Strong is the contrast
here, where they are placed side by side with all that Europe holds
of elegant, and well-dressed Frenchwomen, whether of the "world" or
the "half-world," are invariably marvels of fitness and freshness,
the simplest materials being converted by their skilful touch into
toilettes, so artfully adapted to the wearer's figure and
complexion, as to raise such "creations" to the level of a fine
art.
An artist feels, he must fix on canvas that particular combination
of colors or that wonderful line of bust and hip. It is with a
shudder that he turns to the British matron, for she has probably,
for this occasion, draped herself in an "art material," -
principally "Liberty" silks of dirty greens and blues (aesthetic
shades!). He is tempted to cry out in his disgust: "Oh, Liberty!
Liberty! How many crimes are committed in thy name!" It is one of
the oddest things in the world that the English should have elected
to live so much in France, for there are probably nowhere two
peoples so diametrically opposed on every point, or who so
persistently and wilfully misunderstand each other, as the English
and the French.
It has been my fate to live a good deal on both sides of the
Channel, and nothing is more amusing than to hear the absurdities
that are gravely asserted by each of their neighbors. To a Briton,
a Frenchman will always be "either tiger or monkey" according to
Voltaire; while to the French mind English gravity is only
hypocrisy to cover every vice.
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