The CDPD Public Domain Collection for CDTV 3/CDPDIII.bin/books/poe/spectacl

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                                      1850
                                 THE SPECTACLES
                               by Edgar Allen Poe
SPECTACLES

  MANY years ago, it was the fashion to ridicule the idea of "love
at first sight;" but those who think, not less than those who feel
deeply, have always advocated its existence. Modern discoveries,
indeed, in what may be termed ethical magnetism or magnetoesthetics,
render it probable that the most natural, and, consequently, the
truest and most intense of the human affections are those which
arise in the heart as if by electric sympathy- in a word, that the
brightest and most enduring of the psychal fetters are those which are
riveted by a glance. The confession I am about to make will add
another to the already almost innumerable instances of the truth of
the position.
  My story requires that I should be somewhat minute. I am still a
very young man- not yet twenty-two years of age. My name, at
present, is a very usual and rather plebeian one- Simpson. I say "at
present;" for it is only lately that I have been so called- having
legislatively adopted this surname within the last year in order to
receive a large inheritance left me by a distant male relative,
Adolphus Simpson, Esq. The bequest was conditioned upon my taking
the name of the testator,- the family, not the Christian name; my
Christian name is Napoleon Bonaparte- or, more properly, these are
my first and middle appellations.
  I assumed the name, Simpson, with some reluctance, as in my true
patronym, Froissart, I felt a very pardonable pride- believing that
I could trace a descent from the immortal author of the
"Chronicles." While on the subject of names, by the bye, I may mention
a singular coincidence of sound attending the names of some of my
immediate predecessors. My father was a Monsieur Froissart, of
Paris. His wife- my mother, whom he married at fifteen- was a
Mademoiselle Croissart, eldest daughter of Croissart the banker, whose
wife, again, being only sixteen when married, was the eldest
daughter of one Victor Voissart. Monsieur Voissart, very singularly,
had married a lady of similar name- a Mademoiselle Moissart. She, too,
was quite a child when married; and her mother, also, Madame Moissart,
was only fourteen when led to the altar. These early marriages are
usual in France. Here, however, are Moissart, Voissart, Croissart, and
Froissart, all in the direct line of descent. My own name, though,
as I say, became Simpson, by act of Legislature, and with so much
repugnance on my part, that, at one period, I actually hesitated about
accepting the legacy with the useless and annoying proviso attached.
  As to personal endowments, I am by no means deficient. On the
contrary, I believe that I am well made, and possess what nine
tenths of the world would call a handsome face. In height I am five
feet eleven. My hair is black and curling. My nose is sufficiently
good. My eyes are large and gray; and although, in fact they are
weak a very inconvenient degree, still no defect in this regard
would be suspected from their appearance. The weakness itself,
however, has always much annoyed me, and I have resorted to every
remedy- short of wearing glasses. Being youthful and good-looking, I
naturally dislike these, and have resolutely refused to employ them. I
know nothing, indeed, which so disfigures the countenance of a young
person, or so impresses every feature with an air of demureness, if
not altogether of sanctimoniousness and of age. An eyeglass, on the
other hand, has a savor of downright foppery and affectation. I have
hitherto managed as well as I could without either. But something
too much of these merely personal details, which, after all, are of
little importance. I will content myself with saying, in addition,
that my temperament is sanguine, rash, ardent, enthusiastic- and
that all my life I have been a devoted admirer of the women.
  One night last winter I entered a box at the P-- Theatre, in company
with a friend, Mr. Talbot. It was an opera night, and the bills
presented a very rare attraction, so that the house was excessively
crowded. We were in time, however, to obtain the front seats which had
been reserved for us, and into which, with some little difficulty,
we elbowed our way.
  For two hours my companion, who was a musical fanatico, gave his
undivided attention to the stage; and, in the meantime, I amused
myself by observing the audience, which consisted, in chief part, of
the very elite of the city. Having satisfied myself upon this point, I
was about turning my eyes to the prima donna, when they were
arrested and riveted by a figure in one of the private boxes which had
escaped my observation.
  If I live a thousand years, I can never forget the intense emotion
with which I regarded this figure. It was that of a female, the most
exquisite I had ever beheld. The face was so far turned toward the
stage that, for some minutes, I could not obtain a view of it- but the
form was divine; no other word can sufficiently express its
magnificent proportion- and even the term "divine" seems
ridiculously feeble as I write it.
  The magic of a lovely form in woman- the necromancy of female
gracefulness- was always a power which I had found it impossible to
resist, but here was grace personified, incarnate, the beau ideal of
my wildest and most enthusiastic visions. The figure, almost all of
which the construction of the box permitted to be seen, was somewhat
above the medium height, and nearly approached, without positively
reaching, the majestic. Its perfect fullness and tournure were
delicious. The head of which only the back was visible, rivalled in
outline that of the Greek Psyche, and was rather displayed than
concealed by an elegant cap of gaze aerienne, which put me in mind
of the ventum textilem of Apuleius. The right arm hung over the
balustrade of the box, and thrilled every nerve of my frame with its
exquisite symmetry. Its upper portion was draperied by one of the
loose open sleeves now in fashion. This extended but little below
the elbow. Beneath it was worn an under one of some frail material,
close-fitting, and terminated by a cuff of rich lace, which fell
gracefully over the top of the hand, revealing only the delicate
fingers, upon one of which sparkled a diamond ring, which I at once
saw was of extraordinary value. The admirable roundness of the wrist
was well set off by a bracelet which encircled it, and which also
was ornamented and clasped by a magnificent aigrette of
jewels-telling, in words that could not be mistaken, at once of the
wealth and fastidious taste of the wearer.
  I gazed at this queenly apparition for at least half an hour, as
if I had been suddenly converted to stone; and, during this period,
I felt the full force and truth of all that has been said or sung
concerning "love at first sight." My feelings were totally different
from any which I had hitherto experienced, in the presence of even the
most celebrated specimens of female loveliness. An unaccountable,
and what I am compelled to consider a magnetic, sympathy of soul for
soul, seemed to rivet, not only my vision, but my whole powers of
thought and feeling, upon the admirable object before me. I saw- I
felt- I knew that I was deeply, madly, irrevocably in love- and this
even before seeing the face of the person beloved. So intense, indeed,
was the passion that consumed me, that I really believe it would
have received little if any abatement had the features, yet unseen,
proved of merely ordinary character, so anomalous is the nature of the
only true love- of the love at first sight- and so little really
dependent is it upon the external conditions which only seem to create
and control it.
  While I was thus wrapped in admiration of this lovely vision, a
sudden disturbance among the audience caused her to turn her head
partially toward me, so that I beheld the entire profile of the
face. Its beauty even exceeded my anticipations- and yet there was
something about it which disappointed me without my being able to tell
exactly what it was. I said "disappointed," but this is not altogether
the word. My sentiments were at once quieted and exalted. They partook
less of transport and more of calm enthusiasm of enthusiastic
repose. This state of feeling arose, perhaps, from the Madonna-like
and matronly air of the face; and yet I at once understood that it
could not have arisen entirely from this. There was something else-
some mystery which I could not develope- some expression about the
countenance which slightly disturbed me while it greatly heightened my
interest. In fact, I was just in that condition of mind which prepares
a young and susceptible man for any act of extravagance. Had the
lady been alone, I should undoubtedly have entered her box and
accosted her at all hazards; but, fortunately, she was attended by two
companions- a gentleman, and a strikingly beautiful woman, to all
appearance a few years younger than herself.
  I revolved in my mind a thousand schemes by which I might obtain,
hereafter, an introduction to the elder lady, or, for the present,
at all events, a more distinct view of her beauty. I would have
removed my position to one nearer her own, but the crowded state of
the theatre rendered this impossible; and the stern decrees of Fashion
had, of late, imperatively prohibited the use of the opera-glass in
a case such as this, even had I been so fortunate as to have one
with me- but I had not- and was thus in despair.
  At length I bethought me of applying to my companion.
  "Talbot," I said, "you have an opera-glass. Let me have it."
  "An opera- glass!- no!- what do you suppose I would be doing with an
opera-glass?" Here he turned impatiently toward the stage.
  "But, Talbot," I continued, pulling him by the shoulder, "listen
to me will you? Do you see the stage- box?- there!- no, the next.- did
you ever behold as lovely a woman?"
  "She is very beautiful, no doubt," he said.
  "I wonder who she can be?"
  "Why, in the name of all that is angelic, don't you know who she is?
'Not to know her argues yourself unknown.' She is the celebrated
Madame Lalande- the beauty of the day par excellence, and the talk
of the whole town. Immensely wealthy too- a widow, and a great
match- has just arrived from Paris."
  "Do you know her?"
  "Yes; I have the honor."
  "Will you introduce me?"
  "Assuredly, with the greatest pleasure; when shall it be?"
  "To-morrow, at one, I will call upon you at B--'s.
  "Very good; and now do hold your tongue, if you can."
  In this latter respect I was forced to take Talbot's advice; for
he remained obstinately deaf to every further question or
suggestion, and occupied himself exclusively for the rest of the
evening with what was transacting upon the stage.
  In the meantime I kept my eyes riveted on Madame Lalande, and at
length had the good fortune to obtain a full front view of her face.
It was exquisitely lovely- this, of course, my heart had told me
before, even had not Talbot fully satisfied me upon the point- but
still the unintelligible something disturbed me. I finally concluded
that my senses were impressed by a certain air of gravity, sadness,
or, still more properly, of weariness, which took something from the
youth and freshness of the countenance, only to endow it with a
seraphic tenderness and majesty, and thus, of course, to my
enthusiastic and romantic temperment, with an interest tenfold.
  While I thus feasted my eyes, I perceived, at last, to my great
trepidation, by an almost imperceptible start on the part of the lady,
that she had become suddenly aware of the intensity of my gaze. Still,
I was absolutely fascinated, and could not withdraw it, even for an
instant. She turned aside her face, and again I saw only the chiselled
contour of the back portion of the head. After some minutes, as if
urged by curiosity to see if I was still looking, she gradually
brought her face again around and again encountered my burning gaze.
Her large dark eyes fell instantly, and a deep blush mantled her
cheek. But what was my astonishment at perceiving that she not only
did not a second time avert her head, but that she actually took
from her girdle a double eyeglass- elevated it- adjusted it- and
then regarded me through it, intently and deliberately, for the
space of several minutes.
  Had a thunderbolt fallen at my feet I could not have been more
thoroughly astounded- astounded only- not offended or disgusted in the
slightest degree; although an action so bold in any other woman
would have been likely to offend or disgust. But the whole thing was
done with so much quietude- so much nonchalance- so much repose-
with so evident an air of the highest breeding, in short- that nothing
of mere effrontery was perceptible, and my sole sentiments were
those of admiration and surprise.
  I observed that, upon her first elevation of the glass, she had
seemed satisfied with a momentary inspection of my person, and was
withdrawing the instrument, when, as if struck by a second thought,
she resumed it, and so continued to regard me with fixed attention for
the space of several minutes- for five minutes, at the very least, I
am sure.
  This action, so remarkable in an American theatre, attracted very
general observation, and gave rise to an indefinite movement, or buzz,
among the audience, which for a moment filled me with confusion, but
produced no visible effect upon the countenance of Madame Lalande.
  Having satisfied her curiosity- if such it was- she dropped the
glass, and quietly gave her attention again to the stage; her
profile now being turned toward myself, as before. I continued to
watch her unremittingly, although I was fully conscious of my rudeness
in so doing. Presently I saw the head slowly and slightly change its
position; and soon I became convinced that the lady, while
pretending to look at the stage was, in fact, attentively regarding
myself. It is needless to say what effect this conduct, on the part of
so fascinating a woman, had upon my excitable mind.
  Having thus scrutinized me for perhaps a quarter of an hour, the
fair object of my passion addressed the gentleman who attended her,
and while she spoke, I saw distinctly, by the glances of both, that
the conversation had reference to myself.
  Upon its conclusion, Madame Lalande again turned toward the stage,
and, for a few minutes, seemed absorbed in the performance. At the
expiration of this period, however, I was thrown into an extremity
of agitation by seeing her unfold, for the second time, the
eye-glass which hung at her side, fully confront me as before, and,
disregarding the renewed buzz of the audience, survey me, from head to
foot, with the same miraculous composure which had previously so
delighted and confounded my soul.
  This extraordinary behavior, by throwing me into a perfect fever
of excitement- into an absolute delirium of love-served rather to
embolden than to disconcert me. In the mad intensity of my devotion, I
forgot everything but the presence and the majestic loveliness of
the vision which confronted my gaze. Watching my opportunity, when I
thought the audience were fully engaged with the opera, I at length
caught the eyes of Madame Lalande, and, upon the instant, made a
slight but unmistakable bow.
  She blushed very deeply- then averted her eyes- then slowly and
cautiously looked around, apparently to see if my rash action had been
noticed- then leaned over toward the gentleman who sat by her side.
  I now felt a burning sense of the impropriety I had committed, and
expected nothing less than instant exposure; while a vision of pistols
upon the morrow floated rapidly and uncomfortably through my brain.
I was greatly and immediately relieved, however, when I saw the lady
merely hand the gentleman a play-bill, without speaking, but the
reader may form some feeble conception of my astonishment- of my
profound amazement- my delirious bewilderment of heart and soul- when,
instantly afterward, having again glanced furtively around, she
allowed her bright eyes to set fully and steadily upon my own, and
then, with a faint smile, disclosing a bright line of her pearly
teeth, made two distinct, pointed, and unequivocal affirmative
inclinations of the head.
  It is useless, of course, to dwell upon my joy- upon my transport-
upon my illimitable ecstasy of heart. If ever man was mad with
excess of happiness, it was myself at that moment. I loved. This was
my first love- so I felt it to be. It was love
supreme-indescribable. It was "love at first sight;" and at first
sight, too, it had been appreciated and returned.
  Yes, returned. How and why should I doubt it for an instant. What
other construction could I possibly put upon such conduct, on the part
of a lady so beautiful- so wealthy- evidently so accomplished- of so
high breeding- of so lofty a position in society- in every regard so
entirely respectable as I felt assured was Madame Lalande? Yes, she
loved me- she returned the enthusiasm of my love, with an enthusiasm
as blind- as uncompromising- as uncalculating- as abandoned- and as
utterly unbounded as my own! These delicious fancies and
reflections, however, were now interrupted by the falling of the
drop-curtain. The audience arose; and the usual tumult immediately
supervened. Quitting Talbot abruptly, I made every effort to force
my way into closer proximity with Madame Lalande. Having failed in
this, on account of the crowd, I at length gave up the chase, and bent
my steps homeward; consoling myself for my disappointment in not
having been able to touch even the hem of her robe, by the
reflection that I should be introduced by Talbot, in due form, upon
the morrow.
  This morrow at last came, that is to say, a day finally dawned
upon a long and weary night of impatience; and then the hours until
"one" were snail-paced, dreary, and innumerable. But even Stamboul, it
is said, shall have an end, and there came an end to this long
delay. The clock struck. As the last echo ceased, I stepped into B--'s
and inquired for Talbot.
  "Out," said the footman- Talbot's own.
  "Out!" I replied, staggering back half a dozen paces- "let me tell
you, my fine fellow, that this thing is thoroughly impossible and
impracticable; Mr. Talbot is not out. What do you mean?"
  "Nothing, sir; only Mr. Talbot is not in, that's all. He rode over
to S--, immediately after breakfast, and left word that he would not
be in town again for a week."
  I stood petrified with horror and rage. I endeavored to reply, but
my tongue refused its office. At length I turned on my heel, livid
with wrath, and inwardly consigning the whole tribe of the Talbots
to the innermost regions of Erebus. It was evident that my considerate
friend, il fanatico, had quite forgotten his appointment with
myself- had forgotten it as soon as it was made. At no time was he a
very scrupulous man of his word. There was no help for it; so
smothering my vexation as well as I could, I strolled moodily up the
street, propounding futile inquiries about Madame Lalande to every
male acquaintance I met. By report she was known, I found, to all-
to many by sight- but she had been in town only a few weeks, and there
were very few, therefore, who claimed her personal acquaintance. These
few, being still comparatively strangers, could not, or would not,
take the liberty of introducing me through the formality of a
morning call. While I stood thus in despair, conversing with a trio of
friends upon the all absorbing subject of my heart, it so happened
that the subject itself passed by.
  "As I live, there she is!" cried one.
  "Surprisingly beautiful!" exclaimed a second.
  "An angel upon earth!" ejaculated a third.
  I looked; and in an open carriage which approached us, passing
slowly down the street, sat the enchanting vision of the opera,
accompanied by the younger lady who had occupied a portion of her box.
  "Her companion also wears remarkably well," said the one of my
trio who had spoken first.
  "Astonishingly," said the second; "still quite a brilliant air,
but art will do wonders. Upon my word, she looks better than she did
at Paris five years ago. A beautiful woman still;- don't you think so,
Froissart?- Simpson, I mean."
  "Still!" said I, "and why shouldn't she be? But compared with her
friend she is as a rush- light to the evening star- a glow- worm to
Antares.
  "Ha! ha! ha!- why, Simpson, you have an astonishing tact at making
discoveries- original ones, I mean." And here we separated, while
one of the trio began humming a gay vaudeville, of which I caught only
the lines-

        Ninon, Ninon, Ninon a bas-
        A bas Ninon De L'Enclos!

  During this little scene, however, one thing had served greatly to
console me, although it fed the passion by which I was consumed. As
the carriage of Madame Lalande rolled by our group, I had observed
that she recognized me; and more than this, she had blessed me, by the
most seraphic of all imaginable smiles, with no equivocal mark of
the recognition.
  As for an introduction, I was obliged to abandon all hope of it
until such time as Talbot should think proper to return from the
country. In the meantime I perseveringly frequented every reputable
place of public amusement; and, at length, at the theatre, where I
first saw her, I had the supreme bliss of meeting her, and of
exchanging glances with her once again. This did not occur, however,
until the lapse of a fortnight. Every day, in the interim, I had
inquired for Talbot at his hotel, and every day had been thrown into a
spasm of wrath by the everlasting "Not come home yet" of his footman.
  Upon the evening in question, therefore, I was in a condition little
short of madness. Madame Lalande, I had been told, was a Parisian- had
lately arrived from Paris- might she not suddenly return?- return
before Talbot came back- and might she not be thus lost to me forever?
The thought was too terrible to bear. Since my future happiness was at
issue, I resolved to act with a manly decision. In a word, upon the
breaking up of the play, I traced the lady to her residence, noted the
address, and the next morning sent her a full and elaborate letter, in
which I poured out my whole heart.
  I spoke boldly, freely- in a word, I spoke with passion. I concealed
nothing- nothing even of my weakness. I alluded to the romantic
circumstances of our first meeting- even to the glances which had
passed between us. I went so far as to say that I felt assured of
her love; while I offered this assurance, and my own intensity of
devotion, as two excuses for my otherwise unpardonable conduct. As a
third, I spoke of my fear that she might quit the city before I
could have the opportunity of a formal introduction. I concluded the
most wildly enthusiastic epistle ever penned, with a frank declaration
of my worldly circumstances- of my affluence- and with an offer of
my heart and of my hand.
  In an agony of expectation I awaited the reply. After what seemed
the lapse of a century it came.
  Yes, actually came. Romantic as all this may appear, I really
received a letter from Madame Lalande- the beautiful, the wealthy, the
idolized Madame Lalande. Her eyes- her magnificent eyes, had not
belied her noble heart. Like a true Frenchwoman as she was she had
obeyed the frank dictates of her reason- the generous impulses of
her nature- despising the conventional pruderies of the world. She had
not scorned my proposals. She had not sheltered herself in silence.
She had not returned my letter unopened. She had even sent me, in
reply, one penned by her own exquisite fingers. It ran thus:

  "Monsieur Simpson vill pardonne me for not compose de butefulle tong
of his contree so vell as might. It is only de late dat I am arrive,
and not yet ave do opportunite for to- l'etudier.
  "Vid dis apologie for the maniere, I vill now say dat, helas!-
Monsieur Simpson ave guess but de too true. Need I say de more? Helas!
am I not ready speak de too moshe?
                                                   "EUGENIE LALAND."

  This noble- spirited note I kissed a million times, and committed,
no doubt, on its account, a thousand other extravagances that have now
escaped my memory. Still Talbot would not return. Alas! could he
have formed even the vaguest idea of the suffering his absence had
occasioned his friend, would not his sympathizing nature have flown
immediately to my relief? Still, however, he came not. I wrote. He
replied. He was detained by urgent business- but would shortly return.
He begged me not to be impatient- to moderate my transports- to read
soothing books- to drink nothing stronger than Hock- and to bring
the consolations of philosophy to my aid. The fool! if he could not
come himself, why, in the name of every thing rational, could he not
have enclosed me a letter of presentation? I wrote him again,
entreating him to forward one forthwith. My letter was returned by
that footman, with the following endorsement in pencil. The
scoundrel had joined his master in the country:

  "Left S-- yesterday, for parts unknown- did not say where- or when
be back- so thought best to return letter, knowing your handwriting,
and as how you is always, more or less, in a hurry.
                                          "Yours sincerely,
                                                        "STUBBS."

  After this, it is needless to say, that I devoted to the infernal
deities both master and valet:- but there was little use in anger, and
no consolation at all in complaint.
  But I had yet a resource left, in my constitutional audacity.
Hitherto it had served me well, and I now resolved to make it avail me
to the end. Besides, after the correspondence which had passed between
us, what act of mere informality could I commit, within bounds, that
ought to be regarded as indecorous by Madame Lalande? Since the affair
of the letter, I had been in the habit of watching her house, and thus
discovered that, about twilight, it was her custom to promenade,
attended only by a negro in livery, in a public square overlooked by
her windows. Here, amid the luxuriant and shadowing groves, in the
gray gloom of a sweet midsummer evening, I observed my opportunity and
accosted her.
  The better to deceive the servant in attendance, I did this with the
assured air of an old and familiar acquaintance. With a presence of
mind truly Parisian, she took the cue at once, and, to greet me,
held out the most bewitchingly little of hands. The valet at once fell
into the rear, and now, with hearts full to overflowing, we discoursed
long and unreservedly of our love.
  As Madame Lalande spoke English even less fluently than she wrote
it, our conversation was necessarily in French. In this sweet
tongue, so adapted to passion, I gave loose to the impetuous
enthusiasm of my nature, and, with all the eloquence I could
command, besought her to consent to an immediate marriage.
  At this impatience she smiled. She urged the old story of decorum-
that bug-bear which deters so many from bliss until the opportunity
for bliss has forever gone by. I had most imprudently made it known
among my friends, she observed, that I desired her acquaintance-
thus that I did not possess it- thus, again, there was no
possibility of concealing the date of our first knowledge of each
other. And then she adverted, with a blush, to the extreme recency
of this date. To wed immediately would be improper- would be
indecorous- would be outre. All this she said with a charming air of
naivete which enraptured while it grieved and convinced me. She went
even so far as to accuse me, laughingly, of rashness- of imprudence.
She bade me remember that I really even know not who she was- what
were her prospects, her connections, her standing in society. She
begged me, but with a sigh, to reconsider my proposal, and termed my
love an infatuation- a will o' the wisp- a fancy or fantasy of the
moment- a baseless and unstable creation rather of the imagination
than of the heart. These things she uttered as the shadows of the
sweet twilight gathered darkly and more darkly around us- and then,
with a gentle pressure of her fairy-like hand, overthrew, in a
single sweet instant, all the argumentative fabric she had reared.
  I replied as best I could- as only a true lover can. I spoke at
length, and perseveringly of my devotion, of my passion- of her
exceeding beauty, and of my own enthusiastic admiration. In
conclusion, I dwelt, with a convincing energy, upon the perils that
encompass the course of love- that course of true love that never
did run smooth- and thus deduced the manifest danger of rendering that
course unnecessarily long.
  This latter argument seemed finally to soften the rigor of her
determination. She relented; but there was yet an obstacle, she
said, which she felt assured I had not properly considered. This was a
delicate point- for a woman to urge, especially so; in mentioning
it, she saw that she must make a sacrifice of her feelings; still, for
me, every sacrifice should be made. She alluded to the topic of age.
Was I aware- was I fully aware of the discrepancy between us? That the
age of the husband, should surpass by a few years- even by fifteen
or twenty- the age of the wife, was regarded by the world as
admissible, and, indeed, as even proper, but she had always
entertained the belief that the years of the wife should never
exceed in number those of the husband. A discrepancy of this unnatural
kind gave rise, too frequently, alas! to a life of unhappiness. Now
she was aware that my own age did not exceed two and twenty; and I, on
the contrary, perhaps, was not aware that the years of my Eugenie
extended very considerably beyond that sum.
  About all this there was a nobility of soul- a dignity of candor-
which delighted- which enchanted me- which eternally riveted my
chains. I could scarcely restrain the excessive transport which
possessed me.
  "My sweetest Eugenie," I cried, "what is all this about which you
are discoursing? Your years surpass in some measure my own. But what
then? The customs of the world are so many conventional follies. To
those who love as ourselves, in what respect differs a year from an
hour? I am twenty-two, you say, granted: indeed, you may as well
call me, at once, twenty-three. Now you yourself, my dearest
Eugenie, can have numbered no more than- can have numbered no more
than- no more than- than- than- than-"
  Here I paused for an instant, in the expectation that Madame Lalande
would interrupt me by supplying her true age. But a Frenchwoman is
seldom direct, and has always, by way of answer to an embarrassing
query, some little practical reply of her own. In the present
instance, Eugenie, who for a few moments past had seemed to be
searching for something in her bosom, at length let fall upon the
grass a miniature, which I immediately picked up and presented to her.
  "Keep it!" she said, with one of her most ravishing smiles. "Keep it
for my sake- for the sake of her whom it too flatteringly
represents. Besides, upon the back of the trinket you may discover,
perhaps, the very information you seem to desire. It is now, to be
sure, growing rather dark- but you can examine it at your leisure in
the morning. In the meantime, you shall be my escort home to-night. My
friends are about holding a little musical levee. I can promise you,
too, some good singing. We French are not nearly so punctilious as you
Americans, and I shall have no difficulty in smuggling you in, in
the character of an old acquaintance."
  With this, she took my arm, and I attended her home. The mansion was
quite a fine one, and, I believe, furnished in good taste. Of this
latter point, however, I am scarcely qualified to judge; for it was
just dark as we arrived; and in American mansions of the better sort
lights seldom, during the heat of summer, make their appearance at
this, the most pleasant period of the day. In about an hour after my
arrival, to be sure, a single shaded solar lamp was lit in the
principal drawing-room; and this apartment, I could thus see, was
arranged with unusual good taste and even splendor; but two other
rooms of the suite, and in which the company chiefly assembled,
remained, during the whole evening, in a very agreeable shadow. This
is a well-conceived custom, giving the party at least a choice of
light or shade, and one which our friends over the water could not
do better than immediately adopt.
  The evening thus spent was unquestionably the most delicious of my
life. Madame Lalande had not overrated the musical abilities of her
friends; and the singing I here heard I had never heard excelled in
any private circle out of Vienna. The instrumental performers were
many and of superior talents. The vocalists were chiefly ladies, and
no individual sang less than well. At length, upon a peremptory call
for "Madame Lalande," she arose at once, without affectation or demur,
from the chaise longue upon which she had sat by my side, and,
accompanied by one or two gentlemen and her female friend of the
opera, repaired to the piano in the main drawing-room. I would have
escorted her myself, but felt that, under the circumstances of my
introduction to the house, I had better remain unobserved where I was.
I was thus deprived of the pleasure of seeing, although not of
hearing, her sing.
  The impression she produced upon the company seemed electrical but
the effect upon myself was something even more. I know not how
adequately to describe it. It arose in part, no doubt, from the
sentiment of love with which I was imbued; but chiefly from my
conviction of the extreme sensibility of the singer. It is beyond
the reach of art to endow either air or recitative with more
impassioned expression than was hers. Her utterance of the romance
in Otello- the tone with which she gave the words "Sul mio sasso,"
in the Capuletti- is ringing in my memory yet. Her lower tones were
absolutely miraculous. Her voice embraced three complete octaves,
extending from the contralto D to the D upper soprano, and, though
sufficiently powerful to have filled the San Carlos, executed, with
the minutest precision, every difficulty of vocal
composition-ascending and descending scales, cadences, or fiorituri.
In the final of the Somnambula, she brought about a most remarkable
effect at the words:

        Ah! non guinge uman pensiero
        Al contento ond 'io son piena.

  Here, in imitation of Malibran, she modified the original phrase
of Bellini, so as to let her voice descend to the tenor G, when, by
a rapid transition, she struck the G above the treble stave, springing
over an interval of two octaves.
  Upon rising from the piano after these miracles of vocal
execution, she resumed her seat by my side; when I expressed to her,
in terms of the deepest enthusiasm, my delight at her performance.
Of my surprise I said nothing, and yet was I most unfeignedly
surprised; for a certain feebleness, or rather a certain tremulous
indecision of voice in ordinary conversation, had prepared me to
anticipate that, in singing, she would not acquit herself with any
remarkable ability.
  Our conversation was now long, earnest, uninterrupted, and totally
unreserved. She made me relate many of the earlier passages of my
life, and listened with breathless attention to every word of the
narrative. I concealed nothing- felt that I had a right to conceal
nothing- from her confiding affection. Encouraged by her candor upon
the delicate point of her age, I entered, with perfect frankness,
not only into a detail of my many minor vices, but made full
confession of those moral and even of those physical infirmities,
the disclosure of which, in demanding so much higher a degree of
courage, is so much surer an evidence of love. I touched upon my
college indiscretions- upon my extravagances- upon my carousals-
upon my debts- upon my flirtations. I even went so far as to speak
of a slightly hectic cough with which, at one time, I had been
troubled- of a chronic rheumatism- of a twinge of hereditary gout-
and, in conclusion, of the disagreeable and inconvenient, but hitherto
carefully concealed, weakness of my eyes.
  "Upon this latter point," said Madame Lalande, laughingly, "you have
been surely injudicious in coming to confession; for, without the
confession, I take it for granted that no one would have accused you
of the crime. By the by," she continued, "have you any
recollection-" and here I fancied that a blush, even through the gloom
of the apartment, became distinctly visible upon her cheek- "have
you any recollection, mon cher ami of this little ocular assistant,
which now depends from my neck?"
  As she spoke she twirled in her fingers the identical double
eye-glass which had so overwhelmed me with confusion at the opera.
  "Full well- alas! do I remember it," I exclaimed, pressing
passionately the delicate hand which offered the glasses for my
inspection. They formed a complex and magnificent toy, richly chased
and filigreed, and gleaming with jewels, which, even in the
deficient light, I could not help perceiving were of high value.
  "Eh bien! mon ami" she resumed with a certain empressment of
manner that rather surprised me- "Eh bien! mon ami, you have earnestly
besought of me a favor which you have been pleased to denominate
priceless. You have demanded of me my hand upon the morrow. Should I
yield to your entreaties- and, I may add, to the pleadings of my own
bosom- would I not be entitled to demand of you a very- a very
little boon in return?"
  "Name it!" I exclaimed with an energy that had nearly drawn upon
us the observation of the company, and restrained by their presence
alone from throwing myself impetuously at her feet. "Name it, my
beloved, my Eugenie, my own!- name it!- but, alas! it is already
yielded ere named."
  "You shall conquer, then, mon ami," said she, "for the sake of the
Eugenie whom you love, this little weakness which you have at last
confessed- this weakness more moral than physical- and which, let me
assure you, is so unbecoming the nobility of your real nature- so
inconsistent with the candor of your usual character- and which, if
permitted further control, will assuredly involve you, sooner or
later, in some very disagreeable scrape. You shall conquer, for my
sake, this affectation which leads you, as you yourself acknowledge,
to the tacit or implied denial of your infirmity of vision. For,
this infirmity you virtually deny, in refusing to employ the customary
means for its relief. You will understand me to say, then, that I wish
you to wear spectacles;- ah, hush!- you have already consented to wear
them, for my sake. You shall accept the little toy which I now hold in
my hand, and which, though admirable as an aid to vision, is really of
no very immense value as a gem. You perceive that, by a trifling
modification thus- or thus- it can be adapted to the eyes in the
form of spectacles, or worn in the waistcoat pocket as an eye-glass.
It is in the former mode, however, and habitually, that you have
already consented to wear it for my sake."
  This request- must I confess it?- confused me in no little degree.
But the condition with which it was coupled rendered hesitation, of
course, a matter altogether out of the question.
  "It is done!" I cried, with all the enthusiasm that I could muster
at the moment. "It is done- it is most cheerfully agreed. I
sacrifice every feeling for your sake. To-night I wear this dear
eye-glass, as an eye-glass, and upon my heart; but with the earliest
dawn of that morning which gives me the pleasure of calling you
wife, I will place it upon my- upon my nose,- and there wear it ever
afterward, in the less romantic, and less fashionable, but certainly
in the more serviceable, form which you desire."
  Our conversation now turned upon the details of our arrangements for
the morrow. Talbot, I learned from my betrothed, had just arrived in
town. I was to see him at once, and procure a carriage. The soiree
would scarcely break up before two; and by this hour the vehicle was
to be at the door, when, in the confusion occasioned by the
departure of the company, Madame L. could easily enter it
unobserved. We were then to call at the house of a clergyman who would
be in waiting; there be married, drop Talbot, and proceed on a short
tour to the East, leaving the fashionable world at home to make
whatever comments upon the matter it thought best.
  Having planned all this, I immediately took leave, and went in
search of Talbot, but, on the way, I could not refrain from stepping
into a hotel, for the purpose of inspecting the miniature; and this
I did by the powerful aid of the glasses. The countenance was a
surpassingly beautiful one! Those large luminous eyes!- that proud
Grecian nose!- those dark luxuriant curls!- "Ah!" said I, exultingly
to myself, "this is indeed the speaking image of my beloved!" I turned
the reverse, and discovered the words- "Eugenie Lalande- aged
twenty-seven years and seven months."
  I found Talbot at home, and proceeded at once to acquaint him with
my good fortune. He professed excessive astonishment, of course, but
congratulated me most cordially, and proffered every assistance in his
power. In a word, we carried out our arrangement to the letter, and,
at two in the morning, just ten minutes after the ceremony, I found
myself in a close carriage with Madame Lalande- with Mrs. Simpson, I
should say- and driving at a great rate out of town, in a direction
Northeast by North, half-North.
  It had been determined for us by Talbot, that, as we were to be up
all night, we should make our first stop at C--, a village about
twenty miles from the city, and there get an early breakfast and
some repose, before proceeding upon our route. At four precisely,
therefore, the carriage drew up at the door of the principal inn. I
handed my adored wife out, and ordered breakfast forthwith. In the
meantime we were shown into a small parlor, and sat down.
  It was now nearly if not altogether daylight; and, as I gazed,
enraptured, at the angel by my side, the singular idea came, all at
once, into my head, that this was really the very first moment since
my acquaintance with the celebrated loveliness of Madame Lalande, that
I had enjoyed a near inspection of that loveliness by daylight at all.
  "And now, mon ami," said she, taking my hand, and so interrupting
this train of reflection, "and now, mon cher ami, since we are
indissolubly one- since I have yielded to your passionate
entreaties, and performed my portion of our agreement- I presume you
have not forgotten that you also have a little favor to bestow- a
little promise which it is your intention to keep. Ah! let me see! Let
me remember! Yes; full easily do I call to mind the precise words of
the dear promise you made to Eugenie last night. Listen! You spoke
thus: 'It is done!- it is most cheerfully agreed! I sacrifice every
feeling for your sake. To-night I wear this dear eye-glass as an
eye-glass, and upon my heart; but with the earliest dawn of that
morning which gives me the privilege of calling you wife, I will place
it upon my- upon my nose,- and there wear it ever afterward, in the
less romantic, and less fashionable, but certainly in the more
serviceable, form which you desire.' These were the exact words, my
beloved husband, were they not?"
  "They were," I said; "you have an excellent memory; and assuredly,
my beautiful Eugenie, there is no disposition on my part to evade
the performance of the trivial promise they imply. See! Behold! they
are becoming- rather- are they not?" And here, having arranged the
glasses in the ordinary form of spectacles, I applied them gingerly in
their proper position; while Madame Simpson, adjusting her cap, and
folding her arms, sat bolt upright in her chair, in a somewhat stiff
and prim, and indeed, in a somewhat undignified position.
  "Goodness gracious me!" I exclaimed, almost at the very instant that
the rim of the spectacles had settled upon my nose- "My goodness
gracious me!- why, what can be the matter with these glasses?" and
taking them quickly off, I wiped them carefully with a silk
handkerchief, and adjusted them again.
  But if, in the first instance, there had occurred something which
occasioned me surprise, in the second, this surprise became elevated
into astonishment; and this astonishment was profound- was extreme-
indeed I may say it was horrific. What, in the name of everything
hideous, did this mean? Could I believe my eyes?- could I?- that was
the question. Was that- was that- was that rouge? And were those-
and were those- were those wrinkles, upon the visage of Eugenie
Lalande? And oh! Jupiter, and every one of the gods and goddesses,
little and big! what- what- what- what had become of her teeth? I
dashed the spectacles violently to the ground, and, leaping to my
feet, stood erect in the middle of the floor, confronting Mrs.
Simpson, with my arms set a-kimbo, and grinning and foaming, but, at
the same time, utterly speechless with terror and with rage.
  Now I have already said that Madame Eugenie Lalande- that is to say,
Simpson- spoke the English language but very little better than she
wrote it, and for this reason she very properly never attempted to
speak it upon ordinary occasions. But rage will carry a lady to any
extreme; and in the present care it carried Mrs. Simpson to the very
extraordinary extreme of attempting to hold a conversation in a tongue
that she did not altogether understand.
  "Vell, Monsieur," said she, after surveying me, in great apparent
astonishment, for some moments- "Vell, Monsieur?- and vat den?- vat de
matter now? Is it de dance of de Saint itusse dat you ave? If not like
me, vat for vy buy de pig in the poke?"
  "You wretch!" said I, catching my breath- "you- you- you
villainous old hag!"
  "Ag?- ole?- me not so ver ole, after all! Me not one single day more
dan de eighty-doo."
  "Eighty-two!" I ejaculated, staggering to the wall- "eighty-two
hundred thousand baboons! The miniature said twenty-seven years and
seven months!"
  "To be sure!- dat is so!- ver true! but den de portraite has been
take for dese fifty-five year. Ven I go marry my segonde usbande,
Monsieur Lalande, at dat time I had de portraite take for my
daughter by my first usbande, Monsieur Moissart!"
  "Moissart!" said I.
  "Yes, Moissart," said she, mimicking my pronunciation, which, to
speak the truth, was none of the best,- "and vat den? Vat you know
about de Moissart?"
  "Nothing, you old fright!- I know nothing about him at all; only I
had an ancestor of that name, once upon a time."
  "Dat name! and vat you ave for say to dat name? 'Tis ver goot
name; and so is Voissart- dat is ver goot name too. My daughter,
Mademoiselle Moissart, she marry von Monsieur Voissart,- and de name
is bot ver respectaable name."
  "Moissart?" I exclaimed, "and Voissart! Why, what is it you mean?"
  "Vat I mean?- I mean Moissart and Voissart; and for de matter of
dat, I mean Croissart and Froisart, too, if I only tink proper to mean
it. My daughter's daughter, Mademoiselle Voissart, she marry von
Monsieur Croissart, and den again, my daughter's grande daughter,
Mademoiselle Croissart, she marry von Monsieur Froissart; and I
suppose you say dat dat is not von ver respectaable name.-"
  "Froissart!" said I, beginning to faint, "why, surely you don't
say Moissart, and Voissart, and Croissart, and Froissart?"
  "Yes," she replied, leaning fully back in her chair, and
stretching out her lower limbs at great length; "yes, Moissart, and
Voissart, and Croissart, and Froissart. But Monsieur Froissart, he vas
von ver big vat you call fool- he vas von ver great big donce like
yourself- for he lef la belle France for come to dis stupide Amerique-
and ven he get here he went and ave von ver stupide, von ver, ver
stupide sonn, so I hear, dough I not yet av ad de plaisir to meet
vid him- neither me nor my companion, de Madame Stephanie Lalande.
He is name de Napoleon Bonaparte Froissart, and I suppose you say
dat dat, too, is not von ver respectable name."
  Either the length or the nature of this speech, had the effect of
working up Mrs. Simpson into a very extraordinary passion indeed;
and as she made an end of it, with great labor, she lumped up from her
chair like somebody bewitched, dropping upon the floor an entire
universe of bustle as she lumped. Once upon her feet, she gnashed
her gums, brandished her arms, rolled up her sleeves, shook her fist
in my face, and concluded the performance by tearing the cap from
her head, and with it an immense wig of the most valuable and
beautiful black hair, the whole of which she dashed upon the ground
with a yell, and there trammpled and danced a fandango upon it, in
an absolute ecstasy and agony of rage.
  Meantime I sank aghast into the chair which she had vacated.
"Moissart and Voissart!" I repeated, thoughtfully, as she cut one of
her pigeon-wings, and "Croissart and Froissart!" as she completed
another- "Moissart and Voissart and Croissart and Napoleon Bonaparte
Froissart!- why, you ineffable old serpent, that's me- that's me- d'ye
hear? that's me"- here I screamed at the top of my voice- "that's
me-e-e! I am Napoleon Bonaparte Froissart! and if I havn't married
my great, great, grandmother, I wish I may be everlastingly
confounded!"
  Madame Eugenie Lalande, quasi Simpson- formerly Moissart- was, in
sober fact, my great, great, grandmother. In her youth she had been
beautiful, and even at eighty-two, retained the majestic height, the
sculptural contour of head, the fine eyes and the Grecian nose of
her girlhood. By the aid of these, of pearl-powder, of rouge, of false
hair, false teeth, and false tournure, as well as of the most
skilful modistes of Paris, she contrived to hold a respectable footing
among the beauties en peu passees of the French metropolis. In this
respect, indeed, she might have been regarded as little less than
the equal of the celebrated Ninon De L'Enclos.
  She was immensely wealthy, and being left, for the second time, a
widow without children, she bethought herself of my existence in
America, and for the purpose of making me her heir, paid a visit to
the United States, in company with a distant and exceedingly lovely
relative of her second husband's- a Madame Stephanie Lalande.
  At the opera, my great, great, grandmother's attention was
arrested by my notice; and, upon surveying me through her eye-glass,
she was struck with a certain family resemblance to herself. Thus
interested, and knowing that the heir she sought was actually in the
city, she made inquiries of her party respecting me. The gentleman who
attended her knew my person, and told her who I was. The information
thus obtained induced her to renew her scrutiny; and this scrutiny
it was which so emboldened me that I behaved in the absurd manner
already detailed. She returned my bow, however, under the impression
that, by some odd accident, I had discovered her identity. When,
deceived by my weakness of vision, and the arts of the toilet, in
respect to the age and charms of the strange lady, I demanded so
enthusiastically of Talbot who she was, he concluded that I meant
the younger beauty, as a matter of course, and so informed me, with
perfect truth, that she was "the celebrated widow, Madame Lalande."
  In the street, next morning, my great, great, grandmother
encountered Talbot, an old Parisian acquaintance; and the
conversation, very naturally turned upon myself. My deficiencies of
vision were then explained; for these were notorious, although I was
entirely ignorant of their notoriety, and my good old relative
discovered, much to her chagrin, that she had been deceived in
supposing me aware of her identity, and that I had been merely
making a fool of myself in making open love, in a theatre, to an old
woman unknown. By way of punishing me for this imprudence, she
concocted with Talbot a plot. He purposely kept out of my way to avoid
giving me the introduction. My street inquiries about "the lovely
widow, Madame Lalande," were supposed to refer to the younger lady, of
course, and thus the conversation with the three gentlemen whom I
encountered shortly after leaving Talbot's hotel will be easily
explained, as also their allusion to Ninon De L'Enclos. I had no
opportunity of seeing Madame Lalande closely during daylight; and,
at her musical soiree, my silly weakness in refusing the aid of
glasses effectually prevented me from making a discovery of her age.
When "Madame Lalande" was called upon to sing, the younger lady was
intended; and it was she who arose to obey the call; my great,
great, grandmother, to further the deception, arising at the same
moment and accompanying her to the piano in the main drawing-room. Had
I decided upon escorting her thither, it had been her design to
suggest the propriety of my remaining where I was; but my own
prudential views rendered this unnecessary. The songs which I so
much admired, and which so confirmed my impression of the youth of
my mistress, were executed by Madame Stephanie Lalande. The eyeglass
was presented by way of adding a reproof to the hoax- a sting to the
epigram of the deception. Its presentation afforded an opportunity for
the lecture upon affectation with which I was so especially edified.
It is almost superfluous to add that the glasses of the instrument, as
worn by the old lady, had been exchanged by her for a pair better
adapted to my years. They suited me, in fact, to a T.
  The clergyman, who merely pretended to tie the fatal knot, was a
boon companion of Talbot's, and no priest. He was an excellent "whip,"
however; and having doffed his cassock to put on a great-coat, he
drove the hack which conveyed the "happy couple" out of town. Talbot
took a seat at his side. The two scoundrels were thus "in at the
death," and through a half-open window of the back parlor of the
inn, amused themselves in grinning at the denouement of the drama. I
believe I shall be forced to call them both out.
  Nevertheless, I am not the husband of my great, great,
grandmother; and this is a reflection which affords me infinite
relief,- but I am the husband of Madame Lalande- of Madame Stephanie
Lalande - with whom my good old relative, besides making me her sole
heir when she dies- if she ever does- has been at the trouble of
concocting me a match. In conclusion: I am done forever with billets
doux and am never to be met without SPECTACLES.


                            THE END