Transcriber’s Note

The cover image was created by the transcriber for the convenience of the reader, and it is placed in the public domain.

Twenty-Fifth Thousand.

THE LEADENHALL PRESS

MAX O’RELL.

John Bull’s
Womankind

(Les Filles de John Bull)

BY THE AUTHOR OF
“John Bull and his Island”

HALF-A-CROWN: CLOTH, THREE-AND-SIX.

LONDON:
FIELD & TUER; SIMPKIN, MARSHALL & CO.; HAMILTON, ADAMS & CO.

(English Copyright Edition. All Rights Reserved.)

By Appointment to
H.R.H. the Princess
of Wales.

By Appointment to
Her Majesty the
Queen.

By Appointment to
H.I.M. Empress of
Russia.

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“I heard a lady say lately she had never seen a Dress of Redfern’s on a bad figure, but I expect the truth is that Redfern’s Gowns make a figure look well, however little nature may have done for it.”—Life, Nov. 12th, 1884.

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EVERY DAUGHTER OF JOHN BULL
SHOULD READ

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FIELD & TUER
Ye Leadenhalle Presse, E.C.
T. 4199.

TO MRS. JOHN BULL.

Dear Madam,

Now please not to frown, still less to cry out, “Shocking!”

I assure you, you may turn over the leaves of this book from beginning to end without fear of encountering a single piece of indiscretion.

I know that fresh air and cold water are your delight. You dearly love to shiver at the contact of a dripping sponge; but your door is carefully closed, and I have seen nothing.

It is not your undraped photograph that I publish, it is the litany of your good qualities that I sing.

May I be allowed here to say freely what I think?

Well, dear Madam, I think that, if the human race, including Mr. Bull your husband, felt for you half the admiration which your charms and virtues inspire in me, you would be justly proclaimed the goddess of conjugal felicity.

Now you ought to give me a smile for that, I think.

Open this little volume fearlessly, dear Madam, and if you should light upon any mention—I will not say of your faults, for most certainly you have none—but of some few little oddities perhaps, do not be offended; but remember that our real friends are those who tell us the truth—en ami, of course—but still who do tell it us.

CONTENTS.

HORS D’ŒUVRE.

In proposing the toast to the ladies at a City dinner, one evening, Lord Derby expressed himself in these terms:—

“Before appointing an Englishman to any post of importance, the first question the electors ask is:

“‘What kind of a wife has he?’”

And, indeed, the English, who introduce diplomacy into everything, place discretion above all the qualifications that an English candidate sends to the members of an electing board, in the form of testimonials.

The chief thing required of a man who is to be placed at the head of a Society, an Institution, a College, is that he should know how to maintain order and good discipline: not with fuss and severity, but with calmness and discretion; and the English are quite right, for self-control and discretion are the two qualities that most fit a man for government. “Now,” the electors say, “if Mr. So-and-So, who is one of our selected candidates, cannot keep his wife in order, how will he keep a thousand men or boys in order? If he cannot maintain good discipline in his house, how will he maintain it in our Society? If he is ruled by his wife, it is his wife and not he whom we shall be electing. Therefore Mr. So-and-So will not do for us.”

Very proper reasoning.

How many talented men could I name, who will owe to their wives, all their life-time, the honour of being and remaining obscure heroes!

What is the main cause of England’s greatness and prosperity? Simply this:

The thousands of small republics, all independent each of the other, that are called Societies, Hospitals, Colleges, etc., are governed, not by idols that have hands and handle not, or by badly salaried potentates who have eyes and see not, but by energetic and clear-sighted men, who receive immense salaries, but who, in return, devote to the Institutions that they rule over, all the resources, all the force of their minds.

Take the schools and colleges for instance.

I am convinced that, in Paris, a proviseur does not know the names of more than thirty or forty of the pupils attending his lycée. At any rate, there are not twenty of them that he could recognise in the street and call by their names. His emoluments range from five to six hundred pounds a year.

In England, the head-masters of the great Public Schools receive three, four, five, and even six thousand pounds a year. Well, I guarantee that these head-masters know individually every one of the thousand boys or so that are under their care. They know the place that each one occupies in his class. The pupils are placed by the head-master, according to their merit and aptitude, in such and such form, in such and such department. He will write to some parents, “Your son has no taste for classics. I will put him in our modern school to learn mathematics and science. I advise you to make an engineer of him, an officer,” etc.

In France, work is generally in inverse ratio to the emoluments.

In England, work is in proportion to the salary: responsible work, at all events.

Take the Church.

English bishops are fortunate mortals, who receive emoluments amounting to something like eight and ten thousand pounds a year. But, over here, a bishopric is no sinecure.

In France, the clergy of a diocese receive from their bishop orders which they obey blindly; they all teach the same dogma, and have no competition to keep up; but, in England, everybody reasons and argues: the young clergyman, fresh from Oxford or Cambridge, has his own way of interpreting the Scriptures, and the bishop is constantly called upon to pacify, to conciliate all his little clerical world who are for ever dogmatising, discussing, disputing, in the pulpit, in meetings, in the newspapers, and keep him on the alert all the year round. If a French priest shows signs of independence of thought, he is treated as a rebel, and his case is soon settled; public indifference to religious matters consigns him to swift oblivion, when he has succeeded in making a little noise, which happens very rarely; but, in England, the priest who holds original views is backed up by partisans who immediately take up his cause; at any moment, he may set up for a martyr and become a source of continual annoyance to his bishop.

Above all things, the man in office must avoid a scandal, what the English call in slang, a row. So he must be discreet, conciliating, and an accomplished diplomatist: such, I repeat, are the qualifications of any man occupying a high and responsible position in England.

Take the man of business, the City man. Everywhere you find the same activity, the same feverish, high pressure kind of life.

Under these circumstances, the part that the English woman has to play is clear enough: to make her husband forget, in private life, the strain, the rebuffs, the deceptions, the snubs and kicks that he has to endure in public life; to prepare for him a retreat in the calm atmosphere of which he may refresh himself and acquire new strength; to do the honours of her house with that liberality, that generous hospitality, which are only met with among the English; in short, to be satisfied with a part which, when filled with that abnegation and devotion of which the women of all countries are capable, is no less beautiful for being a secondary one.

Now, dear reader, if you will once more do me the honour of accepting me as guide, we will visit together those beautiful girls a trifle too emancipated, those virtuous wives a little too much respected, those good mothers perhaps a little neglected; those women hospitable above all others, whose ingenious forethought for the smallest needs of life makes of a humble cottage a little palace of cleanliness, order, and comfort.

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JOHN BULL’S WOMANKIND.

I.

Flirtation — Sweethearting — Love in the open air — Où il y a de la gêne il n’y a pas de plaisir.

Seeing that the word flirtation seems to have been definitely received into the French vocabulary, it is natural to suppose that our language contained no equivalent for it, or that the thing itself never existed in France.

Flirtation is, in fact, an essentially English pastime. No one flirts in France: we are more serious than that in love affairs.

Some etymologists have thought that the verb to flirt was formed from fleurette in the expression conter fleurette; but the best authorities agree in thinking that it took its origin from fleardian, an Anglo-Saxon word which means to trifle; and thus it seems possible that it may have some connection with the verb fleureter, which, in old French, signified “to say little nothings,” whence plaisanter, badiner.

However this may be, let us leave to savants the task of deciding the matter, while we concern ourselves about the thing itself. What, then, is flirtation?

Flirtation is a very innocent little pastime. I have read in the confession albums of young ladies of good society, “What is your favourite occupation? Flirting.” The answer is not in exquisite taste, even from the English point of view, I admit; but no one would think of taking it amiss ... all the more so, I should add, because these confessions are not meant to be taken very seriously.

Young girls who at a ball had made themselves specially agreeable to certain of their partners, and succeeded in drawing a few compliments from them, might say, “We had such flirtation.”

To flirt, then, is to make a young fellow believe that “on l’a remarqué, distingué,” as the Grande Duchesse de Gerolstein says; it is to encourage him by sweet smiles and tender wiles, to quit his reserve and carry his gallantry almost so far as to declare himself. This kind of thing would be very dangerous with a young Frenchman; it leads to no bad consequences with the young Englishman, for flirtation is “attention without intention,” as some one—I forget whom—has very aptly put it; and an Englishman is able to pay a lady attentions without harbouring any intentions. I compliment him upon it.

A woman who flirted would pass in France for giddy, even fast: she knows her countrymen well, and is aware, when she coquettes with them, what she is exposing herself to. A young girl would never even think of it. But, in England, men are not so inflammable, and in flirting, a woman does not play with fire. Witness the following little scene, which gave me a quarter of an hour’s diversion, at a conversazione given by one of the great learned societies of London.

A young girl, lovely as an Englishwoman knows how to be lovely, when she sets about it, stood in the corner of one of the rooms talking with a young fellow of eighteen or twenty.

You should have seen with what a mischievous delight this little angel, or rather this little demon, tortured the young booby, who appeared to me not to know what to do with himself, or which way to look, to escape the sight of a lovely and freely displayed corsage, that rose and fell, a few inches from his nose. “Poor dear child!” I thought to myself, “how oppressed you appear to be!” She seemed to be doing her utmost to sigh her life away; and what amused me most, was that, when the poor fellow appeared to have taken the firm resolution not to be tempted, his pretty torturer stopped her chatter, and set to work to fasten, with many careful and delicate touches, a rose that threatened, at one moment to escape, at the next to be swallowed in the heavy sea.

This little performance certainly lasted a quarter of an hour, and really I pitied from the bottom of my heart this poor Tantalus—if one may call Tantalus a young innocent who did not attempt to get nearer—when, to my great satisfaction, I saw him beat a retreat. I felt relieved. So did the poor fellow, I am sure.

A young Frenchman would soon have put an end to such a game by taking some liberty that the young girl, after all, would have only too richly deserved.

Sweethearting is a very different thing: we come now to love-making taken au sérieux. Sweethearts are two young people who have confessed their love to each other and have become mutually affianced, with or without the consent of their parents. This English word has an old-fashioned flavour about it. It corresponds very much to our bon ami and bonne amie. In speaking of the intended husband of a lady of good society, you would now rather use the word lover.

Sweethearting could hardly exist in France, where the most firmly betrothed lovers scarcely ever have a chance of renewing their vows of love, except in the presence of a future mother-in-law. In England, sweethearting means to make love openly; to take one’s choice about, to friends’ houses, to concerts, to the theatre, to parties, for sentimental walks more or less solitary; to be allowed a thousand charming little liberties; it means, in a word, to play the comedy of love. Of course, accidents will happen, it is inevitable: carried away by the success of the play, the best actors may forget themselves. But it is far from being the rule: it is even a very rare exception, especially in the educated classes.

It is a curious spectacle, in a country where reserve, prudery, and propriety are carried to a point of uncomfortableness, to observe the couples of lovers walking about in the evening, holding each other by the hand, by the waist, around the neck, and, in rather deserted streets, forming regular processions. I am not speaking of the better classes, of course; but still I speak of the lower middle class—of clerks, shopmen, and shopgirls, very well dressed, and for the most part very respectable. These couples go “sober, sober,” like the “poor man” in the nursery rhyme, and, with their eyes bent languishingly on each other, appear to find very little to say with their lips. When you pass and look at them, they seem to say to you: “You have been through it yourself, old fellow, haven’t you? You know all about it: there’s no need to mind you.”

The seats in the parks and public promenades are occupied all the evening long by such couples. These seats are made to hold three persons, but, with a little management, they will accommodate six. The occupants are there by the hour together, each couple taking no notice of the others, but clasped in a silent embrace, motionless and rapturous. I have always admired these stoical young Englishmen who can thus undergo, for hours, this voluptuous treatment without any inconvenience.

One evening, in the month of March of last year, I crossed Hyde Park to get to the Marble Arch from Piccadilly. As I saw those couples reposing at their ease on the grass, and not attempting to disturb themselves for such a trifle as a man passing, I thought to myself, “O free England! to what lengths, after all, will thy love of liberty carry thee!”

As I was waiting at the Arch for my omnibus, a fine, good-humoured looking policeman was pacing up and down. I went up to him, and began by asking him if there would soon be a Bayswater omnibus passing. Seeing him disposed to be chatty, I said to him, “They seem to make themselves at home in the park, those lovers! They don’t budge for anybody.”

“No, sir; no, not they,” he replied naïvely; “no fear!” Où il y a de la gêne il n’y a pas de plaisir.

The policeman was evidently there at the entrance of the park to protect the sweethearts, and prevent anybody from disturbing them. I had always wondered why policemen were stationed outside the London parks, and never entered them after dusk. I understand at last: one does not take in everything at a glance.

II.

Declarations of love — Kisses — Disobliging Britons.

I never much admired our manner of making love declarations in France. We go down on our knees, in our nineteenth-century costume, at the feet of a woman whom we allow from her superior height to contemplate us in all our servility. With her sweet, downcast eyes, this little demon of observation takes an inventory of our slightest blemishes: of our hair, that is not so luxuriant as it was; of our rounded upturned eyes, that appear to be all whites; of a small wart, that we fondly fancied no one noticed; of our dignity, that we have abdicated in going on our knees, to implore favours that we are destined to pay enough for, Heaven knows, and which, after all, mean promotion for her who grants them; for I maintain that a woman who marries is promoted over her sisters. Well I say it plainly, our part in this little scene is a supremely ridiculous one. If you are not of the same opinion, gentlemen, put the following question to yourselves: Should I ever think of being photographed in such a position? I await your reply.

They manage these things differently in England. The favourite seat of young girls at home is a low chair, an ottoman, or very often a simple footstool. How often have I seen pretty daughters of Albion, and that in the best society, sitting Turkish fashion on the rug in front of the fire, on winter evenings, caressing one another, or listening, while some interesting novel was read aloud! These little scenes, full of charm, have often suggested to me sweet pictures of domestic happiness, in which each one plays the part that, according to my ideas, is most befitting.

Seated comfortably at your ease, you have near you, but a little lower than yourself, the beloved object of your dreams, or better still, the dear companion of your daily life; in whose ear, without dislocating your vertebræ, you can murmur sweet words of love. All your defects, if defects you have—and be sure of it, you are not without some—are out of the range of her eyesight. Over you, in perfumed waves, spread her beautiful tresses that you caress, knot, unknot, and never tire of playing with. With the eyes of a lover, and at the same time a protector, you admire the graceful contour of her form, that vibrates with pleasure at the sound of your voice, and her eyes that seem to implore your protection and thank you for the cloudless life you map out for her. Thus seated, you might even, without fear of annoying her, smoke your cigar while you hold sweet converse, and build your castles in Spain. I say, without fear of annoying her, for your wife will certainly allow you to smoke, if she is not a simpleton.

“Your husband in love savours somewhat of the pacha,” some emancipated lady will perhaps exclaim.

Not in the least. We are not speaking of a master and his slave, but merely putting in their proper places the possessor and the possessed: the one who will have the battle of life to fight, and the one who will fit him for it, who will encourage him by her tenderness and love, rejoice with him in his joys, and cheer him in time of adversity: “a state not of slavery, but of exalted duty.”

Ah! Madam, how I am filled with admiration for you, when, meeting your husband, I hear him say to me: “Excuse me, my dear boy, if I leave you so quickly, but I am in a hurry to get home; my wife is expecting me!” I know so many husbands who are in no hurry to go home, and for good reason.

The kiss on the lips is almost the only one practised in England.

Do not imagine, however, that this pleasant little pastime can be indulged in as freely as you might desire. No, here as elsewhere, the same difficulty presents itself: the people that you may kiss are those that belong to you; the people whose lips you are forbidden to approach, are those that belong to that stern Cerberus that the French call Autrui.

I would willingly initiate you further, dear inquisitive lady reader, into those little scenes of intimacy, always so interesting, no matter whether they pass amid English fogs or beneath Italy’s pure sky; but, you see, in all the houses where I have had the honour of being invited, I have watched and observed in vain; I have scarcely seen anything worth noting down. Those provoking Britons always waited until I had left the house to proceed to business.

III.

Love in Marriage — Mrs. John Bull’s bedroom — As you make your bed, so you must lie on it — Young People, English and French — How it may sometimes be an economy to take your Wife with you when you travel on the Continent.

John Bull owes his success in this world—and perhaps in the next also—to his indifference towards woman, an indifference that he is fortunate enough to owe to his peculiar organisation and the uniform temperature of his blood, and which not only enables him to keep a cool head before the charms of the fair sex, but also to maintain them in a complete state of submission.

The submission of woman to man is the basis of every solid social system.

In John’s eyes, woman is almost a necessary evil; a wife a partner of the firm; love-making a little corvée more or less disagreeable.

The Englishman is unquestionably well fitted for making colonies, but badly formed for making love: he has no abandon about him, cannot forget himself, and passes his life in standing sentinel at the door of his dignity. It requires more skill to make love than to lead armies, said Ninon de Lenclos, who was an authority.

Go to the theatre and you will hear the young lover declare himself to his lady-love in about the same tone as we should use at table in asking our neighbour, “May I trouble you for the mustard?”

This “I love you” may be sincere, and is, I doubt not; but it certainly can never have the power of our “Je t’aime.” The English language, in avoiding the second person singular, avoids familiarity. Here a man says you alike to his mistress and his bootmaker. Who among us does not still feel a thrill of emotion and pleasure as he thinks of the moment when, for the first time, he grew bold enough to change vous into toi? Where is the woman whose pulses did not quicken with love at the sound of those words, Si tu savais comme je t’aime, breathed low in her ear by her accepted lover. It is true that in our high society a man uses vous in speaking to his wife, but if he loves her, vous is only for the gallery: there are times when toi is indispensable.

After all, perhaps you sits better on an Englishman, with his respect for his wife: a respect of which she must be a little inclined to complain occasionally.

Only go and see John Bull’s house, and once more, let me repeat that by John Bull I always mean the middle-class Englishman, with an income of from two to five hundred a year. You will find it all very comfortable: drawing-room, dining-room, library, breakfast-room. But the bedroom!

Ah! the bedroom! You see at a glance that you are not in the temple of love, but in a refuge for sleep and repose.

Of all the rooms in an English house, the bedroom is the least attractive looking, the one that has had the least care and money spent upon it: it always looks to me like a servant’s room. No little cosy arm-chairs; no pretty furniture; no ornament. Few or no curtains.[1] You look in vain for a boudoir, that green-room of the little elf-god. No: six straight-backed fragile-looking cane chairs; an iron or brass bedstead; a dressing-table in front of the window; a chest of drawers; a washstand, and a sponge-bath.

[1] Many Englishmen are of opinion that curtains make a bedroom unhealthy. Health is the first thing to be considered.

Nothing more. What! my dear Mrs. Bull, not even a screen! Is John no longer a man in your eyes?

Better still. Would you believe that in very good houses, I have seen, and very plainly too ... yes, positively, I have seen it on the floor under the washstand?... I have often noticed by the side of the English bed, a little piece of furniture, resembling a music-box in shape, which I think does not add much poetical charm to the couch of Mr. and Mrs. John Bull.

Such is the temple in which the Englishman sacrifices to Venus.

You have probably heard it said, dear reader, that a stranger never penetrates into the bedroom in England. That is true, and may easily be understood. However, should you call on an Englishman and be persuaded to prolong your visit a little, after some time he will be sure to ask you if you would not like to go upstairs and wash your hands. It is the formula.

When I say that the bedroom is quite devoid of ornaments, I exaggerate a little: the walls are adorned with illuminated texts from the Bible, hung by means of ribbons. They are texts chosen for their suitableness. “Thou God seest me,” ... etc. The best was one that I saw thus posted up at the head of an English bed: “Watch and pray, lest ye enter into temptation; for the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.”

One more word upon the English bedroom.

In making a bed in England, every covering is not taken off separately, as it is in France, to be replaced carefully one after the other, without the slightest crumple. Here the whole is taken off, or rather turned back, over the foot of the bed, the feather bed is shaken, and the clothes returned to their place as they came.

Cold as an Englishwoman, has said Alfred de Musset. And as the illustrious poet was an authority on women, we still say in France: froide comme une Anglaise. Don’t believe a word of it; it is a calumny. You form your judgment from stiff collarettes that look as if they had never been crumpled. In my mind, one of the Englishman’s greatest faults is his not appreciating at their proper worth such sweet charming women, all the more attractive for their little air of propriety and prudishness.

The finest Stradivarius would give forth but sorry sounds in the hands of an ignoramus. How can you expect women to look very lively when they have to pass the first fifteen years of their married life enceintes or en couches, suckling all the little John Bulls destined one day to introduce cold beef and pickles in the four corners of the Globe?

When a Frenchwoman gets married, her good time begins; when an Englishwoman gets married, her good time is over. Within a year her case is settled: comme mars en carême. Thanks to the liberty that is allowed to young couples, there may be a little mistake in arithmetic made occasionally. As I do not wish to seem to calumniate for the pleasure of calumniating, I must hasten to add that it is a very rare thing to hear of an Englishman breaking faith where his attentions have been too successful.

French men and English women generally live very happily together in matrimony, often quite like lovers.

On the contrary, English men and French women seem to lead dull and wretched lives. Of course, I am speaking of those that I know; I do not wish to generalise, it would be absurd; and yet it seems to me one might say that there were never two beings who appeared to be less suited for each other; as well try to marry the day and the night.

Far be it from me to think of contesting the virtue of Englishwomen. Women are born virtuous all the world over: this is one of the firm convictions that I delight in holding. Is it simplicity or innocence on my part? I do not think so.

Only, I would remark that the virtue of an Englishwoman runs less risk in a country where young men are by temperament less enterprising, by education more reserved, and by natural awkwardness more shy with women than in Continental countries.

I do not say this in order to be critical, quite the contrary; and as, in making these observations, my intention is not either to please the French or to court the English, but simply to write conscientiously what I think and what I see, I will hasten to add, that I greatly prefer the young Englishman of twenty, shy, awkward, and childish as he may appear to our school heroes, with his cricket and his football, to the young Frenchman of the same age, who runs down women, and looks at them with a bold and patronising air, as he twirls his moustache.

The young English girl knows more of life than the young French girl; she may be as pure, but she is less innocent, less intact, and consequently knows better how to take care of herself. A young married woman will sometimes have a young sister not out of her teens, to stay with her, during her confinement. Such a thing would never be done in France. I do not say who is right; I merely draw attention to the facts.

Unless a married woman courts danger, she runs no risk, surrounded as she is by her children. All these things are so many safeguards for the Englishwoman of the middle classes. I say middle classes; for, if one may believe the reports of divorce cases published in the newspapers, it is evident that the English upper classes cannot cast the stone at their Continental neighbours.

As for the lower orders, I have resolved to speak of them as little as possible in this volume. The subject is as repulsive as it is stale.

Our worthy friend John Bull would doubtless like to have his virtue discoursed upon at length. He prides himself upon it not a little; he likes it talked about.

Yet one would be almost tempted to believe that he leaves all his superfluous stock of that commodity in the cloak-rooms at Dover and Folkestone, before embarking on board the boats of the South-Eastern Railway Company. Good heavens! But what an emancipated look he has in Paris! What a metamorphosis! How the corners of his mouth go up! How he throws his insular reserve overboard! Why, this can never be John! Somebody must have substituted an inferior article; he does not look half so good. And when he returns home to his island, what endless tales he has to tell about the immorality of Paris and Brussels! Shocking! Dreadful!

Funny constitution! When he has had his little round of a fortnight on the Continent, he seems to resume his quiet, godly habits for the rest of the year. How he must have improved each shining hour!

The virtue of an Englishman is bounded on the south by the English Channel; on the west by the Atlantic Ocean; on the east by the North Sea.

“Why do you employ so many Germans in your offices?” I asked one day of a great City man.

——“Because they speak several languages,” he replied.

——“But could you not find Englishmen who have lived abroad, that would do as well?”

——“I could find plenty, no doubt; but I should have no confidence in their steadiness. You must not lose sight of an Englishman.”

——“You don’t mean it!” I cried. “Is that the opinion you have of your countrymen?”

——“I don’t believe in the virtue of an Englishman on the Continent,” he replied seriously.

——“What! You would not trust a....”

——“I would trust nobody.”

——“Not even a bishop?”

——“Not even a bishop.”

“Things are dreadfully dear in France; one spends no end of money in Paris,” said another Briton to me one day.

——“Do you think so?” I replied. “When I am in Paris, and am staying at an hotel, I spend but about twenty-five francs a day, and I live like a prince.”

——“Frightfully dear! I tell you.”

——“And you talk of going again next month?”

——“Yes, but I shall have my wife with me.”

——“What! you will take your wife! You will spend double as much then....”

——“Not at all, I....”

My islander checked himself; he felt he had gone a little too far, and a deep blush spread over his countenance.

“Oh! I beg your pardon,” I cried; “of course you are quite right.... I was not thinking.”

Was I not a simpleton?

IV.

The Marriage Ceremony in England — Civil Marriages — Elopements — Marriage in Scotland — Show your Credentials — One word more about the dot.

Marrying one of John Bull’s daughters is not all honey.

One cannot help wondering how it comes to pass that the English, who for centuries have been reforming their religion in every sense imaginable, have never yet turned their attention to making the language of the Church as choice and euphemistic as is the language of good society. The Protestant Church alone seems to have retained the sole privilege of calling a spade a spade, or something worse still.

At the ordinary services, it does not so much matter. The clergyman is at a certain distance from the congregation, and when he reads you, from the Bible, a story that makes you tremble for fear of what he will read next, you can comfort yourself with the idea that the charming young lady at your side has perhaps not been listening. Besides, that which is addressed to everybody is addressed to nobody; witness, the effect upon Christians of all the sermons that have been preached to them for nearly two thousand years.

But when it comes to going through the marriage ceremony in church, it is quite another matter.

You are standing beside your bride, and close to the clergyman who is facing you. Six or eight bridesmaids, sometimes young girls twelve or fifteen years old, are grouped behind the bride. Breaking the profound silence, the minister thus addresses you, not in Latin, but in plain English: “Dearly beloved brethren, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony; which is an honourable estate ... not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God; duly considering the causes for which matrimony was ordained.” And then he goes on to say that it was ordained for the procreation of children, for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication, that such persons as have not the gift of continency might marry and keep themselves undefiled members of Christ’s body.

That is how the ball opens. It is promising, is it not? You would give the world to sink through the floor, or to be able to seize your dear little wife, and fill her ears with cotton wool. You blush, as you think of the sweet creatures in white, blue, and pink, who are just behind you biting their lips, and wondering what those brute beasts, that have no understanding, have to do with the ceremony, and you feel ready to fall on your knees and implore the forgiveness of the innocent young girl at your side, for having brought her there to hear such things. And that which strikes you with wonder, nay, with amazement, is that just after, when the minister says to her, “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband ... wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health?” she does not indignantly exclaim:

“No, indeed, not for the world!”

Thus have the English, in their rigid puritanism, managed to spoil a ceremony that might, and ought, to remain engraven on the memory among life’s sweetest souvenirs.

And yet, what beautiful words might be said to young couples, and that, without going out of the Bible for them: the Bible, that finest monument of English prose, so poetical at times, so grand, yet so melodious always! Never was woman painted in colours so poetical; never were her duties traced with such a masterly hand as by the famous King of the Hebrews; and one might extract from the Proverbs and the Song of Solomon a most charming lecture to be addressed to young couples presenting themselves at the altar.

The language of the English Bible is incomparably superior to that of the Bible in any other idiom. It is like music, like trumpet blasts. With the exception of the finest passages of Bossuet, I know nothing, even in our splendid prose, that could be compared with this great national epic.

The foregoing remarks on the Bible will perhaps give pleasure to the English; not that I wrote them with any such intention: it is simply the exact truth.

Plenty of people in England do without the religious ceremony. They are not free-thinkers, for that; they are merely worthy people quite orthodox, but who prefer the civil marriage as being more simple.

They present themselves at the registrar’s office. No need to produce any papers: the bridegroom gives his name and surname, as well as those of the young girl he means to marry; the couple declare their ages, in the presence of two witnesses, and state whether they are spinster and bachelor, or whether either or both have been through the ceremony of marriage before. The registrar’s book is signed, and there is an end of the matter. By means of a licence, that may be obtained at Doctors’ Commons for the sum of two guineas, the trouble of having one’s banns published may be avoided.

It is scarcely necessary to add that, when the parents give consent to the marriage of their children, the ceremony generally takes place in church; but the registrar is a great resource, when the parents are so cruel as to stand in the way of the young folks’ happiness.

Elopements are very common in England. Do not imagine, however, for an instant, that an elopement means anything very romantic. No signal or rope ladder at midnight; no carriage with two swift steeds waiting at the corner of the next street; no masked postillions, such as one is accustomed to at the Ambigu Theatre. Nothing of the kind. As I said in “John Bull and his Island,” “A young girl goes out one fine morning to post a letter, and, on her return, informs her parents that she is married.” Only; of course, it sometimes happens that she does not return.

In the appendix will be found the account of a case that has recently been tried in Dublin.[2] The prisoner, aged forty-two, had been through the ceremony of marriage five times.

[2] See [Appendix (a)].

But for marriage made easy, Scotland is the place. There civil marriage, religious marriage, all is unnecessary. You gather together your parents and friends, present to them the young girl to whom you are engaged, and tell them: “This is the wife I have chosen.” The matter is settled: you are married.

If I may believe certain Scotch novels, this presentation even may be dispensed with. It is sufficient for the young people to say to each other: “I take you for my wife;” “I accept you as my husband,” in order to be able to consider themselves well and duly married. “A wedding is all very well,” Sandy will tell you, “but for real fun and enjoyment, give me a good funeral.”

I do not speak of these Scotch weddings with the least intention of laughing at them. I think those primitive customs simply admirable. Laws, contracts, and other impediments of all kinds are only made for rogues.

Compare this charming manner of getting married with the bothers and hindrances without end arising from the necessity for producing the papers exacted by the French bureaucracy, both religious and civil: certificates of birth, certificates of baptism, certificates of the death of parents you may have lost, written consent of parents who are unable to be present, billets de confession, and I know not what besides; until you wonder Red Tape does not demand your own certificate of existence. It would seem as though the marriage formalities in France had been invented with the express idea of making young people shun matrimony.

Dress coats are not worn at weddings in England; they are only used for evening wear, and are called evening coats. The bridegroom, his best man, and the other gentlemen, are in frock coats. The dresses of the bride and bridesmaids are similar to those worn in France on such occasions.

The bride is led to the altar by her father. When the clergyman says: “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” the father advances, and replies: “I do.” The dear man always appears to me radiant on these occasions; with happy heart and beaming countenance he answers: “I do.” It is true he gives his daughter, but as that is generally all he gives, it is a clear profit for him: one mouth less to fill.

A suitor never thinks of asking for a dot with his bride, as I have said elsewhere. I even added: “Girls of the middle class in England have no dot; or when they have, it is the exception, and not the rule.” This assertion brought down upon me a plethora of recriminations. “What, Sir,” wrote the indignant British parents, “we give no dots to our daughters! But, begging your pardon, we do so when we have the means.”

All I can say is that the exceptions may be a little more frequent than I thought, although I doubt it; and whichever way the case may stand, I know personally a great number of Englishmen very well off, rich even, who have led their daughters to the altar, dowered them with a few chemises and handkerchiefs, and ... wished them good luck.

The young couple manage as best they may.

V.

After the Ball — My Wife makes me a little Confidence (from the Diary of a Frenchman married to an Englishwoman).

I am not jealous; yet, every time I reach home after a ball, I experience a certain feeling of relief and satisfaction: I cannot help it.

When you have seen your wife whirled round a room, in the arms of a score of men, who have plunged their eyes in her corsage, inhaled the perfume of her hair, held her waist and hand, felt her near them at the distance of a hair’s breadth, you are happy to find yourself once more alone with her, and to feel that, after all, she is your very own. Besides, there is another sentiment that animates you. The dance has made your little wife radiant; it has brought a new glow to her cheeks; her eyes are brighter; her whole being seems to exhale I know not what intoxicating perfume; she is lovelier than ever in your eyes; and those thousand little jealous ideas that have been passing through your head have added fuel to the flame of your love ... in short, I know nothing more pleasant, more delightful, than to return from a ball with one’s wife, to a cosy fire-side, to thrust her little feet into her satin slippers, to pull off her gloves, and ask her for a cup of tea.

We had had a little room arranged quite expressly for these tête-à-tête. We called it the reposoir. We only used it on returning from the play or a ball. What long confabulations we have had in it! What delicious little chats its walls have heard! And, thank Heaven, they often hear them still: I do not see why I should not put all my verbs in the present tense.

This sanctum is about the size of a nutshell: there is just room for two. The furniture consists of a table, a sofa, two inviting-looking arm-chairs, and a Pleyel piano of the sweetest tone. A Turkey carpet covers the floor, and two lamps with blue tulip-shaped globes throw a soft, most exquisite light over the room. When the curtains are drawn, we can imagine ourselves alone in the world.

My wife has more than once confessed to me that, to her, the greatest pleasure about going to a ball or a theatre, was the thought of the little reposoir all ready to receive us on our return, and she never forgot to give strict orders with regard to it before setting out.

I have more than once, at a party, caught her throwing me little glances that seemed to say: “Have patience, darling; Parker is just lighting us a lovely little fire; in a few moments we shall be all alone, and I will soon drive that frown from your brow.”

One evening we came home and went to the reposoir as usual, my wife radiant and lovely enough to turn the head of a hermit, I a little sulky. I took off her pelisse, laid it carefully on the sofa, and threw myself dreamily into one of the chairs. My wife took possession of the other, gave me a wicked little glance, and unceremoniously burst out laughing in my face.

“I am sure you are jealous. Don’t tell me you are not,” she added, placing five glowing perfumed fingers on my lips.

——“Well, yes, I am; it was not nice of you to waltz with that great fop of a....”

——“Now don’t talk about that; I was punished enough for it. I never saw such an awkward fellow.”

——“It served you right.”

——“Come, don’t scold me. I had it in my head—I don’t know why—that it was to be a polka. You know very well that I don’t care to waltz with anybody but you. First of all, because you waltz beautifully, and then, with you there is no danger.”

——“There is no danger? What do you mean?”

——“Did I say that?”

——“You did.”

——“Oh! I don’t know what I say. Yes, as I was remarking, you waltz beautifully ... only....”

——“Only....”

——“Only you go too fast.”

——“Too fast! How can that be? The waltz should be rapid, giddy.”

——“Oh! you silly! Ahem! I mean to say, you are wrong.”

——“Explain yourself, sweet one.”

——“Well then, I mean that I like a waltz to be slow, dreamy, sad, almost dying away; I should like them composed entirely of the kind of airs they generally begin with—slow and solemn.”

——“What!” I exclaimed, “you don’t like the intoxicating kind of waltz?”

——“You know nothing about it,” replied she cunningly.

——“I tell you I am an inveterate waltzer.”

——“That proves nothing at all.”

——“I tell you a waltz should be an intoxicating whirl.”

——“Just at the end, perhaps; though I am not so sure of that either. Listen, I’ll show you the kind of movement I like.”

And, seating herself at the piano, my wife began to play a few bars of the Colonel waltz.

“That is a waltz,” she said, seating herself on my knees, and laying her head upon my shoulder.

——“Indeed!” I replied, growing reflective. “I say, darling, if you don’t mind—I don’t know why I ask you that again, but more than ever ... I had rather you waltzed with no one but me.”

——“Oh! you need not ask me; and if that poor fellow had not set about it so awkwardly, I should very soon have thanked him and excused myself.... Just time enough to perceive that it was a waltz: and that would have settled it, you may be sure.”

——“I don’t follow you at all.”

——“It is so lovely to waltz with you! You are not afraid to hold me firmly, and besides ... when I get giddy, I just lay my head on your shoulder and close my eyes, and then I feel quite safe.”

——“It’s a curious thing. The waltz makes me a little giddy too, but still I....”

——“Well, you are not like me.”

——“Does it make your head swim?”

——“What a dear old goosey you are!”

——“Not such a goose as I look.... Once more, what on earth is the effect that the waltz does produce upon you?”

——“I ... do not know.”

——“Try to find out.”

And as I foresaw that my wife was about to make me a little confidence, and my wife’s confidences have always deeply interested me, I turned down the lamps, made her turn her back to the light, and applied an attentive ear to her pretty mouth.

“Now, come,” I said to her; “do tell me.”

——“I am sure, I don’t know.”

——“Oh yes, you do.”

——“It’s only nonsense....”

——“All the more reason why you should say it out. Go on, my own darling: there is nothing so dangerous as nonsense turned inwards.”

——“Little shivers ... ever so small ... you know.... Don’t kiss me in the neck: you’ll make me shriek....”

——“Little frissons!... Where?”

——“All over....”

——“Humph! I begin to understand the danger you were speaking of just now.... Now, darling, explain yourself more clearly, you know; I have not got it yet.”

——“I adore you!” she said rising, and, taking my head in her two hands, she kissed me tenderly.

We took a delicious cup of tea together, and it was agreed that in future my wife should only waltz with me.

It would appear that, when I waltz, I do not set about it too awkwardly. At any rate, it is the conclusion that I drew from our resolution.

VI.

The Beauty of Englishwomen — Their Dress — Their Hair — Advice to French Ladies — Hyde Park — Interior of English Theatres — O Routine! such is thy handiwork.

The French women are more graceful and more piquant than the English; but they are less healthy and less fresh-looking. Their eyes are brighter, their mouths much prettier, and their figures a great deal finer; but their complexion is not so clear, nor nearly so fine.

Regular walks and baths are the secret of the health and beauty of the English woman. She fears neither draught nor douche. She sleeps with her window open, and, on rising, inundates herself with cold water. In winter weather, the least hardy wrings a hard towel in water, and rubs herself with it from head to foot to promote the circulation of the blood, till her skin shrieks for mercy. The appetite thus awakened, she descends, fresh and vigorous, to breakfast heartily on eggs and cold meat, and then sets out for the lawn-tennis ground, or goes about her daily task.

It is in the fields, or on the lawns of their gardens; always in open air, that most Englishwomen pass six months of the year.

The neck is very freely displayed in England by ladies in evening dress; less so, however, than formerly, I am told. It would seem as if, starting from the head downwards, an Englishwoman did not mind how much she uncovered herself: provided she does not show her feet, she is happy. When the streets are muddy—and Heaven knows what black, dirty mud we have in London—you will never see the women lift their skirts as they walk; they seem by instinct to prefer getting them muddy to the waist. Consequently, the gentleman who follows a neat pair of ankles in Paris is never seen in London.

The Englishwoman’s skin is generally fine, and beautifully white and smooth; satin and alabaster; a neck like the swan’s. The shoulders and hips are frequently too narrow; and, unfortunately, the bosom is too often a quantité négligeable in the enumeration of an Englishwoman’s charms. But when there is something to display, good heavens, how proud they are of it! They carry it like church banners.

The first thing that strikes one in Paris on arriving from England is the embonpoint of the women. By the powers! they seem to be having a good time under the Republic. What development! What exuberance! Ladies, it is really alarming: a little moderation, pray, or you will soon have to throw your corsets over the hedge.

The Englishwoman walks on the flat foot, and lets her arms hang; the Frenchwoman puts her toes to the ground first, and her arms are folded in front of her: it is more graceful, but not so comfortable. The last time I visited Paris, I saw with pleasure that the high, pointed heels, that were stuck in the centre of the sole, had begun to give place to the English heels: this is a great progress.

And, mesdames, since you are beginning to imitate what is sensible in the English toilette, allow me to give you a piece of advice that your husbands will be very pleased to see you follow.

It is you who have the honour of setting the fashion to the civilized world. You wear your clothes so gracefully, and you are so charming, that even a frying-pan would look pretty on your heads. But I object to your hats and bonnets. Yes, those tyroliens, loaded with feathers, aigrettes, pompons, birds, fruit, and what not, are very dear and exceedingly ugly. You seek too much to attract to your hats that attention which should be bestowed entirely on your matchless eyes.

The wife of a clerk in Paris with about a hundred and fifty pounds a-year, will tell you that it is impossible to get a decent bonnet for less than forty or fifty francs. What folly! I know perfect ladies in England, who, for about five or ten shillings, make their own, and charming bonnets they are: simple, quiet, and most stylish. In England, only dealers in cast-off clothing would think of getting themselves up in those gigantic constructions, covered with currants, cherries—when shall we have the pumpkin?—that I noticed in the windows of the grand bonnet shops in Paris.

Come, mesdames, turn over a new leaf. Let me recommend you, for instance, the little “Princess” bonnet, so called because of the partiality shown for it by the Princess of Wales. It is a simple little form, made of straw, framed in velvet, that is not perched on the top of the head, but encases it, just leaving a small chignon visible at the back. How pretty women look in it! I would recommend also the Peg Woffington hat, which completely frames the face. Every picture needs a frame to throw up its beauty, as even a child in art knows. How else explain why the nun’s head-dress, the hood, the turban, and the mantilla are so becoming to all young women?

Try these coiffures, ladies, and I assure you that you will find them charming. Real distinction consists in simplicity, as you know very well, and you are quite pretty enough to be able to do without those absurd piles of head gear, that do not suit you at all, and that must seriously interfere with your husbands’ peace of mind. Do not wait until your milliners introduce the reform. It is to their interest to persuade you that the more furbelows you put on, the prettier you look. Take the matter into your own hands: put on a little Princess bonnet next Easter, and all the nymphs of the Bois de Boulogne will drive to their milliners, and order one of the same pattern, on their way home from the Avenue des Acacias.

Englishwomen wear their hair very simply dressed, even at balls. I admire that. To my taste, those locks, a little curly and rough on the top of the head, and coiled into a knot at the back of the neck, are much prettier than the complicated monuments that are the production of some fashionable hairdresser’s brain, and need a hundred hair pins to keep them together. These edifices that have taken hours to build, seem to awaken no idea in the mind, unless it be the idea of the length of time it would take to undo them, and the danger of touching them, lest the symmetry should be spoiled. On the contrary, those loosely twisted knots suggest a thousand charming ideas to the mind. Everything about a woman should be suggestive. You fancy you are going to see two pretty round arms uplifted to fasten the swaying tresses. And that is the prettiest movement of a woman, much the prettiest, you will admit. Besides this, the unfastening is but the work of an instant, and “o’er a neck’s rose-misted marble” flows a mantle of gold or ebony. Yes, decidedly the English way of doing the hair suggests many pretty thoughts.

Love feeds on suggestion: I had almost said on illusion. The greatest charm about a woman’s dress lies less in what it displays than in what it only hints at. As an illustration, take the success of a dress that was a great favourite in England two years ago. It was fastened at the neck; but, lower down, it yawned open, as if burst through the pressure of abondance de biens, showing little, but leaving much to be guessed at. It was provoking and exceedingly piquant. Besides—let us say here all we think—this kind of bodice allowed a little cheating, and the dissimulation of a small salt-cellar here and there, which naturally made it very popular in England.

It is all very well for the fair sex to tell us that it is out of pure vanity they delight in dressing prettily. I do not believe a word of it. I should not dare to affirm that they did not take a secret delight in eclipsing or crushing a rival, but I am infatuated enough to believe that it is principally to please us that they study to look lovely. It seems to me then, that we ought to have a voice in the matter, a consultative if not a deliberative voice, and to be allowed to tell them the kind of attire that pleases us most.

The more so, fair ladies, that it is one of our privileges to pay the milliner’s bills.

Just as glaring and showy as are the colours the lower class women array themselves in, just so quiet and simple are those worn in the street by ladies.

The dresses you see in the carriages, in Hyde Park, are noticeable for their sober tints and a studied, almost Puritan, simplicity.

There is something to the credit of Englishmen, which may aptly be added here, and that is, that, with the exception of the old or infirm, very few gentlemen accompany the ladies in the carriages: they are on horseback. You will see no young idlers of the order of St. Dandy and St. Dangler lolling among cushions, taking their solitary drive in Hyde Park to while away an hour or two. It would be going a little too far to say that in England every man works, although it would be very near to the truth; but what is perfectly sure is that they all have some occupation.

All display of toilette is reserved for the evening: for balls, theatres, and dinners.

The auditorium of a London theatre presents a very much more brilliant appearance than that of a Parisian one. It is an exceedingly pretty sight to see all the boxes, stalls, and dress circle full of gaily dressed ladies; in fact, if you except the Opera and two or three such houses as the Lyceum, the Haymarket, and the St. James’s, it is, in my opinion, about the only thing there is interesting for a Frenchman to see in a London theatre, even though he may understand English well. Evening dress is not optional, it is compulsory; unless you are bound for the upper regions of the house, the attendants, before showing you to your place, conduct the ladies who may accompany you, to the cloak-room, where hats and bonnets are left.

Of course, most ladies drive to the theatre in evening dress, and have no hat to remove.

It is needless to say that in England, where routine is not so deep-rooted as in France, ladies are admitted to the stalls. And why should they not be? They are the best seats in the house, and why in most of our Parisian theatres they are still closed to ladies, is something that passes my comprehension.

Long ago: about two hundred years back, the pit was not supplied with seats, and naturally women did not go there. This is why the ground floor, although now provided with excellent accommodation, is still interdicted to ladies. It seems too idiotic, but nevertheless, it is in vain one looks for any other explanation.

Almost three hundred years ago men left off wearing belts. And yet, in spite of that, on the backs of our coats may still be seen the two buttons that served for their support—and it is probable we shall see them there many a year yet.

O Routine! such is thy handiwork.

VII.

The Word and the Thing — Little Essay on the English Language — There is nothing like a good telescope if you want to see well — Master Dubius — Puritan Parlance — Salvation Fair — May Meetings and Spring Cleanings — Are you Pooty Well? — A suitable Menu.

It is the name of a thing that shocks an English woman, not so much the thing itself.

That which we call a pair of indispensables goes by the name of a pair of unmentionables over here. If you remark in a room, that the trousers Mr. So-and-so wears are always irreproachable, you will send all the ladies behind their fans. If you were to follow up the subject, you would soon create a veritable panic in the room. But go to any athletic meeting—to Lord’s Cricket Ground, or Lillie Bridge—there you will see gentlemen who, for all covering, have on their skin a thin flannel jersey, and drawers of the same, about the size of a fig leaf; saturated with perspiration, these elementary articles of the toilette cleave to the form as if their wearers had come straight out of a bath. Nevertheless, all around the course, looking, admiring, and applauding, you will see a crowd of the fair sex, that will convince you that an Englishwoman’s eyes are not so easily shocked as her ears.

In the room that contains the Elgin marbles, at the British Museum, I have seen young girls shading Apollos, whose nakedness was distressing. The glance of the passer-by did not disconcert them; with a firm hand, they continued their work unmoved. I have more than once run away blushing from those faithful reproductions.

Some English girls make studies from the nude figure, under the guidance of a male professor. I must add, however, in order to be just, that this latter does not make his observations directly to his pupils: the young ladies retire to another room, while the master writes on the margin of their drawings the remarks that their work suggests to him. I am told that Sir Frederick Leighton, the celebrated English painter, interdicts the undraped model to his pupils of the Royal Academy, of which he is President.

Everyone must still remember the indignation which was aroused among righteous upper circles by the revelations of the Daily News, when that paper had the courage to make known the atrocities that were being committed in Bulgaria. The ancient spinsters of philanthropic England have never forgiven the great organ of the Liberal party for having dared to enter into those details that froze the whole civilized world with horror and affright. “To think that I should have lived until to-day,” wrote one of them to a Conservative paper, “to read such things in a newspaper! Have we lost all sentiment of shame? Must we women be exposed to see these hideous, revolting accounts in print? That such things should be is bad enough; but that they should be described in detail ought not to be allowed.”

Thanks to the courage of the lamented Mac Gahan, the valorous correspondent of the Daily News, these atrocities were brought to light, too late, perhaps, to repair the evil already done, but not too late to hinder the utter annihilation of a poor nation, which was trying to shake off a shameful yoke that had weighed it down for four centuries. Let us hope that, in future, the worthy maiden lady will not venture to open any other paper than her Myra’s Journal and the Animal World.

I find the following anecdote in the Pall Mall Gazette:—

“A foreigner well known in English society sends us the following amusing account of his bathing experiences in England:—

“‘I have been much amused by your suggesting to the ladies who object to bathers in the River Thames the use of their inevitable companion, the parasol. Let me relate what happened to me last year while a temporary resident in a quiet seaside place of great renown. I was in the habit of bathing off a boat, for which purpose I was rowed out a couple of hundred yards or so from the shore, where I divested myself of my “many” clothes and donned the “few” generally worn by bathers. I practised this favourite pursuit of mine unmolested for several days; but one fine afternoon I indulged in a game of tennis with the vicar of some parish or other in the neighbourhood, and he gravely “took the opportunity” to inform me that among his pious flock there were two venerable old ladies, who—having a house facing the sea and close to the spot whence I embarked for my daily revelry—were much distressed in their minds by my proceedings, and, as they had disburdened their souls to him for consolation, he earnestly begged me to see my way to relieve the old ladies from their dire grievance. I told him I should get myself rowed out a hundred yards further from shore, and the good priest much applauded this resolution which would in his opinion prevent any further mischief. However, the gods willed it otherwise. The next day the vicar informed me—not without a suspicion of a smile on his face—that the two “venerable dames” could still see me quite plainly ... by means of a “capital binocular.”’”