The most elegant ladies of the first circles now give small parties, access to which is far more difficult to most Englishmen than to foreigners of rank; for the despotism of fashion, as I have already told you, rules in this land of freedom with iron sceptre, and extends through all classes in a manner we on the Continent have no conception of.
But without indulging too early in general observations, I will describe to you my own way of life in London.
I rise late; read, like a half-nationalized foreigner, three or four newspapers at breakfast; look in my ‘visiting-book’ what visits I have to pay, and either drive to pay them in my cabriolet or ride. In the course of these excursions, I sometimes catch the enjoyment of the picturesque; the struggle of the blood-red sun with the winter fogs often produces wild and singular effects of light. After my visits are paid, I ride for several hours about the beautiful environs of London, return when it grows dark, work a little, dress for dinner, which is at seven or eight, and spend the evening either in the theatre or at some small party. The ludicrous ‘routs,’—at which one hardly finds standing-room on the staircase,—where one pushes and is pushed, and is kept for hours in a hot-house temperature,—have not yet commenced. In England however, except in a few diplomatic houses, you can go nowhere in an evening except on special invitation. In these small parties there is not much ‘géne,’ but general conversation has no place: each gentleman usually singles out a lady who peculiarly interests him, and does not quit her for the whole evening. Many fair ones are thus frequently left sitting alone, without an opportunity of speaking a word; they however do not betray any dissatisfaction, even by a look or gesture, for they are of a very passive nature. Every body of course speaks French, as with us, ‘tant bien que mal,’ but this continued ‘géne’ annoys the ladies so much after a time, that a man has no little advantage who can speak English tolerably.
You see this life is pretty much a ‘far niente,’ though not a very sweet one to my taste, for I love society only in intimate circles, and attach myself with difficulty,—indeed now scarcely at all,—to new acquaintances. The ennui, which seizes me in such an indifferent state of mind, is too clearly written on my undiplomatic face not to extend to others as contagiously as yawning. Here and there I find an exception:—to-day for instance I made the acquaintance of Mr. Morier, the clever and very agreeable author of Hadji Baba; and of Mr. Hope, the imputed author of Anastasius, a work of far higher genius. This book is worthy of Byron: many maintain that Mr. Hope, who is rather remarkable for his reserve than for anything poetical in his appearance, cannot possibly have written it. This doubt derives considerable force from a work which Mr. Hope formerly published on furniture, the style and contents of which certainly contrast strangely with the glowing impassioned Anastasius, overflowing with thought and feeling. An acquaintance of mine said to me, “One thing or the other: either Anastasius is not by him, or the work on furniture.” But matter so different brings with it as different a style; and as I observed Mr. Hope, perhaps with involuntary prepossession, he appeared to me no ordinary man. He is very rich, and his house full of treasures of art, and of luxuries which I shall describe hereafter. His furniture theory, which is fashioned on the antique, I cannot praise in practice:—the chairs are ungovernable; other trophy-like structures look ridiculous, and the sofas have such sharp salient points in all directions, that an incautious sitter might hurt himself seriously.
On my return home at night I found your letter, which, like everything from you, gave me more pleasure than aught else can. Say not, however, that the pain of parting occasions you such deep depression,—let it not be deeper than a joyful meeting can at once remove; and that is probably not very distant.
That you point to another life, as soon as things do not go precisely according to our wishes in this, seems to me, dearest, to show a want of Christian patience and confidence. No, I confess it, spite of transient fits of melancholy, I still feel the attraction of earth; and this ‘span of life,’ as you call it, has strong hold on my heart. If indeed you, my affectionate tutelary goddess, were also Fortuna, I should fare better than any mortal living: ‘et toutes les étoiles pâliraient devant la mienne;’—but since you love me, you are my Fortuna, and I desire no better.
Do not suffer your own melancholy, or mine, to deceive you. As for me, you know that a nothing raises the barometer of my spirits, and a nothing often depresses it. This is certainly too delicate a nervous organization, and little fitted for every-day, home-baked (hausbacknen) happiness,—which requires strong nerves.
December 5th.
Oberon, Weber’s song of the swan, has occupied my evening.—The execution of both the instrumental and vocal parts left much to desire; but on the whole, the opera was extremely well performed, for London. The best part was the decorations, especially at the conjuration of the spirits. They appear, not, as usual, in the standing costume,—scarlet jackets and breeches, with snaky locks and flames on their heads,—but in the form of huge rocky caves, which occupy the whole stage; every mass of rock then suddenly changes into some fantastic and frightful form or face, gleaming with many-coloured flames and lurid light, out of which here and there a whole figure leans grinning forward, while the fearful thrilling music re-echoes on every side from the moving chorus of rocks.
The opera itself I regard as one of Weber’s feebler productions. There are beautiful parts, especially the introduction, which is truly elf-like. I am less delighted with the overture, though so highly extolled by connoisseurs.