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<h2> THE SPECTACLES </h2>
<p>MANY years ago, it was the fashion to ridicule the idea of "love at first
sight;" but those who think, not less than those who feel deeply, have
always advocated its existence. Modern discoveries, indeed, in what may be
termed ethical magnetism or magnetoesthetics, render it probable that the
most natural, and, consequently, the truest and most intense of the human
affections are those which arise in the heart as if by electric sympathy—in
a word, that the brightest and most enduring of the psychal fetters are
those which are riveted by a glance. The confession I am about to make
will add another to the already almost innumerable instances of the truth
of the position.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>I assumed the name, Simpson, with some reluctance, as in my true patronym,
Froissart, I felt a very pardonable pride—believing that I could
trace a descent from the immortal author of the "Chronicles." While on the
subject of names, by the bye, I may mention a singular coincidence of
sound attending the names of some of my immediate predecessors. My father
was a Monsieur Froissart, of Paris. His wife—my mother, whom he
married at fifteen—was a Mademoiselle Croissart, eldest daughter of
Croissart the banker, whose wife, again, being only sixteen when married,
was the eldest daughter of one Victor Voissart. Monsieur Voissart, very
singularly, had married a lady of similar name—a Mademoiselle
Moissart. She, too, was quite a child when married; and her mother, also,
Madame Moissart, was only fourteen when led to the altar. These early
marriages are usual in France. Here, however, are Moissart, Voissart,
Croissart, and Froissart, all in the direct line of descent. My own name,
though, as I say, became Simpson, by act of Legislature, and with so much
repugnance on my part, that, at one period, I actually hesitated about
accepting the legacy with the useless and annoying proviso attached.</p>
<p>As to personal endowments, I am by no means deficient. On the contrary, I
believe that I am well made, and possess what nine tenths of the world
would call a handsome face. In height I am five feet eleven. My hair is
black and curling. My nose is sufficiently good. My eyes are large and
gray; and although, in fact they are weak a very inconvenient degree,
still no defect in this regard would be suspected from their appearance.
The weakness itself, however, has always much annoyed me, and I have
resorted to every remedy—short of wearing glasses. Being youthful
and good-looking, I naturally dislike these, and have resolutely refused
to employ them. I know nothing, indeed, which so disfigures the
countenance of a young person, or so impresses every feature with an air
of demureness, if not altogether of sanctimoniousness and of age. An
eyeglass, on the other hand, has a savor of downright foppery and
affectation. I have hitherto managed as well as I could without either.
But something too much of these merely personal details, which, after all,
are of little importance. I will content myself with saying, in addition,
that my temperament is sanguine, rash, ardent, enthusiastic—and that
all my life I have been a devoted admirer of the women.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>If I live a thousand years, I can never forget the intense emotion with
which I regarded this figure. It was that of a female, the most exquisite
I had ever beheld. The face was so far turned toward the stage that, for
some minutes, I could not obtain a view of it—but the form was
divine; no other word can sufficiently express its magnificent proportion—and
even the term "divine" seems ridiculously feeble as I write it.</p>
<p>The magic of a lovely form in woman—the necromancy of female
gracefulness—was always a power which I had found it impossible to
resist, but here was grace personified, incarnate, the beau ideal of my
wildest and most enthusiastic visions. The figure, almost all of which the
construction of the box permitted to be seen, was somewhat above the
medium height, and nearly approached, without positively reaching, the
majestic. Its perfect fullness and tournure were delicious. The head of
which only the back was visible, rivalled in outline that of the Greek
Psyche, and was rather displayed than concealed by an elegant cap of gaze
aerienne, which put me in mind of the ventum textilem of Apuleius. The
right arm hung over the balustrade of the box, and thrilled every nerve of
my frame with its exquisite symmetry. Its upper portion was draperied by
one of the loose open sleeves now in fashion. This extended but little
below the elbow. Beneath it was worn an under one of some frail material,
close-fitting, and terminated by a cuff of rich lace, which fell
gracefully over the top of the hand, revealing only the delicate fingers,
upon one of which sparkled a diamond ring, which I at once saw was of
extraordinary value. The admirable roundness of the wrist was well set off
by a bracelet which encircled it, and which also was ornamented and
clasped by a magnificent aigrette of jewels-telling, in words that could
not be mistaken, at once of the wealth and fastidious taste of the wearer.</p>
<p>I gazed at this queenly apparition for at least half an hour, as if I had
been suddenly converted to stone; and, during this period, I felt the full
force and truth of all that has been said or sung concerning "love at
first sight." My feelings were totally different from any which I had
hitherto experienced, in the presence of even the most celebrated
specimens of female loveliness. An unaccountable, and what I am compelled
to consider a magnetic, sympathy of soul for soul, seemed to rivet, not
only my vision, but my whole powers of thought and feeling, upon the
admirable object before me. I saw—I felt—I knew that I was
deeply, madly, irrevocably in love—and this even before seeing the
face of the person beloved. So intense, indeed, was the passion that
consumed me, that I really believe it would have received little if any
abatement had the features, yet unseen, proved of merely ordinary
character, so anomalous is the nature of the only true love—of the
love at first sight—and so little really dependent is it upon the
external conditions which only seem to create and control it.</p>
<p>While I was thus wrapped in admiration of this lovely vision, a sudden
disturbance among the audience caused her to turn her head partially
toward me, so that I beheld the entire profile of the face. Its beauty
even exceeded my anticipations—and yet there was something about it
which disappointed me without my being able to tell exactly what it was. I
said "disappointed," but this is not altogether the word. My sentiments
were at once quieted and exalted. They partook less of transport and more
of calm enthusiasm of enthusiastic repose. This state of feeling arose,
perhaps, from the Madonna-like and matronly air of the face; and yet I at
once understood that it could not have arisen entirely from this. There
was something else—some mystery which I could not develope—some
expression about the countenance which slightly disturbed me while it
greatly heightened my interest. In fact, I was just in that condition of
mind which prepares a young and susceptible man for any act of
extravagance. Had the lady been alone, I should undoubtedly have entered
her box and accosted her at all hazards; but, fortunately, she was
attended by two companions—a gentleman, and a strikingly beautiful
woman, to all appearance a few years younger than herself.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>At length I bethought me of applying to my companion.</p>
<p>"Talbot," I said, "you have an opera-glass. Let me have it."</p>
<p>"An opera—glass!—no!—what do you suppose I would be
doing with an opera-glass?" Here he turned impatiently toward the stage.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"She is very beautiful, no doubt," he said.</p>
<p>"I wonder who she can be?"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Do you know her?"</p>
<p>"Yes; I have the honor."</p>
<p>"Will you introduce me?"</p>
<p>"Assuredly, with the greatest pleasure; when shall it be?"</p>
<p>"To-morrow, at one, I will call upon you at B—'s.</p>
<p>"Very good; and now do hold your tongue, if you can."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>In the meantime I kept my eyes riveted on Madame Lalande, and at length
had the good fortune to obtain a full front view of her face. It was
exquisitely lovely—this, of course, my heart had told me before,
even had not Talbot fully satisfied me upon the point—but still the
unintelligible something disturbed me. I finally concluded that my senses
were impressed by a certain air of gravity, sadness, or, still more
properly, of weariness, which took something from the youth and freshness
of the countenance, only to endow it with a seraphic tenderness and
majesty, and thus, of course, to my enthusiastic and romantic temperment,
with an interest tenfold.</p>
<p>While I thus feasted my eyes, I perceived, at last, to my great
trepidation, by an almost imperceptible start on the part of the lady,
that she had become suddenly aware of the intensity of my gaze. Still, I
was absolutely fascinated, and could not withdraw it, even for an instant.
She turned aside her face, and again I saw only the chiselled contour of
the back portion of the head. After some minutes, as if urged by curiosity
to see if I was still looking, she gradually brought her face again around
and again encountered my burning gaze. Her large dark eyes fell instantly,
and a deep blush mantled her cheek. But what was my astonishment at
perceiving that she not only did not a second time avert her head, but
that she actually took from her girdle a double eyeglass—elevated it—adjusted
it—and then regarded me through it, intently and deliberately, for
the space of several minutes.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Having satisfied her curiosity—if such it was—she dropped the
glass, and quietly gave her attention again to the stage; her profile now
being turned toward myself, as before. I continued to watch her
unremittingly, although I was fully conscious of my rudeness in so doing.
Presently I saw the head slowly and slightly change its position; and soon
I became convinced that the lady, while pretending to look at the stage
was, in fact, attentively regarding myself. It is needless to say what
effect this conduct, on the part of so fascinating a woman, had upon my
excitable mind.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Upon its conclusion, Madame Lalande again turned toward the stage, and,
for a few minutes, seemed absorbed in the performance. At the expiration
of this period, however, I was thrown into an extremity of agitation by
seeing her unfold, for the second time, the eye-glass which hung at her
side, fully confront me as before, and, disregarding the renewed buzz of
the audience, survey me, from head to foot, with the same miraculous
composure which had previously so delighted and confounded my soul.</p>
<p>This extraordinary behavior, by throwing me into a perfect fever of
excitement—into an absolute delirium of love-served rather to
embolden than to disconcert me. In the mad intensity of my devotion, I
forgot everything but the presence and the majestic loveliness of the
vision which confronted my gaze. Watching my opportunity, when I thought
the audience were fully engaged with the opera, I at length caught the
eyes of Madame Lalande, and, upon the instant, made a slight but
unmistakable bow.</p>
<p>She blushed very deeply—then averted her eyes—then slowly and
cautiously looked around, apparently to see if my rash action had been
noticed—then leaned over toward the gentleman who sat by her side.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Yes, returned. How and why should I doubt it for an instant. What other
construction could I possibly put upon such conduct, on the part of a lady
so beautiful—so wealthy—evidently so accomplished—of so
high breeding—of so lofty a position in society—in every
regard so entirely respectable as I felt assured was Madame Lalande? Yes,
she loved me—she returned the enthusiasm of my love, with an
enthusiasm as blind—as uncompromising—as uncalculating—as
abandoned—and as utterly unbounded as my own! These delicious
fancies and reflections, however, were now interrupted by the falling of
the drop-curtain. The audience arose; and the usual tumult immediately
supervened. Quitting Talbot abruptly, I made every effort to force my way
into closer proximity with Madame Lalande. Having failed in this, on
account of the crowd, I at length gave up the chase, and bent my steps
homeward; consoling myself for my disappointment in not having been able
to touch even the hem of her robe, by the reflection that I should be
introduced by Talbot, in due form, upon the morrow.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Out," said the footman—Talbot's own.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>I stood petrified with horror and rage. I endeavored to reply, but my
tongue refused its office. At length I turned on my heel, livid with
wrath, and inwardly consigning the whole tribe of the Talbots to the
innermost regions of Erebus. It was evident that my considerate friend, il
fanatico, had quite forgotten his appointment with myself—had
forgotten it as soon as it was made. At no time was he a very scrupulous
man of his word. There was no help for it; so smothering my vexation as
well as I could, I strolled moodily up the street, propounding futile
inquiries about Madame Lalande to every male acquaintance I met. By report
she was known, I found, to all—to many by sight—but she had
been in town only a few weeks, and there were very few, therefore, who
claimed her personal acquaintance. These few, being still comparatively
strangers, could not, or would not, take the liberty of introducing me
through the formality of a morning call. While I stood thus in despair,
conversing with a trio of friends upon the all absorbing subject of my
heart, it so happened that the subject itself passed by.</p>
<p>"As I live, there she is!" cried one.</p>
<p>"Surprisingly beautiful!" exclaimed a second.</p>
<p>"An angel upon earth!" ejaculated a third.</p>
<p>I looked; and in an open carriage which approached us, passing slowly down
the street, sat the enchanting vision of the opera, accompanied by the
younger lady who had occupied a portion of her box.</p>
<p>"Her companion also wears remarkably well," said the one of my trio who
had spoken first.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Still!" said I, "and why shouldn't she be? But compared with her friend
she is as a rush—light to the evening star—a glow—worm
to Antares.</p>
<p>"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—</p>
<p>Ninon, Ninon, Ninon a bas—</p>
<p>A bas Ninon De L'Enclos!</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Upon the evening in question, therefore, I was in a condition little short
of madness. Madame Lalande, I had been told, was a Parisian—had
lately arrived from Paris—might she not suddenly return?—return
before Talbot came back—and might she not be thus lost to me
forever? The thought was too terrible to bear. Since my future happiness
was at issue, I resolved to act with a manly decision. In a word, upon the
breaking up of the play, I traced the lady to her residence, noted the
address, and the next morning sent her a full and elaborate letter, in
which I poured out my whole heart.</p>
<p>I spoke boldly, freely—in a word, I spoke with passion. I concealed
nothing—nothing even of my weakness. I alluded to the romantic
circumstances of our first meeting—even to the glances which had
passed between us. I went so far as to say that I felt assured of her
love; while I offered this assurance, and my own intensity of devotion, as
two excuses for my otherwise unpardonable conduct. As a third, I spoke of
my fear that she might quit the city before I could have the opportunity
of a formal introduction. I concluded the most wildly enthusiastic epistle
ever penned, with a frank declaration of my worldly circumstances—of
my affluence—and with an offer of my heart and of my hand.</p>
<p>In an agony of expectation I awaited the reply. After what seemed the
lapse of a century it came.</p>
<p>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:</p>
<p>"Monsieur Simpson vill pardonne me for not compose de butefulle tong of
his contree so vell as might. It is only de late dat I am arrive, and not
yet ave do opportunite for to—l'etudier.</p>
<p>"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?</p>
<p>"EUGENIE LALAND."</p>
<p>This noble—spirited note I kissed a million times, and committed, no
doubt, on its account, a thousand other extravagances that have now
escaped my memory. Still Talbot would not return. Alas! could he have
formed even the vaguest idea of the suffering his absence had occasioned
his friend, would not his sympathizing nature have flown immediately to my
relief? Still, however, he came not. I wrote. He replied. He was detained
by urgent business—but would shortly return. He begged me not to be
impatient—to moderate my transports—to read soothing books—to
drink nothing stronger than Hock—and to bring the consolations of
philosophy to my aid. The fool! if he could not come himself, why, in the
name of every thing rational, could he not have enclosed me a letter of
presentation? I wrote him again, entreating him to forward one forthwith.
My letter was returned by that footman, with the following endorsement in
pencil. The scoundrel had joined his master in the country:</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"Yours sincerely,</p>
<p>"STUBBS."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>But I had yet a resource left, in my constitutional audacity. Hitherto it
had served me well, and I now resolved to make it avail me to the end.
Besides, after the correspondence which had passed between us, what act of
mere informality could I commit, within bounds, that ought to be regarded
as indecorous by Madame Lalande? Since the affair of the letter, I had
been in the habit of watching her house, and thus discovered that, about
twilight, it was her custom to promenade, attended only by a negro in
livery, in a public square overlooked by her windows. Here, amid the
luxuriant and shadowing groves, in the gray gloom of a sweet midsummer
evening, I observed my opportunity and accosted her.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>At this impatience she smiled. She urged the old story of decorum—that
bug-bear which deters so many from bliss until the opportunity for bliss
has forever gone by. I had most imprudently made it known among my
friends, she observed, that I desired her acquaintance—thus that I
did not possess it—thus, again, there was no possibility of
concealing the date of our first knowledge of each other. And then she
adverted, with a blush, to the extreme recency of this date. To wed
immediately would be improper—would be indecorous—would be
outre. All this she said with a charming air of naivete which enraptured
while it grieved and convinced me. She went even so far as to accuse me,
laughingly, of rashness—of imprudence. She bade me remember that I
really even know not who she was—what were her prospects, her
connections, her standing in society. She begged me, but with a sigh, to
reconsider my proposal, and termed my love an infatuation—a will o'
the wisp—a fancy or fantasy of the moment—a baseless and
unstable creation rather of the imagination than of the heart. These
things she uttered as the shadows of the sweet twilight gathered darkly
and more darkly around us—and then, with a gentle pressure of her
fairy-like hand, overthrew, in a single sweet instant, all the
argumentative fabric she had reared.</p>
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