I am sure I do, a very comfortable assurance that the fair one is engaged, not in marring, but in making her fortune. Here again I may quote the often-quoted, and say, “They manage all these matters differently at least, if not better, in France.”

  In England, if a woman is seen going through all the manoeuvres of the flirting exercise, from the first animating reception of the “How d’ye do?” to the last soft consciousness which fixes the eyes immovably on the floor, while the head, gently inclined, seems willing to indulge the happy ear in receiving intoxicating draughts of parfait amour, — when this is seen in England, even should the lady be past eighteen, one feels assured that she is not married; but here, without scandal or the shadow of scandal be it spoken, one feels equally well assured that she is. She may be a widow — or she may flirt in the innocence of her heart, because it is the fashion; but she cannot do it, because she is a young lady intending to be married.

  I was deeply engaged in these speculations last night, when an elderly lady — who for some reason or other, not very easy to divine, actually never waltzes — came across the room and placed herself by my side. Though she does not waltz, she is a very charming person; and as I had often conversed with her before, I now welcomed her approach with great pleasure.

  “A quoi pensez-vous, Madame Trollope?” said she: “vous avez l’air de méditer.”

  I deliberated for a moment whether I should venture to tell her exactly what was passing in my mind; but as I deliberated, I looked at her, and there was that in her countenance which assured me I should have no severity to fear if I put her wholly in my confidence: I therefore replied very frankly, —

  “I am meditating; and it is on the position which unmarried women hold in France.”

  “Unmarried women?... You will scarcely find any such in France,” said she.

  “Are not those young ladies who have just finished their quadrille unmarried?”

  “Ah!... But you cannot call them unmarried women. Elles sont des demoiselles.”

  “Well, then, my meditations were concerning them.”

  “Eh bien....”

  “Eh bien.... It appears to me that the ball is not given — that the music does not play — that the gentlemen are not empressé, for them.”

  “No, certainly. It would be quite contrary to our ideas of what is right if it were so.”

  “With us it is so different!... It is always the young ladies who are, at least, the ostensible heroines of every ball-room.”

  “The ostensible heroines?”... She dwelt rather strongly upon the adjective, adding with a smile,— “Our ostensible, are our real heroines upon these occasions.”

  I explained. “The real heroines,” said I, “will, I confess, in cases of ostentation and display, be sometimes the ladies who give balls in return.”

  “Well explained,” said she, laughing: “I certainly thought you had another meaning. You think, then,” she continued, “that our young married women are made of too much importance among us?”

  “Oh no!” I replied eagerly: “it is, in my opinion, almost impossible to make them of too much importance; for I believe that it is entirely upon their influence that the tone of society depends.”

  “You are quite right. It is impossible for those who have lived as long as we have in the world to doubt it: but how can this be, if, upon the occasions which bring people together, they are to be overlooked, while young girls who have as yet no position fixed are brought forward instead?”

  “But surely, being brought forward to dance in a waltz or quadrille, is not the sort of consequence which we either of us mean?”

  “Perhaps not; but it is one of its necessary results. Our women marry young, — as soon, in fact, as their education is finished, and before they have been permitted to enter the world, or share in the pleasures of it. Their destiny, therefore, instead of being the brightest that any women enjoy, would be the most triste, were they forbidden to enter into the amusements so natural to their age and national character, because they were married.”

  “But may there not be danger in the custom which throws young females, thus early and irrevocably engaged, for the first time into the society, and, as it were, upon the attentions of men whom it has already become their duty not to consider as too amiable?”

  “Oh no!... If a young woman be well-disposed, it is not a quadrille, or a waltz either, that will lead her astray. If it could, it would surely be the duty of all the legislators of the earth to forbid the exercise for ever.”

  “No, no, no!” said I earnestly; “I mean nothing of the kind, I assure you: on the contrary, I am so convinced, from the recollections of my own feelings, and my observations on those of others, that dancing is not a fictitious, but a real, natural source of enjoyment, the inclination for which is inherent in us, that, instead of wishing it to be forbidden, I would, had I the power, make it infinitely more general and of more frequent occurrence than it is: young people should never meet each other without the power of dancing if they wished it.”

  “And from this animating pleasure, for which you confess that there is a sort of besoin within us, you would exclude all the young women above seventeen — because they are married?... Poor things!... Instead of finding them so willing as they generally are to enter on the busy scenes of life, I think we should have great difficulty in getting their permission to monter un ménage for them.
Marriage would be soon held in abhorrence if such were its laws.”

  “I would not have them such, I assure you,” replied I, rather at a loss how to explain myself fully without saying something that might either be construed into coarseness of thinking and a cruel misdoubting of innocence, or else into a very uncivil attack upon the national manners: I was therefore silent.

  My companion seemed to expect that I should proceed, but after a short interval resumed the conversation by saying,— “Then what arrangement would you propose, to reconcile the necessity of dancing with the propriety of keeping married women out of the danger which you seem to imagine might arise from it?”

  “It would be too national were I to reply, that I think our mode of proceeding in this case is exactly what it ought to be.”

  “But such is your opinion?”

  “To speak sincerely, I believe it is.”

  “Will you then have the kindness to explain to me the difference in this respect between France and England?”

  “The only difference between us which I mean to advocate is, that with us the amusement which throws young people together under circumstances the most likely, perhaps, to elicit expressions of gallantry and admiration from the men, and a gracious reception of them from the women, is considered as befitting the single rather than the married part of the community.”