textfiles/stories/spectacl.poe

                          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.