LETTER CXXV.127.
To John Temple, Esq; Pall Mall.
Silleri, April 18.
Indeed?
“Is this that haughty, gallant, gay Lothario,
That dear perfidious—”
Absolutely, my dear Temple, the sex ought never to forgive Lucy for daring to monopolize so very charming a fellow. I had some thoughts of a little badinage with you myself, if I should return soon to England; but I now give up the very idea.
One thing I will, however, venture to say, that love Lucy as much as you please, you will never love her half so well as she deserves; which, let me tell you, is a great deal for one woman, especially, as you well observe, one handsome woman, to say of another.
I am, however, not quite clear your idea is just: cattism, if I may be allowed the expression, seeming more likely to be the vice of those who are conscious of wanting themselves the dear power of pleasing.
Handsome women ought to be, what I profess myself, who am however only pretty, too vain to be envious; and yet we see, I am afraid, too often, some little sparks of this mean passion between rival beauties.
Impartially speaking, I believe the best natured women, and the most free from envy, are those who, without being very handsome, have that je ne sçai quoi, those nameless graces, which please even without beauty; and who therefore, finding more attention paid to them by men than their looking-glass tells them they have a right to expect, are for that reason in constant good humor with themselves, and of course with every body else: whereas beauties, claiming universal empire, are at war with all who dispute their rights; that is, with half the sex.
I am very good natured myself; but it is, perhaps, because, though a pretty woman, I am more agreable than handsome, and have an infinity of the je ne sçai quoi.
A propos, my dear Temple, I am so pleased with what Montesquieu says on this subject, that I find it is not in my nature to resist translating and inserting it; you cannot then say I have sent you a letter in which there is nothing worth reading.
I beg you will read this to the misses, for which you cannot fail of their thanks, and for this reason; there are perhaps a dozen women in the world who do not think themselves handsome, but I will venture to say, not one who does not think herself agreable, and that she has this nameless charm, this so much talked of I know not what, which is so much better than beauty. But to my Montesquieu:
“There is sometimes, both in persons and things, an invisible charm, a natural grace, which we cannot define, and which we are therefore obliged to call the je ne sçai quoi.
“It seems to me that this is an effect principally founded on surprize.
“We are touched that a person pleases us more than she seemed at first to have a right to do; and we are agreably surprized that she should have known how to conquer those defects which our eyes shewed us, but which our hearts no longer believe: ’tis for this reason that women, who are not handsome, have often graces or agreablenesses and that beautiful ones very seldom have.
“For a beautiful person does generally the very contrary of what we expected; she appears to us by degrees less amiable, and, after having surprized us pleasingly, she surprizes us in a contrary manner; but the agreable impression is old, the disagreable one new: ’tis also seldom that beauties inspire violent passions, which are almost always reserved for those who have graces, that is to say, agreablenesses, which we did not expect, and which we had no reason to expect.
“Magnificent habits have seldom grace, which the dresses of shepherdesses often have.
“We admire the majesty of the draperies of Paul Veronese; but we are touched with the simplicity of Raphael, and the exactness of Corregio.
“Paul Veronese promises much, and pays all he promises; Raphael and Corregio promise little, and pay much, which pleases us more.
“These graces, these agreablenesses, are found oftener in the mind than in the countenance: the charms of a beautiful countenance are seldom hidden, they appear at first view; but the mind does not shew itself except by degrees, when it pleases, and as much as it pleases; it can conceal itself in order to appear, and give that species of surprize to which those graces, of which I speak, owe their existence.
“This grace, this agreableness, is less in the countenance than in the manner; the manner changes every instant, and can therefore every moment give us the pleasure of surprize: in one word, a woman can be handsome but in one way, but she may be agreable in a hundred thousand.”
I like this doctrine of Montesquieu’s extremely, because it gives every woman her chance, and because it ranks me above a thousand handsomer women, in the dear power of inspiring passion.
Cruel creature! why did you give me the idea of flowers? I now envy you your foggy climate: the earth with you is at this moment covered with a thousand lovely children of the spring; with us, it is an universal plain of snow.
Our beaux are terribly at a loss for similies: you have lilies of the valley for comparisons; we nothing but what with the idea of whiteness gives that of coldness too.
This is all the quarrel I have with Canada: the summer is delicious, the winter pleasant with all its severities; but alas! the smiling spring is not here; we pass from winter to summer in an instant, and lose the sprightly season of the Loves.
A letter from the God of my idolatry—I must answer it instantly.
Adieu! Yours, &c.
A. Fermor.