The Parisians — CompleteLytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
General
The Parisians — Complete
Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
English fiction -- 19th century; Paris (France) -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
In conveying to us by a few bold strokes an idea of the sensitive,
quick-moved, warm-blooded Henry II., the most impulsive of the
Plantagenets, his contemporary chronicler tells us that rather than
imprison those active hands of his, even in hawking-gloves, he would
suffer his falcon to fix its sharp claws into his wrist. No doubt
there is a difference as to what is befitting between a burly bellicose
creature like Henry II. and a delicate young lady like Isaura Cicogna;
and one would not wish to see those dainty wrists of hers seamed and
scarred by a falcon’s claws. But a girl may not be less exquisitely
feminine for slight heed of artificial prettiness. Isaura had no need
of pale bloodless hands to seem one of Nature’s highest grade of
gentlewomen even to the most fastidious eyes. About her there was
a charm apart from her mere beauty, and often disturbed instead of
heightened by her mere intellect: it consisted in a combination of
exquisite artistic refinement, and of a generosity of character by which
refinement was animated into vigour and warmth.
The room, which was devoted exclusively to Isaura, had in it much that
spoke of the occupant. That room, when first taken furnished, had a good
deal of the comfortless showiness which belongs to ordinary furnished
apartments in France, especially in the Parisian suburbs, chiefly let
for the summer: thin limp muslin curtains that decline to draw; stiff
mahogany chairs covered with yellow Utrecht velvet; a tall secretaire in
a dark corner; an oval buhl-table set in tawdry ormolu, islanded in the
centre of a poor but gaudy Scotch carpet; and but one other table of
dull walnut-wood, standing clothless before a sofa to match the chairs;
the eternal ormolu clock flanked by the two eternal ormolu candelabra on
the dreary mantelpiece. Some of this garniture had been removed, others
softened into cheeriness and comfort. The room somehow or other--thanks
partly to a very moderate expenditure in pretty twills with pretty
borders, gracefully simple table-covers, with one or two additional
small tables and easy-chairs, two simple vases filled with flowers;
thanks still more to a nameless skill in re-arrangement, and the
disposal of the slight knick-knacks and well-bound volumes, which, even
in travelling, women who have cultivated the pleasures of taste carry
about them--had been coaxed into that quiet harmony, that tone of
consistent subdued colour, which corresponded with the characteristics
of the inmate. Most people might have been puzzled where to place the
piano, a semi-grand, so as not to take up too much space in the little
room; but where it was placed it seemed so at home that you might have
supposed the room had been built for it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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