A lady, a Bostonian too, but whose home has been here for several years, said to me to-day: ‘And so you live in Boston. Why, it makes me blue to even think of Boston, with its stiff society, its spectacled women, and its doleful teas!’ But I could not agree with her. Another lady, now living here, a woman of wealth and rare intelligence, told me that she spent a year in Boston, and that repeatedly she had been a guest at small parties and large ones, where she had not been introduced to any one of the assemblage. Such a neglect, in the best society of Europe, would be considered a great breach of politeness or a marked rudeness. Here, all persons invited to meet at the house of a friend consider it almost obligatory to speak with each other, if by chance or oversight they are not presented, and it is the custom for the hostess of an invited company to have her daughters and their young lady friends move amongst the guests, to see that all are introduced, and are having a pleasant, enjoyable time.
Shall I tell you our menu for dinner to-night? It will be, I am sure, rather different from your own. But at our Paris home everything is deliciously cooked and served, and E. says we had better make the most of it; food will not be as temptingly prepared for us in Germany. First, soup, followed by fish, cheese, and radishes, preserves and mustard, roast beef and maccaroni, potatoes, chicken and salad, cake, strawberries, cherries, and apricots, with wines of various kinds, all followed by coffee.
I forgot to tell you that in our drive to-day we met Sara Bernhardt; she looked very bright and happy, and not at all the dying ‘Camille’ that she was the last time my eyes gazed upon her. She has a fine home here, and receives all who choose to call upon her one day each week. She is charitable, helpful, and sympathetic to all, and the Parisians adore her.
Paris, June 29th.—It rained to-day, for even in Paris it must sometimes rain. We went to the galleries of the Louvre early, and were so absorbed that we remained until 4 P.M. E., our escort to-day, once lived six years in Paris, and the paintings in the Louvre were his old friends, so that the information he gave us was of great instruction and benefit. F., too, had been well drilled for the enjoyment by studying the old masters and by her readings of the schools of early art. Not being an artist myself like my two companions, I could scarcely enter their sphere of enjoyment, or see with their eyes, so looked in my own way. This, you know, is the largest gallery in the world, and contains the most of the valuable works of all the great masters, Rubens, Raphael, Murillo, Titian, Rembrandt, Claude Lorraine, Paul Veronese, and other world-renowned artists. The works of no artist are placed here until the artist himself has been dead ten years or more; they are retained in the Luxembourg galleries during the life of the painter. E. wished us to take certain pictures of Rubens first, of which artist he has great knowledge and a keen appreciation. He says it is impossible for us to see best many pictures in a short time, so we must take the best pictures and see them in many ways. The allegorical pictures relating to Marie de Medici were our first study, but the angels were very unangelic-looking to me. Each one looked as if tipping the scales at two hundred pounds would be an easy matter. In fact, all of Rubens women that I have so far seen look more earthly than spiritual. These pictures bring up many thoughts of the hapless Marie de Medici, a woman of great beauty, and of Richelieu, the intriguing, powerful Cardinal, whose influence was so great over the King, her son, Louis XIII. This woman, Rubens so often painted, died at last, after the implacability of Richelieu caused her to be banished from France, in the attic of the house where Rubens was born, in Cologne. The Salon Carré contains the great treasures of the Louvre, or the most of them. Here we saw the indeed beautiful painting of Mary Anointing the Feet of Jesus, and the even more wonderful one of The Marriage Feast at Cana, both by Paul Veronese. I cannot imagine a human mind even conceiving such a picture, much more putting it on canvas. It is simply perfect. Titian’s works have a great charm for me, and Raphael’s, also. We roam from room to room; my delighted companions turn their attentions to me often with remarks of this nature: ‘Now do look at this; it is one of the great works of the world.’ ‘You remember this happened in the reign of King or Queen So-and-so.’ ‘You recollect the story in the Old Testament of ——,’ and so forth and so on! I look; say, Oh yes! Am sometimes a little inwardly muddled, but quietly decide to know for myself what I honestly like best. Of all the Madonnas, I like Murillo’s the most. His colors, not as positive as those of Rubens, are warm, deep, and rich, with a certain peculiar softness of finish that no other artist has. Surely genius is God-given. We made no attempt to see the antiquities this time, but could not leave without paying our respects to the most beautiful of all women—the Venus de Milo. Our ever-gallant escort says, ‘No;’ no woman can be the most beautiful to him, who cannot extend her arms to greet him; but beautiful she is. A whole day in the Louvre, and yet comparatively how little of it have we seen. This evening we saw ‘Adrienne Lecouvrer’ played at the Comédie Française.
Saturday, June 30th.—The sun shone for us brightly again this morning, and we took an early drive through the always attractive streets and parks of Paris. Early as it was, crowds of people were to be seen, driving, walking, and sitting in the ‘sidewalk cafés,’ and under the trees, chatting, laughing, and everybody seeming to have plenty of leisure time. How is it that no one appears to be in a hurry here? One reason that the ladies have so much more time is because their housekeeping cares are so much less than those of Americans. Always, all of the laundry work is sent out, and much of the cooking of a household is done outside: bread, pastry, cakes, and roasts are prepared in special establishments, and sent hot and deliciously cooked to private tables, without a suggestion of ‘bakehouse’ flavor about them. The servants, or one of them does all the ‘planning’ and the marketing, rendering her accounts to her mistress weekly. Everything connected with the domestic part of a Paris home runs very smoothly, and with much less care and expense than in Bostonian homes. I remember once visiting a dear, busy, neat, systematic young housekeeper at her home in a country town in New England. One Monday morning her maid of all work overslept, and we heard this wide-awake, orderly mistress call her, saying, ‘Katie, get up; why, it is seven o’clock now, and to-day is washing day, to-morrow will be ironing day, and the next day baking.’ There are no such days in Paris! And I should think Parisians would say, ‘For which we devoutly give thanks.’
The gardens of the Tuileries brought up thoughts of Eugénie, who used to love the spot so well. The once-beautiful Empress whom the French people followed is now never mentioned, not even a picture of her seen in Paris windows; and once when I spoke of her to a dealer in photographs, asking why he had not a picture of her, he answered, ‘Remember Sedan.’
The long walk in the cool, crisp air made us hungry, and seeing some neatly prepared tables near we seated ourselves for a luncheon. The bouillon was good, and the chop fairly so, and the charges reasonable we thought, but when the bill was presented we were charged extra for service, for the napkins we used, and for the chairs we sat on. I asked the garçon why they did not charge for the air we breathed. Moral! Always make your bargains in Paris before consummating them.
The Luxembourg was near, and we spent most of the rest of the day in its galleries. Some of the masterpieces of Rosa Bonheur, Gerome, Couture and Meissonier are here. To see Cabanel’s Venus was of itself a great delight. I remember seeing the portrait of Miss Wolf, in the Metropolitan Art Museum, in New York, painted by this same Alexander Cabanel. There are two of Henner’s pictures here, one exquisitely lovely. He is considered one of the best living painters of the nude; his figures are remarkably graceful and modest, poetical studies of the flesh; and it is often an intense delight and relief to turn toward them, from the nudes of some other artists. We have seen his works also in several private collections, and wherever there is a Henner there is always a crowd, so lovely are they. One characteristic of them we observed, namely, that in every picture of his that we have seen his figures are not far from a lake, brook, or river, with the figure partially hid by shrubbery and trees, and one of our trio said that he was forcibly reminded of the old nursery rhyme,—
“‘Mother, may I go out to swim?’
‘Yes, my darling daughter;
Hang your clothes on a hickory limb—
But don’t go near the water!’”
A stroll in the beautiful gardens of the Luxembourg, and a visit to the Jardin des Plantes, with its botanical, mineralogical, and geological museums, and a visit to the monkeys—the cutest of all monkeys,—finished the day; and to-night we are to dine with a duchess. How fortunate we have a ‘noble’ escort. Otherwise, although we did ‘come over in the Mayflower,’ we might not have been called upon by, and invited to dine with, the Duke and Duchess de la R—— at their chateau near San Cloud.