Of course I had at once left the letters of introduction which Aunt
Carola had given me; but in my ignorance of Kings Port hours I had
found everybody at dinner when I made my first round of calls between
half-past three and five--an experience particularly regrettable, since
I had hurried my own dinner on purpose, not then aware that the hours at
my boarding-house were the custom of the whole town. (These hours
even since my visit to Kings Port, are beginning to change. But such
backsliding is much condemned.) Upon an afternoon some days later,
having seen in the extra looking-glass, which I had been obliged to
provide for myself, that the part in my back hair was perfect, I set
forth again, better informed.
As I rang the first doorbell, another visitor came up the steps, a
beautiful old lady in widow’s dress, a cardcase in her hand.
“Have you rung, sir?” said she, in a manner at once gentle and
voluminous.
“Yes, madam.”
Nevertheless she pulled it again. “It doesn’t always ring,” she
explained, “unless one is accustomed to it, which you are not.”
She addressed me with authority, exactly like Aunt Carola, and with even
greater precision in her good English and good enunciation. Unlike the
girl at the Exchange, she had no accent; her language was simply
the perfection of educated utterance; it also was racy with the free
censoriousness which civilized people of consequence are apt to exercise
the world over. “I was sorry to miss your visit,” she began (she knew
me, you see, perfectly); “you will please to come again soon, and
console me for my disappointment. I am Mrs. Gregory St. Michael, and my
house is in Le Maire Street (Pronounced in Kings Port, Lammarree) as you
have been so civil as to find out. And how does your Aunt Carola do in
these contemptible times? You can tell her from me that vulgarization is
descending, even upon Kings Port.”
“I cannot imagine that!” I exclaimed.
“You cannot imagine it because you don’t know anything about it, young
gentleman! The manners of some of our own young people will soon be as
dishevelled as those in New York. Have you seen our town yet, or is it
all books with you? You should not leave without a look at what is
still left of us. I shall be happy if you will sit in my pew on Sunday
morning. Your Northern shells did their best in the bombardment--did
you say that you rang? I think you had better pull it again; all the
way out; yes, like that--in the bombardment, but we have our old
church still, in spite of you. Do you see the crack in that wall? The
earthquake did it. You’re spared earthquakes in the North, as you seem
to be spared pretty much everything disastrous--except the prosperity
that’s going to ruin you all. We’re better off with our poverty than
you. Just ring the bell once more, and then we’ll go. I fancy Julia--I
fancy Mrs. Weguelin St. Michael--has run out to stare at the Northern
steam yacht in the harbor. It would be just like her. This house is
historic itself. Shabby enough now, to be sure! The great-aunt of my
cousin, John Mayrant (who is going to be married next Wednesday, to such
a brute of a girl, poor boy!), lived here in 1840, and made an answer
to the Earl of Mainridge that put him in his place. She was our famous
Kings Port wit, and at the reception which her father (my mother’s
uncle) gave the English visitor, he conducted himself as so many
Englishmen seem to think they can in this country. Miss Beaufain
(pronounced in Kings Port, Bowfayne), as she was then, asked the Earl
how he liked America; and he replied, very well, except for the people,
who were so vulgar. ‘What can you expect?’ said Miss Beaufain; ‘we’re
descended from the English.’ Mrs. St. Michael is out, and the servant
has gone home. Slide this card under the door, with your own, and come
away.”
She took me with her, moving through the quiet South Place with a
leisurely grace and dignity at which my spirit rejoiced; she was so
beautiful, and so easy, and afraid of nothing and nobody! (This must be
modified. I came later to suspect that they all stood in some dread of
their own immediate families.)
In the North, everybody is afraid of something: afraid of the
legislature, afraid of the trusts, afraid of the strikes, afraid of what
the papers will say, of what the neighbors will say, of what the cook
will say; and most of all, and worst of all, afraid to be different
from the general pattern, afraid to take a step or speak a syllable that
shall cause them to be thought unlike the monotonous millions of their
fellow-citizens; the land of the free living in ceaseless fear! Well,
I was already afraid of Mrs. Gregory St. Michael. As we walked and she
talked, I made one or two attempts at conversation, and speedily found
that no such thing was the lady’s intention: I was there to listen; and
truly I could wish nothing more agreeable, in spite of my desire to hear
further about next Wednesday’s wedding and the brute of a girl. But to
this subject Mrs. St. Michael did not return. We crossed Worship Street
and Chancel Street, and were nearing the East Place where a cannon was
being shown me, a cannon with a history and an inscription concerning
the “war for Southern independence, which I presume your prejudice calls
the Rebellion,” said my guide. “There’s Mrs. St. Michael now, coming
round the corner. Well, Julia, could you read the yacht’s name with
your naked eye? And what’s the name of the gambler who owns it? He’s
a gambler, or he couldn’t own a yacht--unless his wife’s a gambler’s
daughter.”
“How well you’re feeling to-day, Maria!” said the other lady, with a
gentle smile.
“Certainly. I have been talking for twenty minutes.” I was now presented
to Mrs. Weguelin St. Michael, also old, also charming, in widow’s dress
no less in the bloom of age than Mrs. Gregory, but whiter and very
diminutive. She shyly welcomed me to Kings Port. “Take him home with
you, Julia. We pulled your bell three times, and it’s too damp for you
to be out. Don’t forget,” Mrs. Gregory said to me, “that you haven’t
told me a word about your Aunt Carola, and that I shall expect you to
come and do it.” She went slowly away from us, up the East Place, tall,
graceful, sweeping into the distance like a ship. No haste about her
dignified movement, no swinging of elbows, nothing of the present hour!
“What a beautiful girl she must have been!” I murmured aloud,
unconsciously.
“No, she was not a beauty in her youth,” said my new guide in her shy
voice, “but always fluent, always a wit. Kings Port has at times thought
her tongue too downright. We think that wit runs in her family, for
young John Mayrant has it; and her first-cousin-once-removed put the
Earl of Mainridge in his place at her father’s ball in 1840. Miss
Beaufain (as she was then) asked the Earl how he liked America; and he
replied, very well, except for the people, who were so vulgar. ‘What can
you expect?’ said Miss Beaufain; ‘we’re descended from the English.’
I am very sorry for Maria--for Mrs. St. Michael--just at present. Her
young cousin, John Mayrant, is making an alliance deeply vexatious to
her. Do you happen to know Miss Hortense Rieppe?”