Nothing annoyed her more in society than to have to listen to the
compositions women make as a substitute for the original truth. It was
as if, when she went to the theater to hear Shakspere and Moliere,
the actors should try to impose upon the audience by reciting lines
of their own. Truth was the wit of life and the wit of books. She
traveled her road from affluence so leisurely that nothing escaped her
eyes or her feelings, and she signaled unhesitatingly every stage in
it.
"My dear, do you know there is really such a thing as existence
without a carriage and horses?"--"I assure you it is perfectly new to
me to find that an opera-box is not a necessity. It is a luxury. In
theory one can really never tell the distinction between luxuries and
necessities."--"How absurd! At one time I thought hair was given
us only to furnish a profession to hair-dressers; just as we wear
artificial flowers to support the flower-makers."--"Upon my word,
it is not uninteresting. There is always some _haute nouveaute_ in
economy. The ways of depriving one's self are infinite. There is wine,
now."--"Not own your residence! As soon not own your tomb as your
residence! My mama used to scream that in my ears. According to her,
it was not _comme il faut_ to board or live in a rented house.
How little she knew!"
When her friends, learning her increasing difficulties, which they did
from the best authority (herself), complimented her, as they were
forced to do, upon her still handsome appearance, pretty laces,
feathers, jewelry, silks, "Fat," she would answer--"fat.
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