“Dear Minna, I’m so glad to see you. Why how young and fresh you look to-night. Really, quite blooming! And such a sweet pretty dress, too, and the darling baby-waist and all—”
“Yes,” said that witty Gauche Boosey, “permit me, Miss Tattle,—quite an incarnate seraphim, upon my word.”
“You are too good,” replied I, “my dear Polly, it is your dress which deserves admiration, and I flatter myself in saying so, for it is the very counterpart of one I had made some months ago.”
“Yes, darling, and which you have not yet worn,” replied she. “I said to Mr. P., ‘Mr. P.’ said I, ‘there are few women upon whose amiability I can count as I can upon Minerva Tattle’s, and, therefore, I am going to have a dress like hers. Most women would be vexed about it, and say ill-natured things if I did so. But if I have a friend, it is Minerva Tattle; and she will never grudge it to me for a moment.’ It’s pretty; isn’t it? Just look here at this trimming.”
And she showed me the very handsomest part of it, and so much handsomer than mine, that I can never wear it.
“Polly, I am so glad you know me so well,” said I. “I’m delighted with the dress. To be sure, it’s ratherprononcefor your style; but that’s nothing.”
Just then a polka struck up. “Come along! give me this turn,” said Boosey, and putting his arm round Mrs. Potiphar’s waist, he whirled her off into the dance.
How I did hope that somebody would come to ask me. Nobody came.
“You don’t dance?” asked Kurz Pacha, who stood by during my little talk with Polly P.
“Oh, yes,” answered I, and hummed the polka.
Kurz Pacha hummed too, looked on at the dancers a few minutes then turned to me, and looking at my bouquet, said:
“It is astonishing how little taste there is for spring-flowers.”
At that moment young Croesus “came in” warm with the whirl of the dance, with Daisy Clover.
“It’s very warm,” said he, in a gentlemanly manner.
“Dear me! yes, very warm,” said Daisy.
“Been long in Newport?”
“No; only a few days. We always come, after, Saratoga for a couple of weeks. But isn’t it delightful?”
“Quite so,” said Timon, coolly, and smiling at the idea of anybody’s being enthusiastic about anything. That elegant youth has pumped life dry; and now the pump only wheezes.
“Oh!” continued Daisy, “it’s so pleasant to run away from the hot city, and breathe this cool air. And then Nature is so beautiful. Are you fond of Nature, Mr. Croesus?”
“Tolerably,”’ returned Timon.
“Oh! but Mr. Croesus! to go to the glen and skip stones, and then walk on the cliff, and drive to Bateman’s, and the fort, and to go to the beach by moonlight; and then the bowling-alley, and the archery, and the Germania. Oh! it’s a splendid place. But perhaps, you don’t like natural scenery, Mr. Croesus?”
“Perhaps not,” said Mr. Croesus.
“Well, some people don’t,” said darling little Daisy, folding up her fan, as if quite ready for another turn.
“Come, now; there it is,” said Timon, and, grasping her with his right arm, they glided away.
“Kurz Pacha,” said I, “I wonder who sent Ada Aiguille that bouquet?”
“Sir John Franklin, I presume,” returned he.
“What do you mean by that,” asked I. — Before he could answer, Boosey and Mrs. Potiphar stopped by us.
“No, no, Mr. Boosey,” panted Mrs. P., “I will not have him introduced. They say his father actually sells dry goods by the yard in Buffalo.”
“Well, buthedoesn’t, Mrs. Potiphar.
“I know that, and it’s all very well for you young men to know him, and to drink, and play billiards, and smoke, with him. And he is handsome to be sure, and gentlemanly, and I am told, very intelligent. But, you know, we can’t be visiting our shoemakers and shopmen. That’s the great difficulty of a watering-place, one doesn’t know who’s who. Why Mrs. Gnu was here three summers ago, and there sat next to her, at table, a middle-aged foreign gentleman, who had only a slight accent, and who was so affable and agreeable, so intelligent and modest, and so perfectly familiar with all kinds of little ways, you know, that she supposed he was the Russian Minister, who, she heard, was at Newport incognito for his health. She used to talk with him in the parlor, and allowed him to join her upon the piazza. Nobody could find out who he was. There were suspicions, of course. But he paid his bills, drove his horses, and was universally liked. Dear me! appearances are so deceitful! who do you think he was?”
“I’m sure I can’t imagine.”
“Well, the next spring she went to a music store in Philadelphia, to buy some guitar strings for Claribel, and who should advance to sell them but the Russian Minister! Mrs. Gnu said she colored—”
“So I’ve always understood,” said Gauche, laughing.
“Fie! Mr. Boosey,” continued Mrs. P. smiling. “But the music-seller didn’t betray the slightest consciousness. He sold her the strings, received the money, and said nothing, and looked nothing. Just think of it! She supposed him to be a gentleman, and he was really a music-dealer. You see that’s the sort of thing one is exposed to here, and though your friend may be very nice, it isn’t safe for me to know him. In a country where there’s no aristocracy one can’t be too exclusive. Mrs. Peony says she thinks that in future she shall really pass the summer in a farm-house or if she goes to a watering-place, confine herself to her own rooms and her carriage, and look at the people through the blinds. I’m afraid, myself, it’s coming to that. Everybody goes to Saratoga now, and you see how Newport is crowded. For my part I agree with the Rev. Cream Cheese, that there are serious evils in a republican form of government. What a hideous head-dress that is of Mrs. Settum Downe’s! What a lovely polka-redowa!”
“So it is, by Jove! Come on,” replied the gentlemanly Boosey, and they swept down the hall.
“Ah! ciel!” exclaimed a voice close by us—Kurz Pacha and I turned at the same moment. We beheld a gentleman twirling his moustache and a lady fanning. They were smiling intelligently at each other, and upon his whispering something that I could not hear, she said, “Fi! donc” and folding her fan and laying her arm upon his shoulder, they slid along again in the dance.
“Who is that?” inquired the Pacha.
“Don’t you know Mrs. Vite?” said I, glad of my chance. “Why, my dear sir, she is our great social success. She shows what America can do under a Frenchregime. She performs for society the inestimable service of giving some reality to the pictures of Balzac and George Sand, by the quality of her life and manners. She is just what you would expect a weak American girl to be who was poisoned by Paris,—who mistook what was most obvious for what was most characteristic,—whose ideas of foreign society and female habits were based upon an experience of resorts, more renowned for ease than elegance,—who has no instinct fine enough to tell her that alionnecannot be a lady,—who imitates the worst manners of foreign society, without the ability or opportunity of perceiving the best,—who prefers adouble entendreto abon-mot,—who courts the applause of men whose acquaintance gentlemen are careless of acknowledging,—who likes fast driving and dancing, low jokes, and low dresses, who is, therefore, bold without wit, noisy without mirth, and notorious without a desirable reputation. That is Mrs. Vite.”
Kurz Pacha rolled up his eyes.
“Good Jupiter! Miss Minerva,” cried he, “is this you that I hear? Why you are warmer in your denunciation of this little wisp of a woman than you ever were of fat old Madame Gorgon, with her prodigious paste diamonds. Really, you take it too hard. And you, too, who used to skate so nimbly over the glib surface of society, and cut such coquettish figures of eight upon the characters of your friends. You must excuse me, but it seems to me odd that Miss Minerva Tattle, who used to treat serious things so lightly, should now be treating light things so seriously. You ought to frequent the comic opera more, and dine with Mrs. Potiphar once a week. If your good humor can’t digest such ahors d’oeuvreas little Mrs. Vite, what will you do with such apièce de résistanceas Madame Gorgon?”
Odious plain speaker! Yet I like the man. But, before I could reply, up came another couple—Caroline Pettitoes and Norman de Famille.
“You were at the bowling-alley?” said he.
“Yes,” answered Caroline.
“You saw them together?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what do you think?”
“Why, of course, that if he is not engaged to her he ought to be. He has taken her out in his wagon three times, he has sent her four bouquets, he waltzes with her every night, he bowls with her party every morning, and if that does not mean that he wants to marry her, I should like to know what it does mean,” replied Caroline, tossing her head.
Norman de Famille smiled, and Caroline continued with rather a flushed face, because Norman had been doing very much the same thing with her:
“What is a girl to understand by such attentions?”
“Why, that the gentleman finds it an amusing game, and hopes she is equally pleased,” returned De Famille.
“Merci, M. de Famille,” said Caroline, with an energy I never suspected in her, “and at the end of the game she may go break her heart, I suppose.”
“Hearts are not so brittle, Miss Pettitoes,” replied Norman. “Besides, why should you girls always play for such high stakes?”
They were just about beginning the waltz again, when the music stopped, and they walked away. But I saw the tears in Caroline’s eyes. I don’t know whether they were tears of vexation, or of disappointment. The men have the advantage of us because they can control their emotions so much better. I suppose Caroline blushed and cried, because she found herself blushing and crying, quite as much as because she fancied her partner didn’t care for her.
I turned to Kurz Pacha, who stood by my side, smiling, and rubbing his hands.
“A charming evening we have had of it, Miss Minerva,” said he, “an epitome of life—a kind of last-new-novel effect. The things that we have heard and seen here, multiplied and varied by a thousand or so, produce the net result of Newport. Given, a large house, music, piazzas, beaches, cliff, port, griddle-cakes, fast horses, sherry-cobblers, ten-pins, dust, artificial flowers, innocence, worn-out hearts, loveliness, black-legs, bank-bills, small men, large coat-sleeves, little boots, jewelry, and polka-redowasad libitum, to produce August in Newport. For my part, Miss Minerva, I like it. But it is a dizzy and perilous game. I profess to seek and enjoy emotions, so I go to watering-places. Ada Aiguille says she doesn’t like it. She declares that she thinks less of her fellow-creatures after she has been here a little while. She goes to the city afterward to refit her faith, probably. Daisy Clover thinks it’s heavenly. Darling little Daisy! life is an endless German cotillion to her. She thinks the world is gay but well-meaning, is sure that it goes to church on Sundays and never tells lies. Cerulea Bass looks at it for a moment with her hard, round, ebony eyes, and calmly wonders that people will make such fools of themselves. And you, Miss Minerva, pardon me,—you come because you are in the habit of coming—because you are not happy out of such society, and have a tantalizing sadness in it. Your system craves only the piquant sources of scandal and sarcasm, which can never satisfy it. You wish that you liked tranquil pleasures and believed in men and women. But you get no nearer than a wish. You remember when you did believe, but you remember with a shudder and a sigh. You pass for a brilliant woman. You go out to dinners and balls; and men are, what is called, ‘afraid of you.’ You scorn most of us. You are not a favorite, but your pride is flattered by the very fear on the part of others which prevents your being loved. Time and yourself are your only enemies, and they are in league, for you betray yourself to him. You have found youth the most fascinating and fatal of flirts, but he, although your heart and hope clung to him despairingly, has jilted you and thrown you by. Let him go, if you can, and throw after him the white muslin and the baby-waist. Give up milk and the pastoral poets. Sail, at least, under your own colors; even pirates hoist a black flag. An old belle who endeavors to retain by sharp wit and spicy scandal the place she held only in virtue of youth and spirited beauty is, in a new circle of youth and beauty, like an enemy firing at you from the windows of your own house. The difficulty of your position, dear Miss Minerva, is, that you can never deceive those who alone are worth deceiving. Daisy Clover and Young America, of course, consider you a talented, tremendous kind of woman. Daisy Clover wonders all the men are not in love with you. Young America sniffs and shakes its little head, and says disapprovingly, ‘Strong-minded woman!’ But you fail, you know, notwithstanding. You couldn’t bring old Potiphar to his knees when he first came home from China, and he must needs plunge in love with Miss Polly, whom you despised, but who has certainly profited by her intimacy with Mrs. Gnu, Mrs. Croesus, and Mrs. Settum Downe, as you saw by her conversation with you this evening.
“Ah, Miss Minerva, I am only a benighted diplomat from Sennaar, but when I reflect upon all I see around me in your country; when I take my place with terror in a railroad car, because the certainty of frightful accidents fills all minds with the same vague apprehensions as if a war were raging in the land; when I see the universal rush and fury—young men who never smile, and who fall victims to paralysis; old men who are tired of life and dread death; young women pretty and incapable; old women listless and useless; and both young and old, if women of sense, perishing of ennui, and longing for some kind of a career;—why, I don’t say that it is better anywhere else,—perhaps it isn’t,—in most ways it certainly is not. I don’t say certainly, that there’s a higher tone of life in London or Paris than in New York, but only that, whatever it may be there, this, at least, is rather a miserable business.”
“What is your theory of life, then?” asked I. “What do you propose?”
Kurz Pacha smiled again.
{Illustration}
“Suppose, Miss Minerva, I say the Golden Rule is mytheoryof life. You think it vague; but it is in that like most theories. Then I propose that we shall all be good. Don’t you think it a feasible proposition? I see that you think you have effectually disposed of all complaint by challenging the complainer to suggest a remedy. But it is clear to me that a man in the water has a right to cry out, although he may not distinctly state how he proposes to avoid drowning. Your reasoning is that of those excellent Americans who declare that foreign nations ought not to strike for a republic until they are fit for a republic—as if empires and monarchies founded colleges to propagate democracy. Probably you think it wiser that men shouldn’t go into the water until they can swim. Mr. Carlyle, I remember, was bitterly reproached for grumbling in his “Chartism,” and other works, as if a man had no moral right to complain of hunger until he had grasped a piece of bread. ‘What do you propose to do, Mr. Carlyle?’ said they, ‘what with the Irish, for instance?’ Mr. C. said that he would compel every Irishman to work, or he would sink the island in the sea. ‘Barbarous man, this is your boasted reform!’ cried they in indignant chorus, unsuited either way, and permitting the Irish to go to the dogs in the meanwhile. So suffer me, dearest Miss Minerva, to regret a state of things which no sensible man can approve. Even if it seems to you light, allow me, at least, to treat it seriously, nor suppose I love anything less, because I would see it better. You are the natural fruit of this state of things, O Minerva Tattle! By thy fruits ye shall know them.”
After a few moments, he added in the old way:
“Don’t think I am going to break my heart about it, nor lose my appetite. Look at the absurdity of the whole thing. I am preaching to you in your baby-waist, here in a Newport ball-room at midnight. I humbly beg your pardon. There are more potent preachers here than I. Besides, I’m engaged to Mrs. Potiphar’s supper at 12. Take things more gently, dear Miss Minerva. Don’t make faces at Mrs. Vite, nor growl at your darling Polly. Women as smart as you are, will say precisely as smart thing of you as you say of them. We shall all laugh, first with you, and then at you. But don’t deny yourself the pleasure of saying the smart things in hope that they will also refrain. That’s vanity, not virtue. People are much better than you think, but they are also much worse. I might have been king of Sennaar, but I am only his ambassador. You might have been only a chambermaid, but you are the brilliant and accomplished Miss Tattle. Tum, tum, tum, ti, ti, ti,—what a pretty waltz! Here come Daisy and Timon Croesus, and now Mrs. Potiphar and Gauche Boosey, and now again Caroline Pettitoes and De Famille. She is smiling again, you see. She darts through the dance like a sunbeam as she is. Caroline is a philosopher. Just now, you remember, it was down, down, down,—now it is up, up, up. It is a good world, if you don’t rub it the wrong way. Sit in the sun as much as possible. One preserves one’s complexion, but gets so cold in the shade. Ah! there comes Mrs. Potiphar. Why, she is radiant! She shakes her fan at me. Adieu, Miss Minerva. Sweet dreams. To-morrow morning at the Bowling Alley at eleven, you know, and the drive at six.Au revoir.”
And he was gone. The ball was breaking up. A few desperate dancers still floated upon the floor. The chairs were empty. The women were shawling, and the men stood attendant with bouquets. I went to a window and looked out. The moon was rising, a wan, waning moon. The broad fields lay dark beneath, and as the music ceased, I heard the sullen roar of the sea. If my heart ached with an indefinite longing,—if it felt that the airy epicurism of the Pacha was but a sad cynicism, masquerading in smiles,—if I dreaded to ask whether the wisest were not the saddest,—if the rising moon, and the plunging sea, and the silence of midnight, were mournful, if I envied Daisy Clover her sweet sleep and vigorous waking,—why, no one need ever know it, nor suspect that the brilliant Minerva Tattle is a failure.
A LETTER FROM MISS CAROLINE PETTITOES TO MRS. SETTUM DOWNE.
PARIS,October.
MY DEAR MRS. DOWNE,—Here we are at last! I can hardly believe it. Our coming was so sudden that it seems like a delightful dream. You know at Mrs. Potiphar’s supper last August in Newport, she was piqued by Gauche Boosey’s saying, in his smiling, sarcastic way:
“What! do you really think this is a pretty supper? Dear me! Mrs. Potiphar, you ought to see one of ourpetits soupersin Paris, hey Croesus?” and then he and Mr. Timon Croesus lifted their brows knowingly, and smiled, and glanced compassionately around the table.
“Paris, Paris!” cried Mrs. Potiphar; “you young men are always talking about Paris, as if it were heaven. Oh! Mr. P., do take me to Paris. Let’s make up a party, and slip over. It’s so easy now, you know. Come, come, Pot. I know you won’t deny me. Just for two or three months, The truth is,” said she, turning to D’Orsay Firkin, who wore that evening the loveliest shirt-bosom I ever saw, “I want to send home some patterns of new dresses to Minerva Tattle.”
They all laughed, and in the midst Kurz Pacha, who was sitting at the side of Mrs. Potiphar, inquired:
“What colors suit the Indian summer best, Mrs. Potiphar?”
“Well, a kind of misty color,” said Boosey, laughingly, and emphasizingmissed, as if he meant some pun upon the word.
“Which conceals the outline of the landscape,” interrupted Mrs. Gnu.
“Cajoling you with a sense of warmth on the very edge of winter, eh?” asked the Sennaar minister.
Another loud laugh rang round the table.
“I thought Minerva Tattle was a friend of yours, Kurz Pacha,” said Mrs. Gnu, smiling mischievously, and playing with her beautiful bouquet, which Mrs. Potiphar told me Timon Croesus had sent her.
“Certainly, so she is,” replied he. “Miss Minerva and I understand each other perfectly. I like her society immensely. The truth is, I am always better in autumn; the air is both cool and bright.”
As he said this he looked fixedly at Mrs. Gnu, and there was not quite so much laughing. I am sure I don’t know what they meant by talking about autumn. I was busy talking with Mr. Firkin about Daisy Clover’s pretty morning dress at the Bowling Alley, and admiring his shirt-bosom. Suddenly there was a knock at the door, and an exquisite bouquet was handed in for Kurz Pacha.
“Why didn’t you wait until to-morrow?” said he, sharply.
The man stammered some excuse, and the ambassador took the flowers. Mrs. Gnu looked at them closely, and praised them very much, and quietly glanced at her own, which were really splendid. Kurz Pacha showed them to all the ladies at table, and then handed them to Mrs. Potiphar, saying to her, as he half looked at Mrs. Gnu:
“There is nothing autumnal here.”
“Mrs. Potiphar thanked him with real delight, and he turned toward Mrs. Gnu, at whom he had been constantly looking, and who was playing placidly with her bouquet, and said with an air of one paying a great compliment:
“To offeryoua bouquet, madame, would be to throw pearls before swine.”
We were all silent for a moment, and then the young men sprang up together, while we women laughed, half afraid.
“Good heavens! Kurz Pacha, what do you mean?” cried Mrs. Potiphar.
“Mean?” answered he, evidently confused, and blushing; “why, I’m afraid I have made some mistake. I meant to say something very polite, but my English sometimes gives way.”
“Your impudence never does,” muttered Mrs. Gnu, who was unbecomingly red in the face.
“My dear madame,” said the minister to her, “I assure you I meant only to use a proverb in a complimentary way; but somehow I have got the wrong pig by the ear.”
There was another burst of laughter. The young men fairly lay down and screamed. Mr. Potiphar exploded in great ha ha’s and ho ho’s, from the end of the table.
“Mrs. Potiphar,” said Mrs. Gnu, with dignity, “I didn’t suppose I was to be insulted at your table.”
And she went toward the door.
“Mrs. Gnu, Mrs. Gnu,” said Polly, smothering her laughter as well as she could, “don’t go. Kurz Pacha will explain. I’m sure he means no insult.”
Here she burst out laughing again; while the poor Sennaar Ambassador stood erect, and utterly confounded by what was going on.
“I’m sure—I didn’t know—I didn’t—I wouldn’t—Mrs. Gnu knows;” said he, in the greatest embarrassment. “I beg your pardon sincerely, madame.” And he looked so humble and repentant that I was really sorry for him; but I saw Mr. Firkin laughing afresh every time he looked at the Ambassador, as if he saw something sly behind his penitence.
“Perhaps,” said Firkin at last, “Kurz Pacha means to say that to offer flowers to a lady who has already so beautiful a bouquet, would be to carry coals to Newcastle.”
“That is it,” cried the Pacha; “to Newcastle,”—and he bowed to Mrs. Gnu.
“Come, Mrs. Gnu, it’s only a mistake,” said Mrs. Potiphar.
But Mrs. Gnu looked rather angry still, although Gauche Boosey tried very hard to console her, saying as manybon motsas he could think of—and you know how witty he is. He said at last;
“Why is Mrs. Gnu like Rachel?”
“Rachel who?” asked I. — I’m sure it was an innocent question; but they all fell to laughing again, and Mr. Firkin positively cried with fun.
“D’ye give it up?” asked Mr. Boosey.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Potiphar.
“Why, because she will not be comforted.”
There wasn’t half so much laughing at this as at my question—although Mrs. Potiphar said it was capital, and I thought so too, when I found out who Rachel was.
But Mrs. Gnu continued to be like Rachel, and Mr. Boosey continued to try to amuse her. I think it was very hard she wouldn’t be amused by such a funny man; and he said at last aloud to her, meaning all of us to hear:
“Well, Mrs. Gnu, upon my honor, it is no epicure to try to console you.”
She did laugh at this, however, and so did the others.
“Have you ever been in Sennaar, Mr. Boosey?” said Kurz Pacha.
“No; why?”
“Why, I thought we might have learned English at the same school.”
Mr. Boosey looked puzzled; but Mr. Potiphar broke in:
“Well, Mrs. Gnu, I’m glad to see you smile at last. After all, the remark of the Ambassador’s was only what they would call in France, ‘a perfect bougie of a joke.’”
“Good evening, Mrs. Potiphar,” cried the Sennaar Minister, rising suddenly, and running toward the door. We heard him next under the window going off in great shouts of laughter, and whistling in the intervals, “Hail Columbia!” What shocking habits he has for a minister! I don’t know how it was that Mr. Potiphar was in such good humor; but he promised his wife that she should go to Paris, and that she might select her party. So she invited us all who were at the table. Mrs. Gnu declined: but I knew mamma would let me go with the Potiphars.
“Dear Pot.,” said Mrs. P., “we shall be gone so short a time, and shall be so busy, and hurrying from one place to another, that we had better leave little Freddy behind. Poor, dear little fellow, it will be much better for him to stay.”
Mr. P. looked a little sober at this; but he said nothing except to ask:
“Shall you all be ready to sail in a fortnight?”
“Certainly, in a week,” we all answered.
“Well, then, we must hurry home to prepare,” said he. “I shall write for state-rooms for us in Monday’s boat, Polly.”
“Very well; that’s a dear Pot.,” said she; and as we all rose she went up to him, and took his arm tenderly. It was an unusual sight: I never saw her do it before. Mrs. Gnu said to me:
“Well, really, that’s rather peculiar. I think people had better make love in private.”
“No, by Jove,” whispered Mr. Boosey to me; “and I am afraid he had drank freely, as I have once or twice before heard that he did; but the world is such a gossip!—no, she doesn’t lethergood works of that kind shine before men.”
“Why, Mr. Boosey,” said I, “how can you?”
“Will you believe, darling Mrs. Downe, that instead of answering, he sort of winked at me, and said, under his voice, ‘Good night, Caroline.’ I drew myself up, you may depend, and said coldly:
“Good evening, Mr. Boosey.”
He drew himself up too, and said:
“I called you Caroline, you called me Mr. Boosey.”
And then looking straight and severely at me, he actually winked again.
Then of course, I knew he was not responsible for his actions.
Ah me, what things we are! Just as I was leaving the room with Mrs. Gnu, who had matronized me, Mr. Boosey came up with such a soft, pleading look in his eyes that seemed to say, “please forgive me,” and put out his hand so humbly, and appeared so sorry and so afraid that I would not speak to him, that I really pitied him: but when, in his low, rich voice, he said:
“Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered!”—
I couldn’t hold out; wasn’t it pretty? So I put out my hand, and he shook it tenderly, and said “tomorrow” in a way—well, dear Mrs. Downe, I will be frank with you—that made me happy all night.
At this rate I shall never get to Paris. But the next day it was known everywhere we were going and everybody congratulated us. Our party met at the Bowling Alley, and we began to make all kinds of plans.
“Oh!we’lltake care of all the arrangements,” said Mr. Boosey, nodding toward Mr. Croesus and Mr. Firkin.
“Mr. Boosey, were you presented to the Emperor?” inquired Kurz Pacha.
“Certainly I was,” replied he; “I have a great respect for Louis Napoleon. Those Frenchmen didn’t know what they wanted; but he knew well enough what he wanted: they didn’t want him, perhaps, but he did want them, and now he has them. A true nephew of his uncle, Kurz Pacha; and you can see what a man the great Napoleon must have been, when the little Napoleon succeeds so well upon the strength of the name.”
“Why, you are really enthusiastic about the Emperors,” said the Ambassador.
“Certainly,” replied Mr. Boosey, “I have always been a great Neapolitan.”
Kurz Pacha stared at him a moment, and then took a large pinch of snuff solemnly. I think it’s very ill bred to stare as he does sometimes, when somebody has made a remark. I saw nothing particular in that speech of Mr. Boosey’s; and yet D’Orsay Firkin smiled to himself as he told Mrs. Gnu it was her turn.
“I wonder, my dear Mrs. Potiphar,” said the Sennaar Minister seating himself by her side, as the game went on, “that Europeans should have so poor an idea of America and Americans, when such crowds of the very best society are constantly crossing the ocean. Now, you and your friends are going to Paris, perhaps to other parts of Europe, and I should certainly suppose that, without flattery, (taking another pinch of snuff,) the foreigners whom you meet might get rid of some of their prejudices against the Americans. You will go, you know, as the representatives of a republic where social ranks are not organized to the exclusion of any; but where talent and character always secure social consideration. The simplicity of the republican idea and system will appear in your manners and modes of life. Leaving to the children of a society based upon antique and aristocratic principles, to squander their lives in an aimless luxury, you will carry about with you, as it were the fresh airs and virgin character of a new country and civilization. When you go to Paris, it will be like a sweet country breeze blowing into a perfumer’s shop. The customers will scent something finer than the most exquisite essence, and will prefer the fresh fragrance of the flower to the most elaborate distillation. Roses smell sweeter than attar of roses. You and your party, estimable lady, will be the roses. You will not (am I rightthistime?) carry coals to Newcastle; for if any of your companions think that the sharp eye of Paris will not pierce their pretensions, or the satiric tongue of Paris fail to immortalize it, they mistake greatly. You cannot beat Paris with its own weapons; and Paris will immensely respect you if you use your own. Poor little Mrs. Vite thinks she passes for aParisiennein Paris. Why, there is not achiffonierin the street at midnight that couldn’t see straight through the little woman, and nothing would better please theJardin Mabillethan to have her for a butt. My dear madame, the ape is a very ingenious animal, and his form much resembles the human. Moles, probably, and the inhabitants of the planet Jupiter, do not discern the difference; but I rather think we do. A ten-strike by Venus! well done, Mrs. Gnu,” cried the Ambassador; “now, Mrs. Potiphar.”
The Pacha didn’t play; but he asked Mr. Firkin what was a good average for a man, in the game.
“Well, a spare every time,” said he.
“Mr. Firkin,” asked Mrs. Gnu, “what is a good woman’s average?”
“Does any lady here know that?” inquired the Pacha, looking round.
“No,” said Mr. Boosey; “we must send and inquire of Miss Tattle.” “How pleasantly the game goes on, dear Mrs. Gnu,” said the Pacha; “but Miss Minerva ought to be here, she always holds such a good hand at every game.”
“I think,” said Mrs. Gnu, “that if she once got a good hold of any hand, she wouldn’t let it go immediately.”
“Good!” shouted Mr. Boosey.
“Hi! hi!” roared Mr. Potiphar.
The Pacha took snuff placidly, and said quietly:
“You’ve fairly trumped my trick, and taken it, Mrs. Gnu.”
“I should say the trick has taken her,” whispered Mr. Firkin at my elbow to Kurz Pacha.
The Sennaar Ambassador opened his eyes wide, and offered Mr. Firkin his snuff-box.
Monday came at length. It was well known that we were all going—the Potiphars and the rest of us. Everybody had spoken of the difficulty of getting state-rooms on the steamer to town, and hoped we had spoken in time.
“I have written and secured my rooms,” said Mr. Potiphar to everybody he met; “I am not to be left in the lurch, my dear sir, it isn’t my way.” And then he marched on, Gauche Boosey said, as if at least both sides of the street were his way. He’s changed a great deal lately.
The De Familles were going the same day. “Hope you’ve secured rooms, De Famille,” said Mr. Potiphar blandly to him.
“No,” answered he, shortly; “no, not yet; it isn’t my way; I don’t mean to give myself trouble about things; I don’t bother; it isn’t my way.”
And each went his own way up and down the street. But early on Monday afternoon Mr. De Famille and his family drove toward Fall Kiver, from which place the boat starts.
Monday evening the Potiphars and the rest of us went to the wharf at Newport, and presently the boat came up. We bundled on board, and as soon as he could get to the office Mr. Potiphar asked for the keys of his rooms.
“Why, sir,” said the clerk, “Mr. De Famille has them. He came on board at Fall Eiver and asked for your keys, as if the rooms had been secured for him.”
“What does that mean?” demanded Mr. Potiphar.
“Oh! ah! I remember now,” said Mr. Boosey. “I saw the De Familles all getting into a carriage for a little drive, as Mr. De F., said, about two o’clock this afternoon.”
Mr. Potiphar looked like a thunder-storm. “What the devil does it mean?” asked he of the clerk, while the passengers hustled him, and punched him, and the hook of an umbrella-stick caught in his cravat-knot, and untied it.
“Send up immediately, and say that Mr. Potiphar wants his state-rooms,” said he to the clerk.
In a few minutes the messenger returned and said—
“Mr. De Famille’s compliments to Mr. Potiphar. Mr. De Famille and his family have retired for the night, but upon arriving in the morning he will explain everything to Mr. Potiphar’s satisfaction.
“Jolly!” whispered Mr. Boosey, rubbing his hands, to Mr. Firkin, on whose arm I was leaning.
“Are you fond of the Italian opera, Mr. Potiphar?” inquired Kurz Pacha, blandly, Mrs. P. sat down upon a settee and looked at nothing.
“O Patience! do verify the quotation and smile,” said the Ambassador to her.
“It’s a mean swindle,” said Mr. Potiphar. “I’ll have satisfaction. I’ll go break open the door,” and he started.
“My dear, don’t be in a passion,” said Mrs. Potiphar, “and don’t be a fool. Remember that the De Familles are not people to be insulted. It won’t do to quarrel with the De Familles.”
“Splendid!” ejaculated Kurz Pacha.
“I’ve no doubt he’ll explain it all in the morning,” continued Mrs. Potiphar, “there’s some mistake; why not be cool about it? Besides, Mr. De Famille is an elderly gentleman and requires his rest. I do think you’re positively unchristian, Mr. Potiphar. The idea of insulting the De Familles!”
And Mrs. Potiphar patted her little feet upon the floor in front of the ladies’ cabin, where we were all collected.
“Where are you going to sleep?” asked Mr. Potiphar mildly.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” answered she.
We had an awful night. It was worse than any night at sea. Mrs. P. was propped up in one corner of a settee and I in the other, and when I was fixed comfortably there would come a great sea, and the boat would lurch, and I had to disarrange my position. It was horrid. But Mr. Potiphar was very good all night. He kept coming to see if Polly wanted anything, and if she were warm enough, and if she were well. Gauche Boosey, who was on the floor in the saloon, said he saw Mr. P. crawl up softly and try his state-room door. But it was locked, “and the snoring of old De Famille, who was enjoying his required rest,” said he, “came in regular broadsides through the blinds.”
I don’t know how Mr. De Famille explained. I only know Mrs. P. charged old Pot. to be satisfied with anything.
“There are some people, my darling Caroline,” she said to me, “with whom it does not do to quarrel. It isn’t christian to quarrel. I can’t afford to be on bad terms with the De Familles.”
“It is odd, isn’t it,” said Kurz Pacha to Mrs. P., as we were sailing down the harbor on our way to Europe, and talking of the circumstance of the state-rooms, “it is so odd, that in Sennaar, where to be sure, civilization has scarcely a foothold—I mean such civilization as you enjoy—this proceeding would have been called dishonest! They do have the oddest use of terms in Sennaar! Why, I remember that I once bought a sheep, and as it was coming to my fold in charge of my shepherd, a man in a mask came out of a wood and walked away with the sheep, and appropriated the mutton-chops to his own family uses. And those singular people in Sennaar called it stealing. Shall I ever get through laughing at them when I return! There ought to be missionaries sent to Sennaar. Do you think the Rev. Cream Cheese would go? How gracefully he would say: ‘Benighted brethren, in my country when a man buys a sheep or a state-room, and pays money for it, and another man appropriates it, depriving the rightful buyer of his chops and sheep, what does the buyer do? Does he swear? Does he rail? Does he complain? Does he even ask for the cold pickings? Not at all, brethren; he does none of these things. He sends Worcestershire sauce to the thief, or a pillow of poppies, and says to him, Friend, all of mine is thine, and all of thine is thine own. This, benighted people of Sennaar, is the practice of a Christian people. As one of our great poets says, ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.’ Think how delicately the Rev. Cream would pat his mouth with the fine cambric handkerchief, after rounding off such a homily! He might ask you and Mrs. Potiphar to accompany him as examples of this Christian pitch of self-sacrifice. On the whole, I wouldn’t advise you to go. The rude races of Sennaar, might put that beautiful forgiveness of yours to extraordinary proofs. Holloa! there’s a sea!”
We were dismally sea-sick. And I cared for nothing but arriving. Oh! dear, I think I would even have given up Paris, at least I thought so. But, oh! howcouldI think so! Just fancy a place where not only your own maid speaks French, but where everybody, the porters, the coachmen, the chambermaids, can’t speak anything else! Where the very beggars beg, and the commonest people swear, in French! Oh! it’s inexpressibly delightful. Why, the dogs understand it, and the horses—“everybody,” as Kurz Pacha said to me, the morning after our arrival (for he insisted upon coming, “it was such a freak,” he said,) “everybody rolls in a luxury of French, and, according to the boarding-school standard, is happy.”
Everybody—but poor Mr. Potiphar!
He has a terrible time of it.
When we arrived we alighted at Meurice’s,—all the fashionable people do; at least Gauche Boosey said Lord Brougham did, for he used to read it in Galignani and I suppose it is fashionable to do as Lord Brougham does. D’Orsay Firkin said that the Hotel Bristol was morerécherché.
“Does that mean cheaper?” inquired Mr. Potiphar.
Mr. Firkin looked at him compassionately.
“I only want,” said Mr. Potiphar, in a kind of gasping way, for it was in the cars on the way from Boulogne to Paris that we held this consultation—“I only want to go where there is somebody who can speak English.”
“My dear sir, there are Commissionaires at all the hotels who are perfect linguists,” said Mr. Firkin in a gentlemanly manner.
“Oh! dear me!” said Mr. P. wiping his forehead with the red bandanna that he always carries, despite Mrs. P., “what is a commissionaire?”
“An interpreter, a cicerone,” said Mr. Firkin.
“A guide, philosopher, and friend,” said Kurz Pacha.
“Kurz Pacha, do you speak French?” inquired Mr. P. nervously, as we rolled along.
“Oh! yes,” replied he.
“Oh! dear me!” said Mr. Potiphar, looking disconsolately out of the window.
We arrived soon after.
“We are now at theBarrière” said Mr. Firkin.
“What do we do there?” asked Mr. Potiphar.
“We are inspected,” said Mr. Firkin.
Mr. Potiphar drew himself up with a military air.
We alighted and walked into the room where all the baggage was arranged.
“Est-ce qu’il y a quelque chose à déclarer?” asked an officer, addressing Mr. Potiphar.
“Good heavens! what did you say?” said Mr. P., looking at him.
The officer smiled, and Kurz Pacha said something, upon which he bowed and passed on. We stepped outside upon the pavement, and I confess that even I could not understand everything that was said by the crowd and the coachmen. But Kurz Pacha led the way to a carriage, and we drove off to Meurice’s.
“It’s awful, isn’t it?” said Mr. Potiphar, panting.
When we reached the hotel, a gentleman (Mr. Potiphar said he was sure he was a gentleman, from a remark he made—in English) came bowing out. But before the door of the carriage was opened, Mr. P. thrust his head out of the window, and holding the door shut, cried out, “Do you speak English here?”
“Certainly, sir,” replied the clerk; and that was the remark that so pleased Mr. Potiphar.
My room was next to the Potiphars, and I heard a great deal, you may be sure. I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t help it. The next morning, when they were about coming down, I heard Polly say—
“Now, Mr. Potiphar, remember, if you want to speak of your room it isnumero quatre-vingt cinq” and she pronounced it very slowly. “Now try, Mr. P.”
“Oh! dear me. Kattery vang sank,” said he.
“Very good,” answered she; “au troisième; that means, on the third floor. Now try.”
“O tror—Otrorsy—O trorsy—Oh! dear me!” muttered he in a tone of despair.
“ème,” said Mrs. P.
“Aim,” said he.
“Well?” said Mrs. P.
“O trorsyaim,” said he.
“That’s very well, indeed!” said Mrs. Potiphar, and they went out of the room. I joined them in the hall, and we ran on before Mr. P., but we soon heard some one speaking, and stopped.
“Monsieur, veut il prendre un commissionaire?”
“Kattery—vang—sank,” replied Mr. Potiphar, with great emphasis.
“Comment?” said the other.
“O tror—O tror—Oh! Polly—seeaim—seeaim!” returned Mr. P.
“You speak English,” said the commissionaire.
“Why! good God! doyou?” asked Mr. P., with astonishment.
“I speaks every languages, sare,” replied the other, “and we will use the English, if you please. But Monsieur speakstrès bienthe French language.”
“Are you speaking English now?” asked Mr. Potiphar.
The commissionaire answered him that he was,—and Mr. P. thrust his arm through that of the commissionaire and said—
“My dear sir, if you are disengaged I should be very glad if you would accompany me in my walks through the town.”
“Mr. Potiphar!” said Polly, “come!”
“Coming, my dear,” answered he, as he approached with the commissionaire. It was in vain that Mrs. P. winked and frowned. Her husband would not take hints. So taking his other arm, and wishing the commissionaire good morning, she tried to draw him away. But he clung to his companion and said,
“Polly, this gentleman speaks English.”
“Don’t keep his arm,” whispered she; “he is only a servant.”
“Servant, indeed!” said he; “you should have heard him speak French, and you see how gentlemanly he is.”
It was some time before Polly was able to make her husband comprehend the case.
“Ah!” said he, at length; “Oh! I understand.”
All our first days were full of such little mistakes. Kurz Pacha come regularly to see us, and laughed more than I ever saw him laugh before. The young men were away a great deal, which was hardly kind. But they said they must call upon their old acquaintances; and Polly and I expected every day to be called upon by their lady friends.
“It’s very odd that the friends of these young men don’t call upon us,” said Mrs. Potiphar to Kurz Pacha; “it would be only civil.”
The Ambassador laughed a good deal to himself and then answered,
“But they are not visiting ladies.”
“What do you mean,” said she.
“Ask Mr. Firkin,” replied he.
So when we saw them next, Mrs P. said,
“Mr. Firkin, I remember you used to tell me of the pleasant circles in which you visited in Paris, and how much superior French society is to American.”
“Infinitely superior,” replied Mr. Firkin.
“Much morespirituel,” said Mr. Boosey.
“Well,” said Mrs. Potiphar, “we are going to stay only a short time to be sure, but we should like very much to see a little good society.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Firkin.
“Oh! yes, certainly,” said Mr. Boosey; and the corners of his eyelids twitched.
“Perhaps you might suggest that you have some friends staying in town,” said Mrs. P. “You know we’re all intimate enough for that.”
“Yes—oh yes,” said Mr. Firkin, slowly; “but the truth is, it’s a little awkward. These ladies are kind enough to receive us; but to ask favors of them, is, you see, different.”
“Oh! yes,” interrupted Mr. Boosey; “to ask favors of them is a very different thing,” and his eyes really glistened.
“These are ladies, you see, dear Mrs. Potiphar,” said Kurz Pacha, “who don’t grant favors.”
“But still,” continued Mr. Firkin, “if you only wanted to see them, you know, and be able to say at home that you knew Madame la Marquise So-and-so, and Madame la Comtesse So-and-so, and describe their dresses, why, we can manage it well enough; for we are engaged to a little party at the opera this evening with the Countess de Papillon and Madame Casta Diva, two of the best known ladies in Paris. But they never visit.”
“How superbly exclusive!” said Mrs. Potiphar; “I wonder how that would do at home! However, I should be glad to see the general air and the toilette, you know. If we were going to pass the whole winter I would know them of course. But things are different where you stay so short a time. Eh, Kurz Pacha?”
“Very different, Madame. But you are quite right. Make hay while the sun shines; use your eyes if you can’t use your tongue. Eyes are great auxiliaries, you can use the tongue afterward. You’ve no idea how well you can talk about French society if you only go to the opera with a friend who knows people, and to your banker’s soirées. If you chose to read a little of Balzac, beside, your knowledge will be complete.”
So we agreed to go to the opera. We passed the days shopping, and driving in theBois de Boulogne. Sometimes the young men went with us, and D’Orsay Firkin confided to me one of his adventures, which was very romantic. You know how handsome he is, and how excessively gentlemanly, and how the girls were all in love with him last winter at home. Now you needn’t say that I was, for you know better. I liked him as a friend. But he told me that he had often seen a girl in one of the shops on the Boulevards watching him very closely. He never passed by, but she always saw him, and looked so earnestly at him, that at length he thought he would saunter carelessly into the shop, and ask for some trifle. The moment he entered she fixed her eyes full upon him, and he says they were large and lustrous, and a little mournful in expression. But he scarcely looked at her, and asked at the opposite counter for a pair of gloves. He tried them on, and in the mirror behind the counter he saw the girl still watching him. After lingering for some time, and looking at everything but the girl, he sauntered slowly out again while her eyes, he said, grew evidently more mournful as she saw him leave without looking at her. Daily, for a week afterwards, he walked by the door, and she was always watching and looking after him with the most eager interest. Mr. Firkin did not say he was sorry for the little French girl, but I know that he really felt so. These men, that every woman falls in love with, are generous, I have always found. And I am sure he would never have confided this little affair to me, except for the very intimate terms upon which we are; for I have heard him say (speaking of other men) that nothing was meaner than for a man to tell of his conquests.
Well, the affair went on, he says, for some days longer. He was, at the time, constantly in attendance upon the Countess de Papillon, but often from the window of her carriage he has remarked the young girl pensively watching him, as she stretched gloves, or tied cravats around the necks of customers. At length he determined to follow the matter up, as he called it, and so marched into the shop one day, and going straight toward the mournful eyes, he asked for a pair of gloves. Mr. Firkin says the French women are so perfectly trained to conceal their emotions, that she did not betray, by any trembling, or turning pale, or stammering, the profound interest she felt for him, but quietly looked in his eyes, and in what Mr. Firkin called “a strain of Siren sweetness,” asked what number he wore. He replied with his Frenchesprit, as Kurz Pacha calls it, that he thought the size of her hand was about right for him; upon which she smiled in the most bewitching manner, and bringing out a large box of gloves, selected a pair of an exquisitenuance, as the French say, you know, and asking him to put out his hand, she proceeded to fit the glove to it, herself. Mr. Firkin remarked, that as she did so, she would raise her eyes to his whenever she found it necessary to press his fingers harder than usual, and when he thought the glove was fairly on, she kept pulling it down, and smoothing it; and finally taking his hand between both of hers, she brought the glove together, buttoned it, and said, “Monsieur has such a delicate hand,” and smiled sweetly. Mr. Firkin said he bought an astonishing number of gloves that morning, and suddenly remembered that he wanted cravats. Fortunately the new styles had just come in, Marie said (for he had discovered her name), and she opened a dazzling array of silks and satins, and asking him to remove his neckcloth, she wound her hand in a beautiful silk, and throwing her arms, for a little moment, quite around his neck, she tied it in front; her little hands sometimes hitting his chin. Then taking him by the hand she led him to a mirror, in which he might survey the effect, while she stood behind him looking into the mirror over his shoulder, her head really quite close to his, and, in her enthusiasm about the set of the cravat, having forgotten to take her hand out of his. He stood a great while before that mirror, trying to discover if it really was a becoming tie. He said he never found so much difficulty in deciding. But Marie decided everything for him, and laid aside piles of cravats, and gloves, and fancy buttons, and charms, until he was quite dizzy, and found that he hadn’t money enough in his pocket to pay.
“It is nothing,” said the trustful Marie, “Monsieur will call again.” Touched by her confidence he has called several times since, and never escapes without paying fifty francs or so. Marie says theMessieurs Americainsare princes. They never have smaller change than a Napoleon, and they are not only the most regal of customers but the most polite of gentlemen. Mr. Firkin says he has often seen Frenchmen watching him, as he stood in the shop, with the most quizzical expression, and once or twice he has thought he heard suppressed laughter from a group of the other girls and the French gentlemen. But it was a mistake, for when he turned, the Frenchmen had the politest expression, and the girls were very busy with the goods. Poor French gentlemen! how they must be annoyed to see foreigners carrying off not only all the gloves, but all the smiles, of the beautiful Maries. It is really pleasant to see Gauche Boosey and D’Orsay Firkin promenade on the Boulevards. They are more superbly dressed than anybody else. They have such coats, and trowsers, and waistcoats, and boots,—“always looking,” says Kurz Pacha, “as if they came into a large fortune last evening, and were anxious to advertise the fact this morning.” Even the boys in the streets turn to look at them.
Mr. Boosey always buys the pattern shirts, and woollen morning dresses, and fancy coats, that hang in the shop windows. “Then,” he says, “I am sure of being at the height of the fashion.” Mr. Firkin is more quiet. The true gentleman, he says, is known by the absence of everythingprononcé. “He is a very true gentleman, then,” even Kurz Pacha says, “for I have never found anythingprononcéin Mr. D’Orsay Firkin.” The Pacha tells a good story of them. “The week after their arrival Mr. B. appeared in a suit of great splendor. It was a very remarkable coat, and waistcoat, covered with gilt sprigs, and an embroidered shirt-bosom, altogether a fine coronation suit for the king of the Cannibal Islands. Mr. Firkin, as usual, was rigorously gentlemanly, in the quiet way. They walked together up the Boulevards, Mr. B. flashing in the sun, and Mr. F. sombre as a shadow. The whole world turned to remark the extreme gorgeousness of Mr. Boosey’s attire, which was peculiar even in Paris. At first that ornament of society rather enjoyed it, but such universal attention became a little wearisome, and at length annoying. Finally Mr. Boosey could endure it no longer, and turning round he stopped Mr. Firkin and looking at him from top to toe, remarked, ‘Really I see nothing so peculiar in your dress that the whole town should stop to stare at you’ Mr. Boosey is a man of great discrimination,” concluded the Ambassador.
He went with us to the opera, where we were to see the Countess de Papillon and Madame Casta Diva. The house was full, and the young gentlemen had told us where to look for their box. Mrs. Potiphar had made Mr. P. as presentable as possible, and begged the Sennaar Minister to see that Mr. P. did not talk too loud, nor go to sleep, nor offend the proprieties in any way; especially to cut off all his attempts at speaking French. She had hired the most expensive box.
“People respect money, my dear,” said Mrs. Potiphar to me.
“But not always its owners, my dear,” whispered Kurz Pacha in my other ear.
When we entered the box all the glasses in the house were levelled at us. Mrs. Potiphar gayly seated herself in the best seat, nodding and chatting with the Ambassador; her diamonds glittering, her brocade glistening, her fan waving, while I slipped into the seat opposite, and Mr. Potiphar stood behind me in a dazzling expanse of white waistcoat, and his glass in his eye, as Mrs. P. had taught him.
“A very successful entree” whispered the Pacha to Mrs. P. “I shall give out to my friends that it is the heiress presumptive of the Comanchees.”
“No, really; what is the Comanchees?” said Polly levelling her glass all round the house, and laughing, and talking, and rustling, as if she were very, very happy.
Suddenly there was a fresh volley of glasses towards our box, and, to our perfect dismay, we turned and saw that Mr. Potiphar had advanced to the front, and having put down his eye-glass, had taken out his old, round, silver-barred spectacles, and was deliberately wiping them with that great sheet of a hideous red bandanna, “prepartory to an exhaustive survey of the house,” whispered Kurz Pacha to me.
Mrs. P. wouldn’t betray any emotion, but still smiling, she hissed to him, under her breath:
“Mr. P., get back this minute. Don’t make a fool of yourself.Mais, monsieur, c’est vraiment charmant.”
The latter sentence was addressed with smiles to the Ambassador, as she saw that the neighbor in the next box was listening.
“It’s uncommonly warm,” said Mr. Potiphar in a loud tone, as he wiped his forehead with the bandanna.
“Yes, I observe that Mrs. Potiphar betrays the heat in her face,” said the Pacha, “which however, is merely a becoming carnation, Madame,” concluded he, sinking his voice, and rubbing his hands.
At that moment in the box opposite, I saw our friends, Mr. Boosey and Mr. Firkin. By their sides sat two such handsome women! They wore a great quantity of jewelry, and had the easiest, most smiling faces you ever saw. They entered making a great noise, and I could see that the modesty of our friends kept them in the rear. For they seemed almost afraid of being seen.
“I like that,” said Kurz Pacha; “it shows that such stern republicans don’t intend ever to appear delighted with the smiles of nobility.”
“The largest one is Madame la Marquise Casta Diva,” said Mrs. Potiphar, scanning them carefully, “I know her by her patrician air. What a splendid thing blood is, to be sure!”
She gave herself several minutes to study the toilette of the lady, while I looked at the younger lady, Countess de Papillon, who had all kinds of little fluttering ends of ribbons, and laces, and scallops, and ruffles, and was altogether so stylish!
“I see now where Mr. Firkin gets his elegant manners,” said Mrs. Potiphar; “it is a great privilege for young Americans to be admitted familiarly into such society. I now understand better the tone of their conversation when they refer to the French Salons.”
“Yes, my dear Madame,” answered the Pacha, “this is indeed making the best of one’s opportunities. This is well worth coming to Europe for. It is, in fact, for this that Europe is chiefly valuable to an American, as the experience of an observer shows. Paris is, notoriously, the great centre of historical and romantic interest. To be sure, Italy, Rome, Switzerland, and Germany,—yes, and even England,—have some few objects of interest and attention. But the really great things of Europe, the superior interests, are all in Paris. Why, just reflect. Here is theCafé de Paris, theTrois Frères, and theMaison Dorée. I don’t think you can get such dinners elsewhere. Then, there is the Grand Opera, the Comic Opera, and now and then the Italian—I rather think that is good music. Are there any such theatres as theVaudeville,theVarietés,and theMontansier,where there is the most dexterous balancing on the edge of decency that ever you saw; and when the balance is lost, as it always is, at least a dozen times every evening, the applause is tremendous, showing that the audience have such a subtile sense of propriety that they can detect the slightest deviation from the right line. Is there not theLouvre, where, if there is not the best picture of a single great artist, there are good specimens of all? Will you please to show me such a promenade as the Boulevards, such fetês as those of theChamp Elysées, such shops as those of thePassages, and thePalais Royal. Above all, will you indicate to such students of mankind as Mr. Boosey, Mr. Firkin, and I, a city more abounding in piquant little women, with eyes, and coiffures and toilettes, andje ne sais quoi, enough to make Diogenes a dandy, to obtain their favor? I think, dear Madame, you would be troubled to do it. And while these things are Paris, while we are sure of an illimitable allowance of all this in the gay capital, we do right to remain here. Let who will, sadden in mouldy old Rome, or luxuriate in the orange-groves of Sorento and the south, or wander among the ruins of the most marvellous of empires, and the monuments of art of the highest human genius, or float about the canals of Venice, or woo the Venus and the Apollo; and learn from the silent lips of those teachers a lore sweeter than the French novelists impart;—let who will, climb the tremendous Alps, and feel the sublimity of Switzerland as he rises from the summer of Italian lakes and vineyards to the winter of the glaciers, or makes the tour of all climates in a day by descending those mountains towards the south;—let those who care for it, explore in Germany the sources of modern history, and the remote beginnings of the American spirit;—ours be the Boulevards, the demoiselles, the operas, and the unequalled dinners. Decency requires that we should see Rome, and climb an Alps. We will devote a summer week to the one, and a winter month to the other. They will restore us renewed and refreshed for the manly, generous, noble, and useful life we lead in Paris.”
“Admirably said,” returned Mrs. Potiphar, who had been studying the ladies opposite while the Pacha was speaking, “but a little bit prosy,” she whispered to me.
It would charm you to hear how intelligently Mrs. P. speaks about French society, since that evening at the opera. When we return, you will find how accomplished she is. We have been here only a few weeks, and we already know all the fashionable shops, and a little more French, and we go to the confectioners, and eatsavarinsevery morning at 12, and we drive in theBois de Boulognein the afternoon, and we dine splendidly, and in the evening we go to the opera or a theatre. To be sure, we don’t have much society beside our own party. But then the shop-girls point out the distinguished women to Mrs. Potiphar, so that she can point them out when we drive; and our banker calls and keeps us up in gossip; and Mrs. Potiphar’s maid, Adèle, is inestimable in furnishing information; and Mr. Potiphar gets a great deal out of his commissionaire, and goes about studying his Galignani’s Guide, and frequents the English Heading Room, where I am told, he makes himself a little conspicuous when he finds that Englishmen won’t talk, by saying, “Oh! dear me!” and wiping his face with a bandanna. He usually opens his advances by making sure of an Englishman, and saying, “Bon matin,—but, perhaps, sir, you don’t speak French.”