I went last night to see Mˡˡᵉ Raucourt[37] in Semiramis with the lady I mentioned in my last. No one sees me. I go dressed like a housekeeper, with my prodigious large old brown Orleans bonnet, get into a shut-up loge, and bribe the box-keeper to let no one else in. Semiramis gave me no pleasure. A woman who has coolly assassinated her husband, merely to reign alone, cannot be made interesting by any subsequent events; and her inflated grandeur, though not in my opinion imposing, throws all the other characters so much into shade that you care little what becomes of them. It was prodigiously applauded, being a piece of great pomp and show, and the heroine having so much of what is now called caractère. But what was most curious, was the frantic manner in which the women applauded Lafont. Several of these were like so many Bacchantes. He is good-looking, without noblesse; but does not affect me in the least.
TO THE SAME.
Paris, April 18, 1804.
I was at a largish party last night at the Baroness’s. Through some mistake I did not receive her invitation till the same morning, so conceived it was a little English society, and went in my morning dress. I felt a little awkward amongst the long trains, feathers, bijous, and laces of about a dozen women who were very magnifique, among whom not the least so was Lady Clavering; but I did not suffer so much as poor Lady I——, who, though much more dressed than me, was not prepared for strangers, and did nothing but look down on herself, and examine her dress with an air of mortification and humility, which struck me as so great a ridicule, that it made me ashamed of being at all disconcerted.
I have just been with Lady ——. She received me as women usually do visitors sent by their husbands—c’est tout dire—civil and icy; she never asked a single question about him, whether he looked well or ill, whether we saw much of him, in short, not one token of interest.... Remember not to let Lord —— think I was otherwise than very civilly and properly received. I dread your excessive sincerity and impossibility of disguising any feeling; but I love, and above all respect, you for it.
TO THE SAME.
Paris, April, 1804.
My child is asleep in his cradle. Kitty is boudé-ing in the little street room, and Antoine extremely woful, as he always is now when she boudés. Sally is pert, active, and very happy because I scolded Kitty last night. Pierre is asleep, and the horses are, I believe, very uncomfortable, if I may judge by the way in which they crawl, and the miserable look they have, so different from their sleek dowager trot of Orleans. Certainly a woman has no business with horses; and the lady who married because her carriage never was at the door in time, had as good a reason as many very wise people who seem to have taken those who afford no excuse whatever. However, no woman has a right in France to rail against matrimony, for certainly, in the Anglo-Parisian set, every fault seems on the side of the wives. I went to choose Mrs. F——’s veil for her, and she was as worrying as any one could be about such a trifle. I have a sort of delicacy about those who seem subservient, that extends itself to shopkeepers, though I know that in most places they make one pay for the trouble one gives; and I really felt ashamed of the way she pulled about, and tumbled, and tried on the most valuable laces. The struggle between Sueur’s civility and her alarm was very comical.