Max O'Rell

The Boas of the Aristocracy — The prettiest Women in London — Shop girls — Barmaids — Actresses and Supernumeraries — Miss Mary Anderson.

According to the account of Lady John Manners, this is how the ladies of the upper classes in England fare. As this haulte dame should be an authority on the matter, not only will we accept her statements as perfectly correct, but we will also profit by her observations to draw some judicious conclusions.

“In well-appointed sporting country houses,” says Lady John Manners,[3] “before the ladies—indeed, before most of the gentlemen—leave their beds, dainty little services of tea and bread-and-butter are carried to them. Sometimes the younger men prefer brandy and soda. Fortified by these refreshments, the non-sporting guests come to breakfast about ten. Four hot dishes, every sort of cold meats that might fitly furnish forth a feast, fruits, cakes, tea, coffee, cocoa, claret, constitute a satisfactory breakfast, often prolonged till within two hours and a half of luncheon. The important institution of luncheon begins at two. Again, the table is spread with many varieties of flesh and fowl, hot and cold proofs of the cook’s ability, plain puddings for those who study their health, creations in cream for those who have not yet devoted themselves to that never-failing source of interest. Coffee is often served after lunch, which is usually over soon after three. If a shooting party has gone out, Norwegian stoves, crammed with hot dishes of an appetizing character, have been despatched to the scene of action. The ladies gather round the tea-table about five, usually showing much appreciation of any little surprises in the way of muffins, or tea-cakes, provided by a thoughtful hostess. When the shooters come in, some will probably join the ladies, perhaps a few may like a little champagne, but tea and talk tempt the majority. Dinner is served at eight or half-past, and two hours more are then spent at table. After dinner, coffee is brought into the dining-room, while the gentlemen smoke. It is whispered that some of the ladies enjoy a post-prandial cigarette. Liqueurs and tea are offered during the evening, and keep up flagging energies till the ladies ostensibly go to bed, after a little money has changed hands at poker or loo.” The gentlemen then have whisky, brandy, claret, effervescing waters, and lemons brought them, to help them support existence till one or two o’clock in the morning.

Such is the ordinary of the aristocracy. Quite a choker this ordinary, is it not?

Now this prodigious voracity seems to account for many things.

But first, it is impossible not to admire the wisdom of Providence in arming these carnivora, I will not say with tusks of defence, but with those tusks of attack that betray their nationality in any part of the world.

We can understand now why English women over forty have shrunken gums; we can understand now why their poor teeth very sensibly protest against their superhuman task, and slant outwards, so as to get a little help from the gums in this gigantic work of mastication; we understand at last how it is that the eyes of most of the habituÉes of Rotten Row seem to be starting from their sockets, and you need not smile, for your eyes would soon do the same, if your digestive apparatus were kept in perpetual movement of deglutition. It is a facial panic. The fact is that, in the fashionable promenade of Hyde Park, you see very few pretty women. With the exception of some children that certainly are lovely, the majority of the faces you see in the carriages are sulky and stupid-looking; they have lobster eyes that throw you an indifferent and half-dead glance: they are the faces of digesting boas in a comatose state, the faces of women who seem to have not a pleasure in life. No smiles, no little graceful gestures of recognition from one carriage to another: it is Madame Tussaud’s exhibition out for an airing: a solemn and stupid procession.

If you would refresh your eyes with the sight of pretty faces, young, rosy, plump and fresh,—if you would see them by the hundred, go and take a stroll, between nine and ten o’clock in the morning, in Regent Street, Oxford Street, New Bond Street, and Piccadilly. There you will see the prettiest national produce that John Bull has to show you. The finest specimens of Englishwomen are the assistants in the great drapery, bonnet and mantle shops. The English tradesmen of importance, who know their business, only employ women that are young, pretty, in face and figure, and well behaved; and the sight of these hundreds of independent, respectable, and well-mannered girls, going to their shops every morning, is one of the most refreshing and edifying to be seen in this immense city.

I have many times accompanied ladies to bonnet shops in the West-end, where I have sometimes witnessed very amusing little scenes. I have seen young spinsters of thirty-nine summers, make a pretty shop girl put on all the hats in the shop, and then go to the glass and try them on one after another. The disappointed looks of these poor dears were quite diverting. It is a curious thing, they seemed to say to themselves, making a wry face the while, none of these hats suit me as they do that girl! And with what a mischievous, wicked little smile, those pretty milliners of twenty-five—that pitiless age—said: “Oh! that hat suits you so beautifully!” I admired the angelic patience with which they tried the whole stock of the shop upon those ugly heads. This occupation cannot fail to be often very amusing, and in the evening, on returning home, what funny stories they must have to tell each other!

It was in a fashionable milliner’s shop in New Bond Street. A scarecrow in petticoats had just chosen, after an hour’s hesitation, a sweet little white hat, that a girl of twenty would have thought too childish for herself. Two pretty assistants bowed the lady out with a very grave look, and closed the door. “I think women ought to expire at forty, don’t you?” said one of them to her companion. And the two wicked creatures were near exploding with fun.

The fashionable shops are not the only ones that keep a good stock of nice-looking English girls. Some of the finest specimens are to be seen in the restaurants and buffets. Messrs. Spiers and Pond have legions of them under their orders. These magnificent daughters of Albion are of an inferior social grade, but they are well behaved, and, for the most part, remarkably handsome. They are not so modest as to be unable to bear the gaze of the sterner sex, or to allow a few dandies to have a little flirtation with them over their glass of wine; but still women who consent to stand behind a counter from ten in the morning to twelve at night, for a salary of about thirty shillings a week, are evidently respectable. In the case of a young and handsome woman, a modest income is a certificate of virtue.

Once more, it is in the theatre that, in default of talented actresses, you may admire beautiful women. I am bound, however, to make an exception here in favour of Mrs. Stirling, the greatest comÉdienne in England, who, in spite of her talent as a teacher, will leave no one after her to replace her; of Mrs. Bernard Beere, so sympathique, so refined; of silver-voiced Mrs. Bancroft, so gay, so sparkling with fun and mischief; of Miss Ellen Terry, so gracefully youthful, frolicsome, and coaxing; of Mrs. Kendall, the first among sentimental heroines of the English stage, with her delicacy, pathos, and irreproachable purity of diction.

With the exception of the actresses just mentioned, you will see very little to admire on the London stage but pretty women. And, after all, this is not to be despised; one may pass an evening very agreeably in looking at pretty faces and fine shoulders, especially after dining À l’anglaise. When you have partaken of the fifth repast spoken of by Lady John Manners, your intellect is not very exacting. So, I will not hesitate to advise you, when you come to London, to go and see the grand spectacular pieces, the Drury Lane pantomimes included, even if the great impresario (to do him justice, no one knows how to mount a play as he does) were to mention, in his next advertisements, that I gave you such advice.

It is impossible to speak of English actresses without mentioning the beautiful American lady who drew crowds to the Lyceum this year, in the absence of Mr. Irving and Miss Terry, who were at the time delighting the Yankees.

Miss Mary Anderson may boldly be proclaimed the champion beauty of the world.

Her acting is good, but her beauty is such as to make one oblivious of her talent. Her face is divinely sweet and beautiful; her gaze ingenuous, her grace indescribable, her sculptural lines classic in their purity; her proportions perfect: it is a feast for the eyes. GÉrard would not have desired a more chaste or purer model for his Psyche receiving the first kiss of Cupid.