The Potiphar papers (Reprinted from "Putnam's monthly") |
| Barrett Bookplate. |
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| 4. | IV.
FROM THE
Summer Diary of Minerba Cattle. |
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 | The Potiphar papers |  |
IV.
FROM THE
Summer Diary of Minerba Cattle.
It certainly is not papa's fault that he doesn't
understand French; but he ought not to pretend
to. It does put one in such uncomfortable situations
occasionally. In fact, I think it would be
quite as well if we could sometimes “sink the
paternal,” as Timon Crœsus says. I suppose
every body has heard of the awful speech pa
made in the parlor at Saratoga. My dearest
friend, Tabby Dormouse, told me she had heard
of it every where, and that it was ten times as
absurd each time it was repeated. By the by,
Tabby is a dear creature, isn't she? It's so nice
to have a spy in the enemy's camp, as it were,
and to hear every thing that every body says
Tabby! There's no denying it, but she can't
help it. I was obliged to tell young Downe so,
quite decidedly, for I really think he had an
idea she was good-looking. The idea of Tabby
Dormouse being handsome! But she is a useful
little thing in her way; one of my intimates.
The true story is this.
Ma and I had persuaded pa to take us to Saratoga,
for we heard the English party were to be
there, and we were anxious they should see some
good society, at least. It seems such a pity they
shouldn't know what handsome dresses we really
do have in this country! And I mentioned to
some of the most English of our young men, that
there might be something to be done at Saratoga.
But they shrugged their shoulders, especially
Timon Croesus and Gauche Boosey, and
said—
“Well, really, the fact is, Miss Tattle, all the
Englishmen I have ever met are—in fact—a little
snobbish. However.”
That was about what they said. But I thought,
considering their fondness of the English model
more willing to meet some genuine aristocracy.
Yet, perhaps, that handsome Col. Abattew is right
in saying with his grand military air,—
“The British aristocracy, madam,—the British
aristocracy is vulgar.”
Well, we all went up to Saratoga. But the
distinguished strangers did not come. I held
back that last muslin of mine, the yellow one,
embroidered with the Alps, and a distant view
of the isles of Greece worked on the flounces,
until it was impossible to wait longer. I meant
to wear it at dinner the first day they came, with
the pearl necklace and the opal studs, and that
heavy ruby necklace (it is a low-necked dress).
The dining-room at the “United States” is so
large that it shows off those dresses finely, and
if the waiter doesn't let the soup or the gravy
slip, and your neighbor, (who is, like as not,
what Tabby Dormouse, with her incapacity to
pronounce the r, calls “some 'aw, 'uff man from
the country,”) doesn't put the leg of his chair
through the dress, and if you don't muss it sitting
down—why, I should like to know a prettier
than the dining-room of the “United States” at
Saratoga.
Kurz Pacha, the Sennaar minister, who was up
there, and who is so smitten with Mrs. Potiphar,
said that he had known few happier moments in
this country than the dining jour at the “United
States.”
“When the gong sounds,” says he, “I am reminded
of the martial music of Sennaar. When
I seat myself in the midst of such splendor of
toilette, and in an apartment so stately and so
appropriate for that display, I recall the taste
of the Crim Tartars, to whose ruler I had the
honor of being first accredited ambassador.
When I behold, with astonished eyes, the entrance
of that sable society, the measured echo
of whose footfalls so properly silences the conversation
of all the nobles, I seem to see the
regular army of my beloved Sennaar investing
a conquered city. This, I cry to myself, with
enthusiasm, this is the height of civilization; and
I privately hand one of the privates in that grand
army, a gold dollar, to bring me a dish of beans.
I say to myself with rapture, should be well
worth its weight in gold, when served to such
a congress of kings, queens, and hereditary prince
royals as are assembled here. And I find,” continues
the Pacha, “that I am right. The guest
at this banquet is admitted to the freedom of
corn and potatoes, only after negotiations with
the sable military. It is quite the perfection of
organization. What hints I shall gather for the
innocent pleasure-seekers of Sennaar, who still
fancy that when they bargain for a draught of
rose sherbet, they have tacitly agreed for a glass
to drink it from!
“Why, the first day I came,” he went on, “I
was going to my room, and met the chamber-maid
coming out. Now, as I had paid a colored
gentleman a dollar for my dinner, in addition to
the little bill which I settle at the office, I thought
it was equally necessary to secure my bed by a
slight fee to the goddess of the chambers. I
therefore pulled out my purse, and offered her
a bill of a small amount. She turned the color
of tomatoes.
“ `Sir,' exclaimed she, and with dignity, `do
you mean to insult me?'
“ `Good heavens, miss,' cried I, `quite the
contrary,' and thinking it was not enough, I presented
another bill of a larger amount.
“ `Sir,' said she, half sobbing, `you are no gentleman;
I shall leave the house!'
“I was very much perplexed. I began again:
“ `Miss—my dear—I mean madam—how much
must I pay you to secure my room?'
“ `I don't understand you, sir,' replied the
chambermaid, somewhat mollified.
“ `Why, my dear girl, if I paid Sambo a dollar
for my dinner, I expect to pay Dolly something
for my chamber, of course.'
“ `Well, sir, you are certainly very kind, I—
with pleasure, I'm sure,' replied she, entirely appeased,
taking the money, and vanishing.
“I,” said Kurz Pacha, “entered my room and
locked the door. But I believe I was a little
hasty about giving her the money. The perfection
of civilization has not yet mounted the stairs.
It is confined to the dining-room. How beautiful
is that strain from the Favorita, Miss Minerva,
Sennaar ambassador, seeing Mrs. Potiphar in
the parlor, danced, humming, away.
There are few pleasanter men in society. I
should think with his experience he would be
hard upon us, but he is not. The air of courts
does not seem to have spoiled him.
“My dear madam,” he said one evening to
Mrs. Potiphar, “if you laugh at any thing, your
laughing is laughed at next day. Life is short.
If you can't see the jewel in the toad's head, still
believe in it. Take it for granted. The Parisienne
says that the English woman has no je ne sais
quoi. The English woman says the Parisienne has
no aplomb. Amen! When you are in Turkey
—why, gobble. Why should I decline to have a
good time at the Queen's drawing-room, because
English women have no je ne sais quoi, or at
the grand opera, because French women lack
aplomb? Take things smoothly. Life is a merry-go-round.
Look at your own grandfather, dear
Mrs. Potiphar,—fine old gentleman, I am told,—
rather kept in what the artists call the middle-distance,
at present,—a capital shoemaker, who
did no more:—well, here you are, you see, with
liveries and a pew in the right church, and altogether
a front seat in the universe—merry-go-round,
you know; here we go up, up, up; here
we go down, down, down, &c. By-the-bye, pretty
strain that from Linda; tum tum, ti tum tum,”
and away hopped the Sennaar minister.
Mrs. Potiphar was angry. Who wouldn't have
been? To have the old family shoes thrown in
one's teeth! But our ambassador is an ambassador.
One must have the best society, and she
swallowed it as she has swallowed it a hundred
times before. She quietly remarked—
“Pity Kurz Pacha drinks so abominably. He
quite forgets what he's saying!”
I suppose he does, if Mrs. P. says so; but he
seems to know well enough all the time: as he
did that evening in the library at Mrs. Potiphar's,
when he drew Cerulea Bass to the book-shelves,
and began to dispute about a line in Milton, and
then suddenly looking up at the books, said—
“Ah! there's Milton; now we'll see.” But
when he opened the case, which was foolishly left
bound in blue morocco, which he turned slowly
over, so that every body saw it, and then quietly
returned it to the shelf, saying only—
“I beg pardon.”
Old Pot., as Mrs. P. calls him, happened to
be passing at the moment, and cried out in his
brusque way—
“Oh! I haven't laid in my books yet. Those
are only samples—pattern-cards, you know. I
don't believe you'll find there a single book
that a gentleman's library shouldn't be without.
I got old Vellum to do the thing up right, you
know. I guess he knows about the books to
buy. But I've just laid in some claret that
you'll like, and I've got a sample of the Steinberg.
Old Corque understands that kind of thing,
if any body does.” And the two gentlemen
went off to try the wine.
I am astonished that a man of Kurz Pacha's
tact should have opened the book-case. People
have no right to suppose that the pretty bindings
on one's shelves are books. Why, they
might as well insist upon trying if the bloom
in fact, one's figure, were real. Such things
are addressed to the eye. No gentleman uses
his hands in good society. I've no doubt they
were originally put into gloves to keep them
out of mischief.
I am as bad as dear Mrs. Potiphar about coming
to the point of my story. But the truth is,
that in such engrossing places as Saratoga and
Newport, it is hardly possible to determine which
is the pleasantest and most important thing among
so many. I am so fond of that old, droll Kurz
Pacha, that if I begin to talk about him I forget
every thing else. He says such nice things about
people that nobody else would dare to say, and
that every body is so glad to hear. He is invaluable
in society. And yet one is never safe.
People say he isn't gentlemanly; but when I see
the style of man that is called gentlemanly, I am
very glad he is not. All the solemn, pompous
men who stand about like owls, and never speak,
nor laugh, nor move, as if they really had any life
or feeling, are called “gentlemanly.” Whenever
Tabby says of a new man—“But then he is so
case of the well-dressed wooden image.
Good heavens! do you suppose Sir Philip Sidney,
or the Chevalier Bayard, or Charles Fox,
were “gentlemanly” in this way? Confectioners
who undertake parties might furnish scores of
such gentlemen, with hands and feet of any
required size, and warranted to do nothing “ungentlemanly.”
For my part, I am inclined to
think that a gentleman is something positive,
not merely negative. And if sometimes my
friend the Pacha says a rousing and wholesome
truth, it is none the less gentlemanly because it
cuts a little. He says it's very amusing to observe
how coolly we play this little farce of life,—
how placidly people get entangled in a mesh at
which they all rail, and how fiercely they frown
upon any body who steps out of the ring. “You
tickle me and I'll tickle you; but, at all events,
you tickle me,” is the motto of the crowd.
“Allons!” says he, “who cares? lead off to
the right and left—down the middle and up
again. Smile all round, and bow gracefully to
your partner; then carry your heavy heart up
cheerfully, my dear Miss Minerva.—Saratoga
until August, then Newport till the frost,
the city afterwards; and so an endless round of
happiness.”
And he steps off humming Il segreto per esser
felice!
Well, we were all sitting in the great drawing-room
at the “United States.” We had been
bowling in our morning dresses, and had rushed
in to ascertain if the distinguished English party
had arrived. They had not. They were in New
York, and would not come. That was bad, but
we thought of Newport and probable scions of
nobility there, and were consoled. But while we
were in the midst of the talk, and I was whispering
very intimately with that superb and aristocratic
Nancy Fungus, who should come in but
father, walking toward us with a wearied air, dragging
his feet along, but looking very well dressed
for him. I smiled sweetly when I saw that he
was quite presentable, and had had the good sense
to leave that odious white hat in his room, and
had buttoned his waistcoat. The party stopped
me.
“Minna, my dear,” said he, “I hear every
body is going to Newport.”
“Oh! yes, dear father,” I replied, and Nancy
Fungus smiled. Father looked pleased to see me
so intimate with a girl he always calls “so aristocratic
and high-bred-looking,” and he said to
her—
“I believe your mother is going, Miss Fungus?”
“Oh! yes, we always go,” replied she, “one
must have a few weeks of Newport.”
“Precisely, my dear,” said poor papa, as if he
rather dreaded it, but must consent to the hard
necessity of fashion. “They say, Minna, that all
the parvenus are going this year, so I suppose
we shall have to go along.”
There was a blow! There was perfect silence
for a moment, while poor pa looked amiable, as
if he couldn't help embellishing his conversation
with French graces. I waited in horror; for I
knew that the girls were all tittering inside, and
every moment it became more absurd. Then out
shoulder, and fairly shook with laughter. The
others hid behind their fans, and the men suddenly
walked off to the windows, and slipped
on to the piazza. Papa looked bewildered, and
half smiled. But it was a very melancholy business,
and I told him that he had better go up and
dress for dinner.
It was impossible to stay after that. The unhappy
slip became the staple of Saratoga conversation.
Young Boosey (Mrs. Potiphar's witty
friend) asked Morris audibly at dinner, “Where
do the parvenus sit? I want to sit among the
parvenus.”
“Of course you do, sir,” answered Morris, supposing
he meant the circle of the crême de la crême.
And so the thing went on multiplaying itself.
Poor papa doesn't understand it yet. I don't dare
to explain. Old Fungus, who prides himself so
upon his family (it is one of the very ancient and
honorable Virginia families, that came out of the
ark with Noah, as Kurz Pacha says of his ancestors,
when he hears that the founder of a family
“came over with the Conqueror,”) and who can
bar-room, while a large party of gentlemen were
drinking cobblers, and said to him with a loud
laugh:
“So, all the parvenus are going to Newport:
are they, Tattle?”
“Yes!” replied pa, innocently, “that's what
they say. So I suppose we shall all have to go,
Fungus.”
There was another roar that time, but not from
the representative of Noah's Ark. It was rather
thin joking, but it did very well for the warm
weather, and I was glad to hear a laugh against
any body but poor pa.
We came to Newport, but the story came
before us, and I have been very much annoyed
at it. I know it is foolish for me to think of
it. Kurz Pacha said—
“My dear Miss Minerva, I have no doubt it
would pain you more to be thought ignorant
of French than capable of deceit. Yet it is a
very innocent ignorance of your father's. Nobody
is bound to know French; but you all lay so
much stress upon it, as if it were the whole duty
that any ignorance becomes at once ludicrous.
It's all your own doing. You make a very
natural thing absurd, and then grieve because
some friend becomes a victim. There is your
friend Nancy Fungus, who `speaks French as
well as she does English.' That may be true;
but you ought to add, that one is of just as
much use to her as the other—that is, of no
use at all, except to communicate platitudes.
What is the use of a girl's learning French to
be able to say to young Tête de Choux, that
it is a very warm day, and that Newport is
charmante. I don't suppose the knowledge of
French is going to supply her with ideas to
express. A girl who is flat in her native English,
will hardly be spirituelle in her exotic French.
It is a delightful language for the natives, and
for all who have thoroughly mastered its spirit.
Its genius is airy and sparkling. It is especially
the language of society, because society is,
theoretically, the playful encounter of sprightliness
and wit. It is the worst language I know
of for poetry, ethics, and the habit of the Saxon
masters as Balzac and George Sand, and is
especially adapted to their purposes. Yet their
books are forbidden to Nancy Fungus, Tabby
Dormouse, Daisy Clover, and all their relations.
They read Telemaque, and long to be married,
that they may pry into Leila and Indiana: their
French, meanwhile, even if they wanted to know
any thing of French literature,—which is too
absurd an idea,—serves them only to say nothing
to uncertain hairy foreigners who haunt society,
and to understand their nothings, in response.
I am really touched for this Ariel, this tricksy
sprite of speech, when I know that it must do
the bidding of those who can never fit its airy
felicity to any worthy purpose. I have tried
these accomplished damsels who speak French
and Italian as well as they do English. But
our conversation was only a clumsy translation
of English commonplace. And yet, Miss Minerva,
I think even so sensible a woman as you, looks
with honor and respect upon one of that class.
Dear me! excuse me! What am I thinking of?
I'm engaged to drive little Daisy Clover on the
garnish their conversation with French scraps.
Really you must pardon me, if she is a friend
of yours; but that dry, gentlemanly fellow,
D'Orsay Firkin, says that Miss Clover's conversation
is a dish of tête de veau farci. Aren't
you coming to the beach? Every body goes to-day.
Mrs. Gnu has arrived, and the Potiphars
are here,—that is, Mrs. P. Old Pot. arrives on
Sunday morning early, and is off again on Monday
evening. He's grown very quiet and docile.
Mrs. P. usually takes him a short drive on
Monday morning, and he comes to dinner in a
white waistcoat. In fact, as Mrs. Potiphar
says, `My husband has not the air distingué
which I should be pleased to see in him, but
he is quite as well as could be expected.'
Upon which Firkin twirls his hat in a significant
way; you and I smile intelligently, dear
Miss Minerva; Mrs. Green and Mrs. Settum
Downe exchange glances; we all understand
Mrs. Potiphar and each other, and Mrs. Potiphar
understands us, and it is all very sweet
and pleasant, and the utmost propriety is observed,
out of hearing, and then say in the very softest
whispers, that it was a remarkably true observation.
This is the way to take life, my dear
lady. Let us go gently. Here we go backwards
and forwards. You tickle, and I'll tickle,
and we'll all tickle, and here we go round—
round—roundy!”
And the Sennaar minister danced out of the
room.
He is a droll man, and I don't quite understand
him. Of course I don't entirely like him, for it
always seems as if he meant something a little
different from what he says. Laura Larmes,
who reads all the novels, and rolls her great
eyes around the ball-room,—who laughs at the
idea of such a girl as Blanche Amory in Pendennis,—who
would be pensive if she were not so
plump,—who likes “nothing so much as walking
on the cliff by moonlight,”—who wonders
that girls should want to dance on warm summer
nights when they have Nature, “and such
nature,” before them,—who, in fact, would be a
mere emotion if she were not a bouncing girl,—
happy as Kurz Pacha.
“Ah! Kurz Pacha,” she says to him as they
stroll upon the piazza, after he has been dancing
(for the minister dances, and swears it is essential
to diplomacy to dance well), “are you really so
very happy? Is it possible you can be so gay?
Do you find nothing mournful in life?”
“Nothing, my best Miss Laura,” he replies, “to
speak of; as somebody said of religion. You,
who devote yourself to melancholy, the moon,
and the source of tears, are not so very sad as
you think. You cry a good deal, I don't doubt.
But when grief goes below tears, and forces you
in self-defence to try to forget it, not to sit and
fondle it,—then you will understand more than
you do now. I pity those of your sex, upon
whom has fallen the reaction of wealth,—for
whom there is no career,—who must sit at
home and pine in a splendid ennui,—who have
learned and who know, spite of sermons and
`sound, sensible views of things,' that to enjoy
the high `privilege' of reading books,—of cultivating
their minds, and, when they are married,
drowsy, after-dinner ease of their husbands, is
not the fulfilment of their powers and hopes.
But, my amiable Miss Larmes, this is a class of
girls and women who are not solicitous about
wearing black when their great-aunt in Denmark
dies, whom they never saw, nor when the only
friend who made heaven possible to them, falls
dead at their sides. Nor do they avoid Mrs.
Potiphar's balls as a happiness which they are
not happy enough to enjoy—nor do they suppose
that all who attend that festivity—dancing to Mrs.
P.'s hired music and drinking Mr. P.'s fine wines
—are utterly given over to hilarity and superficial
enjoyment. I do not even think they would be
likely to run—with rounded eyes, deep voice,
and in very exuberant health—to any one of us
jaded votaries of fashion, and say, How can you
be so happy? My considerate young friend,
`strong walls do not a prison make,'—nor is a
man necessarily happy because he hops. You
are certainly not unhappy because you make
eyes at the moon, and adjudge life to be vanity
and vexation. Your mind is only obscured by
the dew, and when you remember them at evening
they will seem to you but as pensive splendors
of the dawn.”
Laura has her revenge for all this snubbing,
of course. She does not attempt to disguise her
opinion that Kurz Pacha is a man of “foreign
morals,” as she well expresses it. “A very gay,
agreeable man, who glides gently over the surface
of things, but knows nothing of the real
trials and sorrows of life,” says the melancholy
Laura Larmes, whose appetite continues good,
and who fills a large armchair comfortably.
It is my opinion, however, that people of a
certain size should cultivate the hilarious rather
than the unhappy. Diogenes, with the proportions
of Alderman Gobble, could not have succeeded
as a Cynic.
Here at Newport there is endless opportunity
of detecting these little absurdities of our fellow-creatures.
In fact, one of the greatest charms
of a watering-place, to me, is the facility one
enjoys of understanding the whole game, which
is somewhat concealed in the city. Watering-place
We all enjoy a kind of false intimacy,
an accidental friendship. Old Carbuncle and
young Topaz meet on the common ground of a
good cigar. Mrs. Peony and Daisy Clover are
intimate at all hours. Why?
Because, on the
one hand, Mrs. P. knows that youth, and grace,
and beauty, are attractive to men, and that if
Miss Rosa Peony, her daughter, has not those
advantages, it is well to have in the neighborhood
a magnet strong enough to draw the men.
On the other hand, Daisy Clover is a girl of
good sense enough to know—even if she didn't
know it by instinct—that men in public places
like the prestige of association with persons of
acknowledged social position, which, by hook
or by crook, Mrs. Peony undoubtedly enjoys.
Therefore to be of Mrs. P.'s party is to be well
placed in the catalogue—the chances are fairer
—the gain is surer. Upon seeing Daisy Clover
with quiet little Mrs. Clover, or plain old aunt
Honeysuckle,—people would inquire, Who are
the Clovers? And no one would know. But
to be with Mrs. Peony, morning, noon, and
But, unhappily, in the city things are changed.
There no attraction is necessary but the fine
house, gay parties, and understood rank of Mrs.
Peony to draw men to Miss Rosa's side. In
Newport it does very well not to dance with
her. But in the city it doesn't do not to be at
Mrs. Peony's ball. Who knows it so well as
that excellent lady? Therefore darling Daisy
is dropped a little when we all return.
“Sweet girl,” Mrs. P. says, “really a delightful
companion for Rosa in the summer, and the
father and mother are such nice, excellent
people. Not exactly people that one knows, to
be sure—but Miss Daisy is really amiable and
quite accomplished.”
Daisy goes to an occasional party at the
Peony's. But at the opera and the theatre, and
at the small, intimate parties of Rosa and her
friends, the darling Daisy of Newport is not
visible. However, she has her little revenges.
She knows the Peonys well: and can talk intelligently
about them, which puts her quite on
set. She rules in the lower sphere, if not in
the higher, and Daisy Clover is in the way of
promotion. Yes, and if she be very rich, and
papa and mamma are at all presentable, or if
they can be dexterously hushed up, there is no
knowing but Miss Daisy Clover will suddenly
bloom upon the world as Mrs. P.'s daughter-in-law,
wife of that “gentlemanly” young man,
Mr. Puffer Peony.
Naturally it pains me very much to be
obliged to think so of the people with whom I
associate. But I suppose they are as good as
any. As Kurz Pacha says: “If I fly from a
Chinaman because he wears his hair long like
a woman, I must equally fly the Frenchman
because he shaves his like a lunatic. The story
of Jack Spratt is the apologue of the world.”
It is astonishing how intimate he is with our
language and literature. By-the-bye, that Polly
Potiphar has been mean enough to send out to
Paris for the very silk that I relied upon as
this summer's cheval de bataille, and has just received
it superbly made up. The worst of it is
at the ball the other night, and expected to
have crushed me, in mine. Not she! I have
not summered it at Newport for—well, for
several years, for nothing, and although I am
rather beyond the strict white muslin age, I
thought I could yet venture a bold stroke. So
I arrayed à la Daisy Clover,—not too much, pas
trop jeune. And awaited the onset.
Kurz Pacha saw me across the room, and
came up, with his peculiar smile. He did not
look at my dress, but he said to me, rather
wickedly, looking at my boquet:
“Dear me! I hardly hoped to see spring
flowers so late in the summer.”
Then he raised his eyes to mine, and I am
conscious that I blushed.
“It's very warm. You feel very warm, I am
sure, my dear Miss Tattle,” he continued, looking
straight at my face.
“You are sufficiently cool, at least, I think,”
replied I.
“Naturally,” said he, “for I've been in the
immediate vicinity of the boreal pole for half
even the most ardent spirits sometimes freeze—
so you must pardon me if I am more than
usually dull, Miss Minerva.”
And the Pacha beat time to the waltz with
his head.
I looked at the part of the room from which
he had just come, and there, sure enough, in
the midst of a group, I saw the tall, and stately,
and still Ada Aiguille.
“He is a hardy navigator,” continued Kurz
Pacha, “who sails for the boreal pole. It is
glittering enough, but shipwreck by daylight
upon a coral reef, is no pleasanter than by night
upon Newport shoals.”
“Have you been shipwrecked, Kurz Pacha?”
asked I suddenly.
He laughed softly: “No, Miss Minerva, I am
not one of the hardy navigators; I keep close
in to the shore. Upon the slightest symptom
of an agitated sea, I furl my sails, and creep
into a safe harbor. Besides, dear Miss Minna,
I prefer tropical cruises to the Antarctic voyage.”
And the old wretch actually looked at my
his taste, perhaps, who knows?—when
I saw Mrs. Potiphar. She was splendidly dressed
in the silk, and it's a pity she doesn't become
a fine dress better. She made for me directly.
“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
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 rather prononcè for 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 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 Crœsus “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 any body's being enthusiastic
about any thing. 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. Crœsus?”
“Tolerably,” returned Timon.
“Oh! but Mr. Crœsus! to go to the glen
and skip stones, and to 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,
it's a splendid place. But, perhaps, you don't
like natural scenery, Mr. Crœsus?”
“Perhaps not,” said Mr. Crœsus.
“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.
“Kruz 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 drygoods by the yard in
Buffalo.”
“Well, but he doesn'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
I am told, very intelligent. But, you know,
we can't be visiting our shoemakers and shop-men.
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
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 people through the blinds.
I'm afraid, myself, it's coming to that. Every
body 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.
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 French régime. 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
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 a lionne cannot be a lady,—who imitates
the worst manners of foreign society, without
the ability or opportunity of perceiving the best,
—who prefers a double entendre to a bon-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
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 a hors d'œuvre as little Mrs. Vite,
what will you do with such a pièce de résistance as
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,
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
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-redowas ad 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
Clover thinks it's heavenly. Darling little Daisy!
life is an endless German cotillon 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
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, not-withstanding.
You couldn't bring old Potiphar
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 apprehension 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 any
where else,—perhaps it isn't,—in most ways it
cetainly is not. I don't say, cetainly, that
there's a higher tone of life in London or Paris
than in New York, but only that, whatever it
business.”
“What is your theory of life, then?” asked I.
“What do you propose?”
Kurz Pacha smiled again.
“Suppose, Miss Minerva, I say the Golden Rule
is my theory of 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
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 mean while. 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 any thing less, because
I would see it better. You are the natural
fruit of this state of things, O Minerva Tattle!
By their 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'm 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
Don't make faces at Mrs. Vite, nor growl
at your darling Polly. Women as smart as you
are, will say precisely as smart things 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 Crœ
sus, 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
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.
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