hands, three of which I could hold in mine, have an iron power of finger, in the proportion, like that of Liszt.  The keys, not the fingers, bend; she can compass ten keys by the span and elasticity of her fingers; this phenomenon must be seen to be believed.  Music, her mother, and her husband:  these three words sum up her character.  She is the Fenella of the fireside; the will-o’-wisp of our souls; our gaiety; the life of the house.  When she is not here, the very walls are conscious of her absence—­so much does she brighten them by her presence.  She had never known misfortune; she knows nothing of annoyance; she is the idol of all who surround her, and she had the sensibility and goodness of an angel:  in one word, she unites qualities which moralists consider incompatible; it is, however, only a self-evident fact to all who know her.  She is evidently well informed, without pedantry; she has a delightful naivete; and though long since married, she has still the gaiety of a child, loving laughter like a little girl, which does not prevent her from possessing a religious enthusiasm for great objects.  Physically, she has a grace even more beautiful than beauty, which triumphs over a complexion still somewhat brown (she is hardly sixteen);[*] a nose well formed, but not striking, except in the profile; a charming figure, supple and svelte; feet and hands exquisitely formed, and wonderfully small, as I have just mentioned.  All these advantages are, moreover, thrown into relief by a proud bearing, full of race, by an air of distinction and ease which all queens have not, and which is now quite lost in France, where everybody wishes to be equal.  This exterior—­this air of distinction—­this look of a grande dame, is one of the most precious gifts which God—­the God of women can bestow.  The Countess Georges speaks four languages as if she were a native of each of the countries whose tongue she knows so thoroughly.  She has a keenness of observation which astonishes me; nothing escapes her.  She is besides extremely prudent; and entirely to be relied on in daily intercourse.  There are no words to describe her, but perle fine.  Her husband adores her; I adore her; two cousins on the point of old-maidism adore her—­she will always be adored, as fresh reasons for loving her continually arise.”

[*] For the incorrectness of this statement, see the chapter on the
    Countess Mniszech.

Such adoration of Madame Hanska’s daughter was enough to make Madame Surville jealous, especially when she was so despondent over her financial situation, but Balzac tried to cheer her thus:  “You should be proud of your two children, they have written two charming letters, which have been much admired here.  Two such daughters are the reward of your life; you can afford to accept many misfortunes."[*]