Collected Works of Frances Trollope, page 546
“I forgive it perfectly,” I replied; “but as we have agreed not to mystify each other, it would not be fair to leave you in the belief that it is the custom, in order to ‘acquire’ husbands for the young ladies, that they should be sent on love-making expeditions into the woods with the premier venu. But what you have said enables me to understand a passage which I was reading the other day in a French story, and which puzzled me most exceedingly. It was on the subject of a young girl who had been forsaken by her lover; and some one, reproaching him for his conduct, uses, I think, these words: ‘Après l’avoir compromise autant qu’il est possible de compromettre une jeune miss — ce qui n’est pas une chose absolument facile dans la bienheureuse Albion....’ This puzzled me more than I can express; because the fact is, that we consider the compromising the reputation of a young lady as so tremendous a thing, that excepting in novels, where neither national manners nor natural probabilities are permitted to check the necessary accumulation of misery on the head of a heroine, it NEVER occurs; and this, not because nothing can compromise her, but because nothing that can compromise her is ever permitted, or, I might almost say, ever attempted. Among the lower orders, indeed, stories of seduction are but too frequent; but our present examination of national manners refers only to the middle and higher classes of society.”
Madame B* * * listened to me with the most earnest attention; and after I had ceased speaking, she remained silent, as if meditating on what she had heard. At length she said, in a tone of much more seriousness than she had yet used,— “I am quite sure that every word you say is parfaitement exact — your manner persuades me that you are speaking neither with exaggeration nor in jest: cependant ... I cannot conceal from you my astonishment at your statement. The received opinion among us is, that private and concealed infidelities among married women are probably less frequent in England than in France — because it seems to be essentially dans vos moeurs de faire un grand scandale whenever such a circumstance occurs; and this, with the penalties annexed to it, undoubtedly acts as a prevention. But, on the other hand, it is universally considered as a fact, that you are as lenient to the indiscretions of unmarried ladies, as severe to those of the married ones. Tell me — is there not some truth in this idea?”
“Not the least in the world, I do assure you. On the contrary, I am persuaded that in no country is there any race of women from whom such undeviating purity and propriety of conduct is demanded as from the unmarried women of England. Slander cannot attach to them, because it is as well known as that a Jew is not qualified to sit in parliament, that a single woman suspected of indiscretion immediately dies a civil death — she sinks out of society, and is no more heard of; and it is therefore that I have ventured to say, that a compromised reputation among the unmarried ladies of England NEVER occurs.”
“Nous nous sommes singulièrement trompés sur tout cela donc, nous autres,” said Madame B* * *. “But the single ladies no longer young?” she continued;— “forgive me ... but is it really supposed that they pass their entire lives without any indiscretion at all?”
This question was asked in a tone of such utter incredulity as to the possibility of a reply in the affirmative, that I again lost my gravity, and laughed heartily; but, after a moment, I assured her very seriously that such was most undoubtedly the case.
The naïve manner in which she exclaimed in reply, “Est-il possible!” might have made the fortune of a young actress. There was, however, no acting in the case; Madame B* * * was most perfectly unaffected in her expression of surprise, and assured me that it would be shared by all Frenchwomen who should be so fortunate as to find occasion, like herself, to receive such information from indisputable authority. “Quant aux hommes,” she added, laughing, “je doute fort si vous en trouverez de si croyans.”
We pursued our conversation much farther; but were I to repeat the whole, you would only find it contained many repetitions of the same fact — namely, that a very strong persuasion exists in France, among those who are not personally well acquainted with English manners, that the mode in which marriages are arranged, rather by the young people themselves than by their relatives, produces an effect upon the conduct of our unmarried females which is not only as far as possible from the truth, but so preposterously so, as never to have entered into any English head to imagine.
So few opportunities for anything approaching to intimacy between French and English women arise, that it is not very easy for us to find out exactly what their real opinion is concerning us. Nothing in Madame B* * *’s manner could lead me to suspect that any feeling of reprobation or contempt mixed itself with her belief respecting the extraordinary license which she supposed was accorded to unmarried woman. Nothing could be more indulgent than her tone of commentary on our national peculiarities, as she called them. The only theme which elicited an expression of harshness from her was the manner in which divorces were obtained and paid for: “Se faire payer pour une aventure semblable! ... publier un scandale si ridicule, si offensant pour son amour-propre — si fortement contre les bonnes moeurs, pour en recevoir de l’argent, was,” she said, “perfectly incomprehensible in a nation de si braves gens que les Anglais.”
I did my best to defend our mode of proceeding in such cases upon the principles of justice and morality; but French prejudices on this point are too inveterate to be shaken by any eloquence of mine. We parted, however, the best friends in the world, and mutually grateful for the information we had received.
This conversation only furnished one, among several instances, in which I have been astonished to discover the many popular errors which are still current in France respecting England. Can we fairly doubt that, in many cases where we consider ourselves as perfectly well-informed, we may be quite as much in the dark respecting them? It is certain that the habit so general among us of flying over to Paris for a week or two every now and then, must have made a great number of individuals acquainted with the external aspect of France between Calais and Paris, and also with all the most conspicuous objects of the capital itself — its churches and its theatres, its little river and its great coffee-houses: but it is an extremely small proportion of these flying travellers who ever enter into any society beyond what they may encounter in public; and to all such, France can be very little better known than England is to those who content themselves with perusing the descriptions we give of ourselves in our novels and newspapers.
Of the small advance made towards obtaining information by such visits as these, I have had many opportunities of judging for myself, both among English and French, but never more satisfactorily than at a dinner-party at the house of an old widow lady, who certainly understands our language perfectly, and appears to me to read more English books, and to be more interested about their authors, than almost any one I ever met with. She has never crossed the Channel, however, and has rather an overweening degree of respect for such of her countrymen as have enjoyed the privilege of looking at us face to face on our own soil.
The day I dined with her, one of these travelled gentlemen was led up and presented to me as a person well acquainted with my country. His name was placed on the cover next to the one destined for me at table, and it was evidently intended that we should derive our principal amusement from the conversation of each other. As I never saw him before or since, as I never expect to see him again, and as I do not even remember his name, I think I am guilty of no breach of confidence by repeating to you a few of the ideas upon England which he had acquired on his travels.
His first remark after we were placed at table was,— “You do not, I think, use table-napkins in England; — do you not find them rather embarrassing?” The next was,— “I observed during my stay in England that it is not the custom to eat soup: I hope, however, that you do not find it disagreeable to your palate?”... “You have, I think, no national cuisine?” was the third observation; and upon this singularity in our manners he was eloquent. “Yet, after all,” said he consolingly, “France is in fact the only country which has one: Spain is too oily — Italy too spicy. We have sent artists into Germany; but this cannot be said to constitute une cuisine nationale. Pour dire vrai, however, the rosbif of England is hardly more scientific than the sun-dried meat of the Tartars. A Frenchman would be starved in England did he not light upon one of the imported artists, — and, happily for travellers, this is no longer difficult.”
“Did you dine much in private society?” said I.
“No, I did not: my time was too constantly occupied to permit my doing so.”
“We have some very good hotels, however, in London.”
“But no tables d’hôte!” he replied with a shrug. “I did very well, nevertheless; for I never permitted myself to venture anywhere for the purpose of dining excepting to your celebrated Leicester-square. It is the most fashionable part of London, I believe; or, at least, the only fashionable restaurans are to be found there.”
I ventured very gently to hint that there were other parts of London more à-la-mode, and many hotels which had the reputation of a better cuisine than any which could be found in Leicester-square; but the observation appeared to displease the traveller, and the belle harmonie which it was intended should subsist between us was evidently shaken thereby, for I heard him say in a half-whisper to the person who sat on the other side of him, and who had been attentively listening to our discourse,— “Pas exact....”
LETTER LIV.
Mixed Society. — Influence of the English Clergy and their Families. — Importance of their station in Society.
Though I am still of opinion that French society, properly so called, — that is to say, the society of the educated ladies and gentlemen of France, — is the most graceful, animated, and fascinating in the world; I think, nevertheless, that it is not as perfect as it might be, were a little more exclusiveness permitted in the formation of it.
No one can be really well acquainted with good society in this country without being convinced that there are both men and women to be found in it who to the best graces add the best virtues of social life; but it is equally impossible to deny, that admirable as are some individuals of the circle, they all exercise a degree of toleration to persons less estimable, which, when some well-authenticated anecdotes are made known to us, is, to say the least of it, very startling to the feelings of those who are not to this easy manner either born or bred.
To look into the hearts of all who form either a Parisian or a London lady’s visiting list, in order to discover of what stuff each individual be made, would not perhaps be very wise, and is luckily quite impossible. Nothing at all approaching to such a scrutiny can be reasonably wished or expected from those who open their doors for the reception of company; but where society is perfectly well ordered, no one of either sex, I think, whose outward and visible conduct has brought upon them the eyes of all and the reprobation of the good, should be admitted.
That such are admitted much more freely in France than in England, cannot be denied; and though there are many who conscientiously keep aloof from such intercourse, and more who mark plainly enough that there is a distance in spirit even where there is vicinity of person, still I think it is greatly to be regretted that such a leven of disunion should ever be suffered to insinuate itself into meetings which would be so infinitely more agreeable as well as more respectable without it.
One reason, I doubt not, why there is less exclusiveness and severity of selection in the forming a circle here is, that there are no individuals, or rather no class of individuals, in the wide circle which constitutes what is called en grand the society of Paris, who could step forward with propriety and say, “This may not be.”
With us, happily, the case is as yet different. The clergy of England, their matronly wives and highly-educated daughters, form a distinct caste, to which there is nothing that answers in the whole range of continental Europe. In this caste, however, are mingled a portion of every other; yet it has a dignity and aristocracy of its own: and in this aristocracy are blended the high blood of the noble, the learning which has in many instances sufficed to raise to a level with it the obscure and needy, and the piety which has given station above either to those whose unspotted lives have marked them out as pre-eminent in the holy profession they have chosen.
While such men as these mingle freely in society, as they constantly do in England, and bring with them the females who form their families, there is little danger that notorious vice should choose to obtrude itself.
It will hardly be denied, I believe, that many a frail fair one, who would boldly push her way among ermine and coronets where the mitre was not, would shrink from parading her doubtful honours where it was: and it is equally certain, that many a thoughtless, easy, careless giver of fine parties has been prevented from filling up her constellation of beauties because “It is impossible to have Lady This, or Mrs. That, when the bishop and his family are expected.”
Nor is this wholesome influence confined to the higher ranks alone; — the rector of the parish — nay, even his young curate, with a smooth cheek and almost unrazored chin, will in humbler circles produce the same effect. In short, wherever an English clergyman or an English clergyman’s family appears, there decency is in presence, and the canker of known and tolerated vice is not.
Whenever we find ourselves weary of this restraint, and anxious to mix (unshackled by the silent rebuke of such a presence) with whatever may be most attractive to the eye or amusing to the spirit, let the stamp of vice be as notorious upon it as it may, whenever we reach this state, it will be the right and proper time to pass the Irish Church Bill.
These meditations have been thrust upon me by the reply I received in answer to a question which I addressed to a lady of my acquaintance at a party the other evening.
“Who is that very elegant-looking woman?” said I.
“It is Madame de C* * *,” was the reply. “Have you never met her before? She is very much in society; one sees her everywhere.”
I replied, that I had seen her once or twice before, but had never learned her name; adding, that it was not only her name I was anxious to learn, but something about her. She looked like a personage, a heroine, a sybil: in short, it was one of those heads and busts that one seems to have the same right to stare at, as at a fine picture or statue; they appear a part of the decorations, only they excite a little more interest and curiosity.
“Can you not tell me something of her character?” said I: “I never saw so picturesque a figure; I could fancy that the spirit of Titian had presided at her toilet.”
“It was only the spirit of coquetry, I suspect,” answered my friend with a smile. “But if you are so anxious to know her, I can give you her character and history in very few words: — she is rich, high-born, intellectual, political, and unchaste.”
I do not think I started; I should be shocked to believe myself so unfit for a salon as to testify surprise thus openly at anything; but my friend looked at me and laughed.
“You are astonished at seeing her here? But I have told you that you may expect to meet her everywhere; except, indeed, chez moi, and at a few exceedingly rococo houses besides.”
As the lady I was talking to happened to be an Englishwoman, though for many years a resident in Paris, I ventured to hint the surprise I felt that a person known to be what she described Madame de C* * * should be so universally received in good society.
“It is very true,” she replied: “it is surprising, and more so to me perhaps than to you, because I know thoroughly well the irreproachable character and genuine worth of many who receive her. I consider this,” she continued, “as one of the most singular traits in Parisian society. If, as many travellers have most falsely insinuated, the women of Paris were generally corrupt and licentious, there would be nothing extraordinary in it: but it is not so. Where neither the husband, the relatives, the servants, nor any one else, has any wish or intention of discovering or exposing the frailty of a wife, it is certainly impossible to say that it may not often exist without being either known or suspected: but with this, general society cannot interfere; and those whose temper or habits of mind lead them to suspect evil wherever it is possible that it may be concealed, may often lose the pleasure of friendship founded on esteem, solely because it is possible that some hidden faults may render their neighbour unworthy of it. That such tempers are not often to be found in France, is certainly no proof of the depravity of national manners; but where notorious irregularity of conduct has brought a woman fairly before the bar of public opinion, it does appear to me very extraordinary that such a person as our hostess, and very many others equally irreproachable, should receive her.”
“I presume,” said I, “that Madame de C* * * is not the only person towards whom this remarkable species of tolerance is exercised?”
“Certainly not. There are many others whose liaisons are as well known as hers, who are also admitted into the best society. But observe — I know no instance where such are permitted to enter within the narrower circle of intimate domestic friendship. No one in Paris seems to think that they have any right to examine into the private history of all the élégantes who fill its salons; but I believe they take as good care to know the friends whom they admit to the intimacy of their private hours as we do. There, however, this species of decorum ends; and they would no more turn back from entering a room where they saw Madame de C* * *, than a London lady would drive away from the opera because she saw the carriage of Lady —— at the door.”
“There is no parallel, however, between the cases,” said I.
“No, certainly,” she replied; “but it is not the less certain that the Parisians appear to think otherwise.”
Now it appears evident to me, that all this arises much less from general licentiousness of morals than from general easiness of temper. SANS SOUCI is the darling device of the whole nation: and how can this be adhered to, if they set about the very arduous task of driving out of society all those who do not deserve to be in it? But while feeling sincerely persuaded, as I really do, that this difference in the degree of moral toleration practised by the two countries does not arise from any depravity in the French character, I cannot but think that our mode of proceeding in this respect is infinitely better. It is more conducive, not only to virtue, but to agreeable and unrestrained intercourse; and for this reason, if for no other, it is deeply our interest to uphold with all possible reverence and dignity that class whose presence is of itself sufficient to guarantee at least the reputation of propriety, in every circle in which they appear.
