Rica to the Same, at Smyrna
The curiosity of the
people of Paris exceeds all bounds. When I arrived, they stared at
me as if a I had dropped form the sky: old and young, men, women,
and children, were all agog to see me. If I went abroad, everybody flew
to the window. If I visited the Tuileries, I was immediately surrounded
by a circle of gazers, the women forming a rainbow woven of a thousand
colours. When I went sight-seeing, a hundred lorgnettes were speedily
leveled at me: in fact, never was a man so stared at as I have been.
I smiled frequently when I heard people who had never traveled beyond their
own door, saying to each other, “He certainly looks very like a Persian.”
One thing struck me: I found my portraits everywhere-in all the shops,
on every mantelpiece-so fearful were they lest they should not see enough
of me.
So much distinction
could not fail to be burdensome. I do not consider myself such a
rare and wonderful specimen of humanity; and although I have a very good
opinion of myself, I would never have dreamt that I could have disturbed
the peace of a great city, where I was quite unknown. I therefore
resolved to change my Persian dress for a European one, in order to see
if my countenance would still strike people as wonderful. This experiment
made me acquainted with my true value. Divested of everything foreign
in my garb, I found myself estimated at my proper rate. I had reason
to complain of my tailor, who had made me lose so suddenly the attention
and good opinion of the public; for I sank immediately into the merest
nonentity. Sometimes I would be as much as an hour in a given company,
without attracting the least notice, or having an opportunity given me
to speak; but, if any one chanced to inform the company that I was a Persian
I soon overheard a murmur all round me, “Oh! ah! A Persian,
is he? Most amazing! However can anybody be a Persian?”
Paris, the 6th of the moon of Chalval, 1712.