APDL Eductation Resources/APDL Eductation Resources.iso/text/authors/poe/spectacles/SPECTACLES

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                      The 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 magneto-aesthetics, 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-by, 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 grey; and although, in fact, they are weak to 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
absolutely 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 eye-glass, on the other hand, has a
savour 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 towards 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 fulness 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 believed 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
towards 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 develop--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 appearances 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 towards 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 honour.'

'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 temperament, 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
eye-glass--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 towards 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 towards the stage, and,
for a few minutes, seemed absorbed in the performances.  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 behaviour, 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 towards 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
rose; 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 endeavoured 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, saw 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 rushlight 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 for ever?  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--not 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 butefull tong of
his contree so vell as might.  It is only de late dat I am arrive, and
not yet ave de 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 LALANDE


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 the even 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 in my aid.  The fool! if he could not come himself, why, in
the name of everything 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 grey
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 for ever 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 knew
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 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 rigour 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 this 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 number.

About all this there was a nobility of soul--a dignity of candour--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 answering 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 splendour; 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 electric--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 Othello--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 finale of the Sonambula, she brought about a most remarkable
effect at the words:


          Ah! non guinge uman pensiero

          Al contento one' 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 candour 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 empressement of manner
that rather surprised me--'Eh bien! mon ami, you have earnestly besought
of me a favour 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 candour 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 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 to 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 arrangements 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 north-east
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 parlour, and sat down.

It was now nearly if not altogether daylight; and, as I gazed,
enraptured, at the angel at 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 favour 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 of 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 slipped 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 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 case 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?  It is de dance of de Saint Vitusse dut you ave?  If not
like me, vat for vy buy de pig in de 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 both 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 Froissart, too, if I only tink proper to mean it.  My
daughter's daughter, Mademoiselle Voissart, she marry von Monsieur
Croissart, and den agin, my daughter's grande-daughter, Mademoiselle
Croissart, she marry von Monsieur Froissart; and I suppose you say dat
dat is not von ver respectable 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 has von ver big
vat you call fool--he was 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 vent and ave von ver stupide, von 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 labour, she jumped up from her chair
like somebody bewitched, dropping upon the floor an entire universe of
bustle as she jumped.  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
trampled 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 haven't married my
great, great, grandmother, I wish I may be everlastingly confounded!'

Madame Eugene 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 eye-glass 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 greatcoat, 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 parlour 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
ever she does--has been at the trouble of concocting me a match.  In
conclusion: I am done for ever with billets doux, and am never to be met
without SPECTACLES.