It is impossible to speak of English actresses without mentioning the beautiful American lady who drew crowds to the Lyceum this year, in the absence of Mr. Irving and Miss Terry, who were at the time delighting the Yankees.
Miss Mary Anderson may boldly be proclaimed the champion beauty of the world.
Her acting is good, but her beauty is such as to make one oblivious of her talent. Her face is divinely sweet and beautiful; her gaze ingenuous, her grace indescribable, her sculptural lines classic in their purity; her proportions perfect: it is a feast for the eyes. Gérard would not have desired a more chaste or purer model for his Psyche receiving the first kiss of Cupid.
IX.
The Demi-monde — Sly Dogs — The Disreputable World — The Society for the Protection of Women — Humble Apologies for grave Mistakes.
In a country where, as M. Taine says in his History of English Literature, religion and morality are coins which you must have in your pocket either good or counterfeit, the monde où l’on s’amuse is here the monde où l’on se cache. The demi-mondaine is not a prominent personage over here, and the Englishman who glides into her house at nightfall, with his coat-collar turned up to his ears, and his hat lowered over his eyes, would never think of taking her to a theatre or of putting her into his carriage in Hyde Park. For this, I think he deserves a good mark. Call it hypocrisy if you like; it is deference to public opinion, and I prefer the vice that hides its head to the vice that gives itself airs.
I heard with my own ears, a few years ago, in a Parisian drawing-room, a lady of good society compliment a young man on the pretty sinner she had seen him with in a box at a theatre. And the receiver of the compliment seemed mightily pleased. His look said, “Yes, it is So-and-So, who is on the best of terms with me.”
Men do not meet around the dining-table of the English cocotte, nor in her drawing-room. They do not go to her house to have a chat, much less to pay her court: her sittings are held within closed doors. It is not Aspasia nor Lais, it is a fine animal of a girl that friend John pays a visit to, when he has not time to go to Boulogne. He returns home, and no one, not even his most intimate friend, is the wiser for his little nocturnal expeditions. Next day, with rosy cheeks and downcast eyes, he accompanies his mother and sisters to church, bearing a goodly number of books of devotion under his arm.
Hypocrisy! you will cry. No, it is not. Unless you accept La Rochefoucauld’s definition of hypocrisy: “homage that vice renders to virtue;” for, thanks to this hypocrisy, the virtuous woman has not in public to yield her rightful place to the other, who, conscious of her degradation, keeps in the shade. The virtuous woman can reign, her rights undisputed; and, in the inner family circle, the conduct of the young men is rarely a subject of scandal for the ladies, who are the honour of the house, and who certainly have a right to exact a little consideration for their feelings.