they lie down there, in their harness.
I must tell you, dearest, about the people here, for this is a great place in which to study human nature and character. All the tribes of the earth seem to come here and take a new sort of shape as they stay. It is a paradise for women, and for pretty women, and therefore if my pet were here—but I must not turn that pretty head. Neither should I like her to be exposed to the bold, free-and-easy study of some of the gentry who walk about here, and survey beauty leisurely. In England, did any venture to "stare," as we would call it, in such a fashion, we should be tempted to fetch him a good stroke across his insolent face. But here, in this scattering of all the licentious free laws of Europe, it is tolerated and invited even. Yes, women are actually proud of this questionable sort of attention, and they give a look in return, though only a second's length, as if to challenge fresh attention. And yet it must be owned our own decent, decorous dames and girls, they look a poor race here; they seem to want style, which is with beauty, colour, everything save expression. There is, indeed, a charming-looking girl, who walks about here with a sister, and has an air of enjoyment and delight truly refreshing in the fade indifference which prevails. She has the most mysterious likeness to my Dora at home: I am glad she is here, as she will be a little photograph of one who is so dear to me. The same expression, the same aristocratic look that she has. Petite, with an exquisitely-shaped head, the richest and glossiest dark hair, the most refined outline of face; I am struck with her more and more. What contrasts to her the Americans, dressed to extravagance in theatrical "costumes," as they call laces and flounces, and the shortest of dresses, and the highest of heels, some certainly two or three inches high! Their faces are surprisingly round and full and brilliant, their figures good and handsome, which is a surprise; but when they open their full lips out streams the twang, nasal and horny. I shall see more of them, however, at a ball to be given presently. I know some little details of dress, &c., will amuse. What will my pet say to a rich black silk Watteau dress, all looped and curtained up, all over embroidery, with a crimson Spanish petticoat seen below, and the black all lit up here and there with the most delicate little lines and edging of crimson? It is as delicate as a Cardinal's undress. What will I say? I hear my pet answer. It would cost half a year's salary. Then what will she say to a faint amber-coloured summer dress, all looped and hanging in festoons, with a pale blue and white petticoat? This is, indeed, dressing in water colour, and both are American. There is another, a sort of pale sprite of a fairy, so white and delicate are her cheeks, so lustrous her eyes, so artificial the effect. She is all eternal smiles and giggling, and writhing and twistings of the neck, a favourite part of American pantomime. Her dress is becomingly short, and the oft-quoted Sir John Suckling's line is abolished, and ladies feet do not, like little mice, "run in and out;" but rather arrogantly display themselves peacock-like, as ostentatiously as they can. We might find patterns here for the plumage of all the birds of the air, from the flamingo downward; with a good deal of damaged ware, which I would not for the world my pet saw, but this is only more of the work of the Mephistopheles company yonder. To think, again I say, that these pure blessings, these life-giving springs, sent to give strength and innocence, all to be turned into fresh agents for attracting villany and vice. Was there ever such diabolical perversity!
Chapter V
Chapter V.
Monday.—I am not sorry I adopted that resolution of forswearing the Kursaal, its reading-rooms, &c., though I did see Mr. Lewis, the clergyman of the English chapel, going in and sitting down, and reading his Galignani. Can he know what he is doing? He is on the spot, a resident, and it is, as it were, in his parish; at all events it is his concern. I even saw him enter from the colonnade, go Tip the steps into the great tavern entrance and pass through. He was looking for some one. Still, if I were to refine on the matter, this garden where I am now, is theirs, kept by their gardeners. This very seat on which I sit, was paid for by them. What do you say, Dora? Send me some little bit of casuistry to help me over the matter. …
What scenes I do see, even so far off as I am now; hints, as it were, of a whole history. Thus have I come in late to a theatre, and, standing in the box lobby, have peeped in through the little glass window in the door. That glimpse has a strange mystery, from the fact of all having been worked up to a point. The situation seems changed, while we who look are in quite another region—a long way behind, as it were. I have noticed a fair-haired youth with a gold "pinch-nose," and who is certainly not more than twenty, and on his arm is a charming little French girl of seventeen, round and rosy, and dressed in the most piquant way imaginable. I soon found out that they are just married, not further back than a month. They were supremely happy, like children running from one thing to another, and enjoying everything with a charming happiness and animation. He wore a straw-coloured silk coat and white hat. She, a most coquettish little hat and a pink and white short dress. On the first day I had noticed them standing at the mouth of what I call the "yawning cave," hesitating gently, she looking in with the strangest air of curiosity, half in amazement, half in awe. Then I see them go in, and somehow that seems, by a sort of instinct, to be for me the beginning of something that would end tragically. The look of supreme happiness seemed, I suppose, to imply a contrast and supplement of disaster. In half an hour I saw them come back, she triumphant, fluttering—he with a complacent and boyish smile, looking at something bright in his hand. She skipped and danced and clapped her hands. I supposed they had won. They were children, and I had a surprising interest in them—I know not why. … I dined to-day at the Four Seasons Hotel, which at these places, is always said to be a most gay and festive looking hotel, with orange trees in front, and a kind of scene-painting air. So an old gentleman, who had been all round the watering places, told me. He could not account for it, he said, but "there it was." I accounted for it to him by the invincible power of names. Give a girl, I said, a pretty and romantic name, like Geraldine, or Dorcas, or Violet, and she will be sure in some degree to fall into the key of that pretty music. He did not seem to see it, but grunted and moved away from me. Another man said, "he supposed it paid," which did not touch the matter. Their table d'hôtes are certainly the most festive way of eating a dinner. There is such variety in the faces, such pretty, intellectual, stupid, heavy faces—faces, indeed, that seem to have been turned all day long towards that dinner, and wistfully expecting it. A long narrow room, yet so bright and airy, and looking on the street; I can fancy nothing so cheerful. Every one is in good humour; and even the waiters have a festive air, principally, I believe, from their being boys and boyish, as is the custom here, and not the mouldy, ancient, clumsy-legged, clumsy-fingered veterans who do duty with us. And what a good dinner—what a choice of wine, instead of our limited sherry, and claret, and "Bass." The little flasks dot the table down. The affenthaler ordinary, but good; the yellow hocks, infinite in variety; the better Assmanhauser, and the hockheimer sparkling, all at such moderate prices. I see complete families pour in, and take up position in line, father, stout mother, pleasant daughters, and the conceited son. Then the dinner sets in like a torrent; all those pleasan German dishes. Those vegetables which we know not of in England, and best of all, those delicious fowls, wherewith arrives the late but welcome salad. It does seem to me that it arrives at the precise and fitting moment, with a pleasant sense of expectancy going before it, he and his friend, the fowl. My dear Dora will hardly think that this can be her old invalid that is speaking.
On this day I find myself seated next to the little husband and wife of the morning, who come in full of delight and satisfaction and smiling, they know not why. I confess I am glad to be near so much innocence, and also on account of a little scheme I have in view. With such a pair, it is not difficult to begin a conversation. They were glad of the sympathy. My dear Dora knows that my stock of French is tolerably respectable, and that I can put it to fair use. They spoke together, and told me everything about themselves. They were not rich, but had enough. They were enjoying themselves so. It was the most delicious place in the world. "It was Heaven itself," she said; "and do you know," she added, "all the money we made—that is, he made—to-day, and so easily—eight napoleons; and out of it he bought me this sweet little brooch." And she showed on her breast what was certainly a very charming