Never write a catalogue of your linen for the washer-woman. He is a filthy man, who knows the number of his shirts. And get them made at Formin’s of the Rue Richelieu. He makes shirts à ravir; see advertisement; “Une chemise bien faite a été jusqu’ici un phenomène, &c.” Whatever position you may give your body, his shirts remained unruffled: many a man’s skin don’t fit half so perfectly.
If you meet a lady in public with a strange gentleman, return her salute with your hat in your left hand, and walk on; or if she stop you, bow to the gentleman also, and respect his rights. I walked through the Tuileries the other day with a lady, and met—I am sorry it was an American, who, intervening, bummed me out of the lady’s acquaintance, without noticing me. This is excessively ill-bred, and an insult to the lady. I have not forgotten him, and I don’t know that I shall.
A Parisian lady possesses greater moral, as well as physical strength than the lady of our cities. In Philadelphia, she cannot, for her little soul, venture out into a public place without a life guard, no more than Louis Philippe; and even then she is shy, and picks her steps, trembling in her knees and heart.—“Pa, don’t you go that way, there’s a man!” Now a Frenchwoman does not care to go out of the way of a man—any more than the French army out of the way of the Bedouins. She just takes hold of her caniche in one hand, and walks out without caring for the king.—Oh my! and what’s a caniche?—A little curly dog: she holds it by a string, and it walks alongside of her, and with the protection only of this little shaggy animal she feels herself impregnably fortified against the whole sex.
When a gentleman escorts a lady to dinner he must not stick his elbows into her ribs, and hang her to him, as his mantle to a post. Politeness requires him to move exactly two feet and a half behind her, and a little to the left. The gait is not a light matter in feminine graces; it is, indeed, one of the attributes by which a woman is most admired. The Pious Æneas did not recognise his mother as a goddess, until she had turned tail to him in this manner; and when Juno said, “I walk the queen of Heaven,” do you think she had Jupiter by the arm? French etiquette allows a lady every chance of striking out a beauty—even to giving her the black men at the chess-board to show off her white and tapering fingers.
Never look at your glove when you take it off to shake hands.—You only want to show that Walker made it, or draw attention to the gem that sparkles under it. The grand rule is in bringing out a grace, that the intention be concealed—besides, your attention is due to the individual to whom you have proffered your civilities.
If you come to Paris, you are to have but one child—babies are going out of fashion.—And you must call it “Emile” (after Rousseau’s) and then put it out to nurse.
I intreat you to remember there is no cooing over one’s little wife here; it looks uxorious, which is a great scandal. It is not reputable to either party, implying either that the husband is jealous, (and he would rather be hanged,) or that the wife is a disagreeable thing, (and she would rather be crucified,) and cannot get a beau.
I have seen ladies here often obliged—not having any thing at hand but their husbands—to forego the pleasure of the finest fêtes and parties. I have often had wives thrown in my face on such occasions. This custom has an exhilarating effect upon social vivacity. There is nothing so stupid in nature as one’s husband generally speaking. He has travelled his wife’s mind over and over, and what can he have to say?—and vice versa; in his neighbour’s he has a new and unexplored territory; and a stranger suggests new attentions, and gives a new tone of feeling. Besides a little mixture of evil seems necessary with every good. The conjugal feelings are pure, honest and domestic, but like all the benevolent affections, are rather unentertaining, it is known that nothing gives wit so abundantly as a little malice.
The Parisian public does not suffer a fine woman to be monopolised; she has social as well as domestic duties; and if the husband wants her company, why go abroad with her? Somebody’s lordship once said that a married woman was nothing but an appropriated girl. His lordship had not travelled on the Continent. I know that in your town, where a married couple grow together like Juno’s swans, or like those “two cherries” in Shakspeare, such a custom must seem abominable.
Ladies kiss and don’t shake hands in Paris. Gentlemen kiss too, but only on great occasions. I was kissed the other day by a man for the first time. It was one of the most trying situations of my life. I felt like that personage who was strangled by Hercules.—See the picture in the mythology.