I thought the method of drying linen more worth imitating. It is laid in a sort of wardrobe lined with tin, and kept at an equal heat by means of steam.
February 9th.
The sun has disappeared again, and the cold has returned with such force that I am writing to you in gloves—for the better preservation of my white hands, to which I, like Lord Byron, attach great importance. I honestly confess I don’t see that a man is ‘un fat’ merely for trying to preserve the little beauty God has given him; at all events chapped hands are a horror to me and always were.—Talking of this, I remember that I was once in the boudoir of a very beautiful woman in Strasburg, where I met Field-marshal W—— (then only General), who in eulogizing Napoleon laid a peculiar stress on his temperance, adding in a contemptuous tone, “A hero could not be a ‘gourmand.’” Now the fair lady, who was otherwise a very kind friend of mine, knew me to be not quite insensible to ‘bonne chére,’ to gratify her malicious pleasure in teasing me, made the General repeat his observation. Though I never set up for a hero, (except in a little romance or two, here and there,) I felt that I blushed; one of those stupidities of which I never could break myself, even on many occasions where there was no ground for it. Provoked at myself, I said with some pique, “It is fortunate for the lovers of a good table, General, that there are a few brilliant exceptions to your rule. Remember Alexander:—it is true that a too luxurious feast led him into the burning of Persepolis;—but I think you will allow him to have been a hero for all that: and ‘gourmandise’ did not prevent Frederick the Great from acquiring immortal renown, both as a warrior and ruler.—You, General, who have fought with the French with so much glory, should not attack a good ‘cuisine;’ for that nation, however, distinguished be her generals, will obtain a wider and perhaps more lasting fame from her cooks.” This last sentence was doubtless inspired by a prophetic spirit; and how would the enthusiastic eulogist of Napoleon have wondered, had I told him that in a little while he would stand opposed to the great ‘non-gourmond’ himself, and would receive one of the last effectual ‘coups de griffes’ of the sick lion.
You think, I dare say, dear Julia, that this anecdote is as much in place here as one of our friend H——’s ‘a-propos.’ But you are mistaken. I now go to adduce Alcibiades and Poniatowsky, as examples of men distinguished for attention to dress and to their persons; thus proving from experience that neither sensibility to good cheer, nor a little ‘fatuité,’ are any obstacles to heroism, if other qualities be not wanting.
A visit from Count F——, one of the most agreeable and respectable representatives of Napoleon’s time, who carried into the Imperial Court ‘les souvenirs de l’ancien regime,’ and into the present one the reputation of spotless integrity and fidelity, (a most rare instance!)—here interrupted me. He came to invite me to dinner to-morrow. This has detained me:—it is too late to ride; I am not in the humour to seek Club society: I shall put on a second dressing-gown, dream about you and M——, read over your letters, and patiently freeze in my room,—for more than eight degrees of heat I find it impossible to procure by means of an open fire in my airy and many-windowed room.—’Au revoir,’ then.
February 10th.
It was fair that I should indemnify myself to-day for my confinement to my room, so I wandered about in the neighbourhood for many hours. I enjoyed my freedom the more, as I was to execute myself in the evening at a great subscription ball.
The country all around is certainly very remarkable; for in a four hours ride I did not see a single full-grown tree. Yet the numerous hills, the large town in the distance, several smaller ones scattered about, the sea and ships—all under rapidly changing lights, sufficiently diversified the landscape; and even the contrast with the generally well-wooded character of England was not without its charms. The sun at length retired to rest incognito, the sky cleared, and the moon rose cloudless and brilliant over the waters. I now turned my horse’s head from the hills down to the sea, and rode five or six miles, about the distance to Brighton, hard on the edge of the waves along the sandy shore. The tide was coming in, and my horse sometimes shyed when a wave, crowned with snowy foam, rolled under his feet and quickly retreated as if in sport.
I love nothing better than to ride alone by moonlight on the wide shore,—alone with the plashing and roaring and murmuring of the waves;—so near to the mysterious deep, that my horse can only be kept within reach of its rolling waters by force, and as soon as his rein is loosened darts away with redoubled speed towards the firm land.
How different from this poetical scene was the prosaic ball!—which moreover so little answered my expectations that I was perfectly astonished. A narrow staircase led directly into the ball-room, which was ill-lighted and miserably furnished, and surrounded with worsted cords to divide the dancers from the spectators. An orchestra for the musicians was hung with ill-washed white draperies, which looked like sheets hung out to dry. Imagine a second room near it, with benches along the walls, and a large tea-table in the middle; in both rooms the numerous company raven black from head to foot, gloves inclusive; a melancholy style of dancing, without the least trace of vivacity or joyousness; so that the only feeling you have is that of compassion for the useless fatigue the poor people are enduring;—and now you have a true idea of the Brighton Almack’s, for so these very fashionable balls are called. The whole establishment is droll enough. Almack’s balls in London are the resort of people of the highest rank during the season, which lasts from April to June; and five or six of the most intensely fashionable ladies (Princess L—— among the number), who are called Patronesses, distribute the tickets. It is an immense favour to obtain one; and, for people who do not belong to the very highest or most modish world, very difficult. Intrigues are set on foot months beforehand, and the Lady-patronesses flattered in the meanest and most servile manner, to secure so important an advantage; for those who have never been seen at Almack’s are regarded as utterly unfashionable—I might almost say disreputable; and the would-be-fashionable English world naturally holds this to be the greatest of all possible calamities. So true is this, that a novel was lately written on this subject, which contains a very fair delineation of London society, and has gone through three editions. On nearer observation, however, one sees that it betrays more of the ante-chamber than of the ‘salon,’—that the author is one, as the Abbé de Voisenon said, ‘qui a écouté aux portes.’