The Potiphar papers (Reprinted from "Putnam's monthly") |
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The Potiphars in Paris.
A LETTER FROM MISS CAROLINE PETTITOES TO MRS.
SETTUM DOWNE. |
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 | The Potiphar papers |  |
V.
The Potiphars in Paris.
A LETTER FROM MISS CAROLINE PETTITOES TO MRS.
SETTUM DOWNE.
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 our petits soupers in Paris, hey Cræ
sus?” and then he and Mr. Timon Cræsus lifted
their brows knowingly, and smiled, and glanced
compassionately around the table.
“Paris, Paris!” cried Mrs. Potiphar; “you
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 emphasizing missed, 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 Crœsus
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
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 the
air of paying a great compliment:
“To offer you a bouquet, madame, would be to
throw pearls before swine.”
We were all silent 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,
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 don'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
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 many bon mots as 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
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
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 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
arm tenderly. It was an unsual 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 let
her good 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 “to-morrow” 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 every where we
were going, and every body congratulated us.
Our party met at the Bowling Alley, and we
began to make all kinds of plans.
“Oh! we'll take 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
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
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 right this time?) 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 a
Parisienne in Paris. Why, there is not a chiffonier
in the street at midnight that couldn't
see straight through the little woman, and nothing
would better please the Jardin Mabille
than 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. Every body 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 every body 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 River,
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 River 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 every thing 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,”
why not be cool about it? Beside, 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 any thing, 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
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 any thing.
“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
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 thy 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
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! how could I think so! Just fancy a
place where not only your own maid speaks
French, but where every body, the porters, the
coachmen, the chambermaids, can't speak any
thing 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—“every body,” as
Kurz Pacha said to me, the morning after our
arrival (for he insisted upon coming, “it was
such a freak,” he said,) “every body rolls in a
luxury of French, and, according to the boarding-school
standard, is happy.”
Every body—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
Firkin said that the Hotel Bristol was more
récherché.
“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 the Barrière,” 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 declarer?” 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 every thing 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.
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 is numero 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—O trorsy—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! do you?” asked Mr. P.,
with astonishment.
“I speaks every languages, sare,” replied the
other, “and we will use the English, if you please.
But Monsieur speaks très bien the 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 came regularly to see us, and
laughed more than I ever saw him laugh before.
The young men were away a great deal, which
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 more spirituel,” 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 the Bois 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
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 searcely 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 every thing 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,
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 French esprit, as Kurz Pacha calls it, that he
for him; upon which she smiled in the most bewitching
manner, and bringing out a large box of
gloves, selected a pair of an exquisite nuance, 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
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 every thing 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 the
Messieurs Americains are 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
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 any body 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 every thing
even Kurz Pacha says, “for I have never found
any thing prononcé in 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 entreé,” whispered the Pacha
is the heiress presumptive of the Camanchees.”
“No, really; what is the Camanchees?” 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, “preparatory
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
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
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 the Café
de Paris, the Trois Frères, and the Maison Dorée.
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 the Vaudeville, the Varietés, and the Montansier,
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 the Louvre, 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 fêtes
as those of the Champs Elysées, such shops as
those of the Passages, and the Palais 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, and je ne sais quoi,
enough to make Diogenes a dandy, to obtain their
favor? I think, dear Madame, you would be
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
Sorrento 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 toward 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 Alp. We will
devote a summer week to the one, and a winter
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've 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 eat savarins every
morning at 12, and we drive in the Bois de
Boulogne in 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
studying his Galignani's Guide, and frequents the
English Reading 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.”
“You evidently do not, sir,” replied one gentleman.
“No, sir; you're right there,” answered Mr. P.
But he couldn't get another word from his companion.
In this delightful round the weeks glide by.
“You must be enjoying yourself immensely,”
says the Pacha. “You understand life, my dear
Mrs. Potiphar. Here you are, speaking very little
French, in a city where the language is an atmos
phere, and where you are in no sense acclimated
until you can speak it fluently—with all French
life shut out from you—living in a hotel—cheated
by butcher, baker, and candlestick-maker—going
to hear plays that you imperfectly understand—to
your box is filled with your own countrymen, who
are delightful, indeed, but whom you didn't come
to Paris to see—constantly buying a hundred
things because they are pretty, and because you
are in Paris—entirely ignorant, and quite as careless,
of the historical interests of the city, of the
pictures, of the statues, and buildings—surrounded
by celebrities of all kinds, of whom you never
heard, and therefore lose the opportunity of seeing
them—in fact, paying the most extravagant price
for every thing, and purchasing only the consciousness
of being in Paris—why, who ought to
be happy, and considered to be having a fine time
of it, if you are not? How naturally you will
sigh for all this when you return and recur to
Paris as the culmination of human bliss! Here's
my honored Potiphar, who has this morning been
taken to a darkened room in a grand old house,
in a lonely, aristocratic street; and there a picture-agent
has shown him a splendid Nicolas Poussin,
painted in his prime for the family, whose heir in
reduced circumstances must now part with it at a
tearful sacrifice. Honored P.'s friend, the commissionaire,
stands sadly meditating the sacrifice with which
his duty acquaints him. He informs the good P.,
through the friendly commissionaire, that he has
been induced to offer him the picture, not only
because all Americans have so fine a taste (as his
experience has proved to him) in paintings, nor
because they are so much more truly munificent
than the nobility of other nations, but because the
heir in reduced circumstances wishes to think of
the picture as entirely removed from the possibility
of being seen in France. Family pride,
which is almost crushed in disposing of so great
and valued a work, would be entirely quenched,
if the sale were to be known, and the picture recognized
elsewhere in the country. Monsieur is a
gentleman, and he will understand the feelings of a
gentleman under such circumstances. The commissionaire
and the picture-agent therefore preserve a
profound silence, and my honored friend feels for
his red bandanna, and is not comfortable in the
lonely old house, with the picture and the people.
The agent says that it is not unusual for the
owner to visit the picture about that very hour, to
knock should be he, it would not be very remarkable.
The heir enters. He has a very
heavy moustache, dark hair, and a slightly
Hebrew cast of countenance.
“Mr. Potiphar is introduced. The heir contemplates
the picture sadly, and he and the agent
point out its beauties to each other. In fine, my
honored Potiphar buys the work of art. To any
one else, of course, in France, for instance, the
price should be eleven thousand francs. But the
French and the Americans have fraternized; a
thousand frances shall be deducted.
“You see clearly it's quite worth while coming
to Paris to do this, because, I suppose, there are
not more than ten or twenty artists at home who
could paint ten or twenty times as good a picture
for a quarter of the price. But you, dearest Mrs.
P., who know all about pictures, naturally don't
want American pictures in your house, any more
than you want any thing else American there.
“My young friends and allies, Messrs. Boosey,
Firkin, and Crœsus, say that they come to Paris
to see the world. They get the words wrong, you
world at home) may not see them. To accompany
Mesdames de Papillon and Casta Diva to
the opera, then to return to beautifully furnished
apartments to sup, and to prolong the entertainment
until morning, is what those charming
youths mean when they say `see the world.' To
attend at that réunion of the Haut Ton, Monsieur
Celarius' dancing academy, is to see good society
in Paris, after the manner of those dashing men
of the world. It's amusing enough, and it's innocent
enough, in its way. They won't go very
far. They'll spend a good deal of money for nothing.
They'll be plucked at gaming-houses.
They'll be quietly laughed at by Mesdames de
Papillon and Casta Diva, and the male friends
of those ladies who enjoy the benefit of the lavish
bounty of our young Crœsuses and Firkins.
They'll swagger a good deal, and take airs, and
come home and indulge in foreign habits, now
grown indispensable. They will pronounce upon
the female toilette, and upon the gantier le plus
comme il faut, in Paris. They will beg your pardon
for expressing a little phrase in French—to
will have, necessarily, the foreign air. Some of
them will settle away into business men, and be
very exemplary. Others will return to Paris, as
moths to the light, asserting that the only place
for a gentleman to live agreeably, to indulge his
tastes, and get the most for his money, is Paris—
which is strictly true of such gentlemen as they.
A view of life that starts from the dinner-table,
inevitably selects Paris for its career. For, obviously,
if you live to dine well you must live
where there is good cooking.
“You women are rather worse off than the
young men, Mrs. P.; because you are necessarily
so much more confined to the house. Unless, indeed,
you imitate Mrs. Vite, who goes wherever
the gentlemen go, and who is famous as L'Américaine.
If you like that sort of thing, you can
do as much of it as you please. It will always
surround you with a certain kind of man,—and
withdraw from your society a certain kind of
woman, and a certain kind of respect.
“To conclude my sermon, ladies, Europe is a
charmed name to Americans, because in Europe
History is the story of that hemisphere; the
ruins of empires, arts, and civilizations, are here.
Now, if there is any use in living at all, which I
am far from asserting, is it worth while to get
nothing out of Europe but a prolonged supper
with Madame Casta Diva, or a wardrobe of all the
charming dresses in Paris, and a facility of scandal
which has all the wickedness and none of the
wit of the finest Frenchwoman? I beg a thousand
pardons for preaching, but the text was altogether
too pregnant.”
And so Kurz Pacha whirled out of the room,
humming a waltz of Strauss. He has heard of his
recall to Sennaar since he has been here—and we
shall hear nothing more of him. We, too, leave
Paris in a few days for home, and you will not
hear from us again. Mrs. Potiphar has been as
busy as possible getting up the greatest variety
of dresses. You will see that she has not been
to Paris for nothing. Kurz Pacha asked us if we
had been to the Louvre, where the great pictures
are. But when I inquired if there were any of Mr.
Düsseldorf's there, and he said no, why, of course,
works than I do of any others, I didn't go. There
are some very pretty things there, Mr. Boosey
says. But ladies have no time for such matters.
Do you know, the other evening we went to the
ball at the Tuileries, and oh! it was splendid.
There were one duke and three marquesses, and
a great many counts, presented to me. They all
said, “It's charming, this evening,” and I said,
“very charming, indeed.” Wasn't it nice?
But you should have seen Mrs. Potiphar when
the Emperor Napoleon III. spoke to her. You
know what a great man he is, and what a benefactor
to his country, and how pure, and noble,
and upright his private character and career have
been; and how, as Kurz Pacha said, he is radiant
with royalty, and honors every body to whom
he speaks. Well, Mrs. P. was presented, and
sank almost to the ground in her reverence. But
she actually trembled with delight when the Emperor
said:
“Madame, I remember with the greatest pleasure
the beautiful city of New York.”
I am sure the Empress Eugenie would have
which it was said. Wasn't it affable in such a
great monarch towards a mere republican? I
wonder how people can slander him so, and tell
such stories about him. I never saw a nicer
man; only he looks sleepy. I suppose the cares
of state oppress him, poor man! But one thing
you may be sure of, dear Mrs. Downe, if people
at home laugh at the Emperor and condemn him,
just find out if they have ever been invited to the
Tuileries. If not, you will understand the reason
of their hatred. Mrs. Potiphar says to the Americans
here that she can't hear the Emperor spoken
against, for they are on the best of terms.
“Of course the French dislike him,” says Mr.
Firkin, who has a turn for politics, “for they
want a republic before they are ready for it.”
How you would enjoy all this, dear, and how
sorry I am you are not here. I think Mr. Poti-phar
is rather disconsolate. He whistles and
looks out of the window down into the garden
of the Tuileries, where the children play under
the trees; and as he looks he stops whistling,
and gazes sometimes for half an hour; and
buy something for Freddy. When the shopkeeper
asks where it shall be sent, Mr. P. says,
in a loud, slow voice—“Hotel Mureece, Kattery-vang-sank-o-trorsyaim.”
It is astonishing, as Kurz Pacha said, that we
are not more respected abroad. “Foreigners will
never know what you really are,” said he to Mr.
P., “until they come to you. Your going to
them has failed.”
Good, bye, dearest Mrs. Downe. We are so
sorry to come home! You won't hear from us
again.
| The Potiphar papers | |