At the Grand Opera the ladies only are masked and all are in the same dress, so as to be undistinguishable. If they choose to be known for special purposes they have then their signals. Here they are the aggressors, and gentlemen are not allowed the first word, and no dancing or noise interrupts the interest of the conversation. The women too, are of the best breeding, but on these occasions, they are permitted to knock off their fetters, and they indemnify themselves not a little for the restraints, which tyrannic fashion imposes upon them under their natural faces.
The Bacchanal ladies of the Greeks used to let off the steam of their too great vivacity once a year in the same manner. The Opera contains many thousands, and yet on all these masquerades it is filled. The Orchestra is at the nether end, so that the music comes from afar, and its harmony reaches the great saloon so softened that the gentlest lady-whisper falls distinctly upon the ear. The parterre, which is floored, and the immense stage, form an area apart for the more noisy and romping world; and the boxes overhead have their company. The upper ones of all are close and grillées, with locks, and keys, and attendants, for persons of retired habits.
Several exquisite nymphs exhibit themselves mounted on a platform at the extremity of the pit, having their innocent alabaster arms, and marble necks and shoulders, naked; and other charms are trying to hide themselves modestly behind a light gauze, but do not always succeed. These dispose of various kinds of merchandise by lottery.
The hot-houses too pour out their treasures through the lobbies, and amidst the blushing roses and dahlias, gallant gentlemen and ladies whisper their loves in each others’ ears, or repose about in groves that are full of ravishment.
——“Jamais les jardins d’Armide,
Non, jamais les jardins d’Armide,
N’ont vu de tels enchantements!”
A lady, of what beauty I know not, but from a sweet voice and pretty eyes, was pleased to give me here a half hour of her company and chat; who is she? She would not tell me her name, nor even her country, but, said in taking leave, “Give my compliments to Miss C——, or if you like better her conjugal name, Mrs. G——, the only person I know in Philadelphia.”
I begged much her name or some feature by which I might hope, in the accidents and recontres of life, to recognise her; I asked her a single line of poetry, or even a word, and she gave,—the malicious thing! two French words only, which added nothing to the information I already possessed of her person—she gave me “beaux yeux,” which I, like a gallant knight, promised to carve upon the highest rock of the Alleghany. She had like to have carved them some where else herself.
A half hour’s conversation with this lady would certainly be in the mind of any one, of even less taste than I may modestly pretend to, a very sensible regret at an endless or hopeless separation. Where there are sense and sentiment, fine eyes, harmony of voice, and elegance of form, it is difficult not to imagine the association of every other perfection.
I was no sooner forsaken by this amiable lady, than I had the luck to find almost a consolation for her absence, in another, who was not less remarkable for wit, than for sentiment, and good sense. This second had all the easy unembarrassed air of a fashionable Frenchwoman; was exceedingly graceful, and had a shape, that to any lady of my acquaintance, except one, would be unpardonable.
She mystified me, and (not a difficult thing for a woman) made a fool of me.—“How could you exchange,” said she, “the sober Luxembourg, for the frivolous Tuileries, and how the demure philosophy of the Faubourg St. Germain for the gaieties and levities of the Rue Neuve des Maturins?”—“You sorceress, how can you know where I live, or have lived?”—“In the Luxembourg you had a better look; and there the angels hovered over you to protect you. I sent you a volume to divert you under the shade from your melancholy, and my servant to pick you up from the ice.—When do you go home to America? You should have gone long ago, and not be running about Europe getting vagabond habits in this manner; you have now been absent eight months.” I offered her at last the New World for her name.