“I am so sorry, but we haven’t any in the house.”
“Oh,” said he, “but you could hire one, you know.”
Then I thought it must be a musical instrument--a Panharmonicon, or
something of that kind, so I said in a general way--
“I am not very, very fond of it.”
“But it would be so fine to have him standing on the back of the
carriage, his plumes waving in the wind, and his lace and polished
belts flashing in the sun, as you whirled down Broadway.”
Of course I knew then that he was speaking of those military gentlemen
who ride behind carriages, especially upon the Continent, as Margaret
tells me, and who in Paris are very useful to keep the savages and
wild beasts at bay in the _Champ Elysees_, for you know they are
intended as a guard.
But I knew Mr. P. would be firm about that, so I asked Mr. Cheese not
to kindle my imagination with the _Chasseur_.
We concluded finally to have only one full-sized footman, and a fat
driver.
“The corpulence is essential, dear Mrs. Potiphar,” said Mr. Cheese. “I
have been much abroad; I have mingled, I trust, in good, which is to
say, Christian society: and I must say, that few things struck me more
upon my return than that the ladies who drive very handsome carriages,
with footmen, etc., in livery, should permit such thin coachmen upon
the box. I really believe that Mrs. Settum Downe’s coachman doesn’t
weigh more than a hundred and thirty pounds, which is ridiculous. A
lady might as well hire a footman with insufficient calves, as a
coachman who weighs less than two hundred and ten. That is the
minimum. Besides, I don’t observe any wigs upon the coachmen. Now, if
a lady sets up her carriage with the family crest and fine liveries,
why, I should like to know, is the wig of the coachman omitted, and
his cocked hat also? It is a kind of shabby, half-ashamed way of doing
things--a garbled glory. The cock-hatted, knee-breeched,
paste-buckled, horse-hair-wigged coachman, one of the institutions of
the aristocracy. If we don’t have him complete, we somehow make
ourselves ridiculous. If we do have him complete, why then”--
Here Mr. Cheese coughed a little, and patted his mouth with his
cambric. But what he said was very true. I _should_ like to come
out with the wig--I mean upon the coachman; it would so put down the
Settum Downes. But I’m sure old Pot wouldn’t have it. He lets me do a
great deal. But there is a line which I feel he won’t let me pass. I
mentioned my fears to Mr. Cheese.
“Well,” he said, “Mr. Potiphar may be right. I remember an expression
of my carnal days about ‘coming it too strong.’ which seems to me to
be applicable just here.”
After a little more talk, I determined to have red plush breeches,
with a black cord at the side--white stockings--low shoes with large
buckles--a yellow waistcoat, with large buttons--lappels to the
pockets--and a purple coat, very full and fine, bound with gold
lace--and the hat banded with a full gold rogette. Don’t you think
that would look well in Hyde Park? And, darling Carrie, why shouldn’t
we have in Broadway what they have in Hyde Park?
When Mr. P. came in, I told him all about it. He laughed a good deal,
and said, “What next?” So I am not sure that he would be so very hard
upon the wig. The next morning I had appointed to see the new footman,
and as Mr. P. went out he turned and said to me, “Is your footman
coming to-day?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Well,” said he, “don’t forget the calves. You know that everything in
the matter of livery depends upon the calves.”
And he went out laughing silently to himself, with--actually,
Carrie--a tear in his eye.
But it was true, wasn’t it? I remember in all the books and pictures
how much is said about the calves. In advertisements, etc., it is
stated that none but well-developed calves need apply, at least it is
so in England, and, if I have a livery, I am not going to stop
half-way. My duty was very clear. When Mr. Cheese came in, I said I
felt awkward in asking a servant about his calves,--it sounded so
queerly. But I confessed that it was necessary.
“Yes, the path of duty is not always smooth, dear Mrs. Potiphar. It is
often thickly strewn with thorns,” said he, as he sank back in the
_fautteuil_, and put down his _petit verre of Marasquin_.
Just after he had gone the new footman was announced. I assure you,
although it is ridiculous, I felt quite nervous. But when he came in,
I said calmly--
“Well, James, I am glad you have come.”
“Please, ma’am, my name is Henry,” said he.
I was astonished at his taking me up so, and said, decidedly--“James,
the name of my footman is always James. You may call yourself what
you please, I shall always call you James.”
The idea of the man’s undertaking to arrange my servants’ names for
me!
Well, he showed me his references, which were very good, and I was
quite satisfied. But there was the terrible calf business that must be
attended to. I put it off a great while, but I had to begin.
“Well, James!”--and there I stopped.
“Yes, ma’am,” said he.
“I wish--yes--ah!”--and I stopped again.
“Yes, ma’am,” said he.
“James, I wish you had come in knee-breeches.”
“Ma’am?” said he in great surprise.
“In knee-breeches, James,” repeated I. -- “What be they, ma’am? what for, ma’am?” said he, a little frightened,
as I thought.
“Oh! nothing, nothing; but--but--”
“Yes, ma’am,” said James.
“But--but, I want to see--to see--”
“What ma’am?” said James.
“Your legs,” gasped I; and the path _was_ thorny enough, Carrie,
I can tell you. I had a terrible time explaining to him what I meant,
and all about the liveries, etc. Dear me! what a pity these things are
not understood: and then we should never have this trouble about
explanations. However, I couldn’t make him agree to wear the
livery. He said:
“I’ll try to be a good servant, ma’am, but I cannot put on those
things and make a fool of myself. I hope you won’t insist, for I am
very anxious to get a place.”
Think of his dictating to me. I told him that I did not permit my
servants to impose conditions upon me (that’s one of Mrs. Croesus’s
sayings), that I was willing to pay him good wages and treat him well,
but that my James must wear my livery. He looked very sorry, said that
he should like the place very much,--that he was satisfied with the
wages, and was sure that he should please me, but he could not put on
those things. We were both determined, and so parted. I think we were
both sorry; for I should have to go all through the calf-business
again, and he lost a good place.
However, Caroline dear, I have my livery and my footman, and am as
good as anybody. It’s very splendid when I go to Stewart’s to have the
red plush and the purple, and the white calves springing down to open
the door, and to see people look, and say, “I wonder who that is?” And
everybody bows so nicely, and the clerks are so polite, and Mrs. Gnu
is melting with envy on the other side, and Mrs. Croesus goes about
saying, “Dear little woman, that Mrs. Potiphar, but so weak! Pity,
pity!” And Mrs. Settum Downe says, “Is that the Potiphar livery? Ah,
yes, Mr. Potiphar’s grandfather used to shoe my grandfather’s
horses!”--(as if to be useful in the world, were a disgrace,--as
Mr. P. says) and young Downe, and Boosey, and Timon Croesus come up
and stand about so gentlemanly, and say, “Well Mrs. Potiphar, are we
to have no more charming parties this season?”--and Boosey says, in
his droll way, “Let’s keep the ball a-rolling!” That young man is
always ready with a witticism. Then I step out and James throws open
the door, and the young men raise their hats, and the new crowd says,
“I wonder who that is!” and the plush and purple, and calves spring up
behind, and I drive home to dinner.
Now, Carrie, dear, isn’t that nice?
Well, I don’t know how it is--but things are so queer. Sometimes when
I wake up in the morning, in my room, which I have had tapestried with
fluted rose silk, and lie thinking, under the lace curtains; although
I may have been at one of Mrs. Gnu’s splendid parties the night
before, and am going to Mrs. Silke’s to dinner, and to the opera and
Mrs. Settum Downe’s in the evening, and have nothing to do all the
day but go to Stewart’s, or Martelle’s or Lefevre’s, and shop, and pay
morning calls;--do you know, as I say, that sometimes I hear an old
familiar tune played upon a hand-organ far away in some street, and it
seems to me in that half-drowsy state under the laces, that I hear the
girls and boys singing it in the fields where we used to play. It is a
kind of dream, I suppose, but often, as I listen, I am sure that I
hear Henry’s voice again that used to ring so gayly among the old
trees, and I walk with him in the sunlight to the bank by the river,
and he throws in the flower--as he really did--and says, with a laugh,
“If it goes this side of the stump I am saved; if the other, I am
lost;” and then he looks at me as if I had anything to do with it, and
the flower drifts slowly off and off, and goes the other side of the
old stump, and we walk homeward silently, until Henry laughs out, and
says, “Thank heaven, my fate is not a flower;” and I swear to love him
for ever and ever, and marry him, and live in a dingy little old room
in some of the dark and dirty streets in the city.
Then I doze again: but presently the music steals into my sleep, and I
see him as I saw him last standing in his pulpit, so calm and noble,
and drawing the strong men as well as the weak women by his earnest
persuasion; and after service he smiles upon me kindly, and says,
“This is my wife, and the wife, who looks like the Madonna in that
picture of Andrea Del Sarto’s, which you liked so at the gallery,
leads us to a little house buried in roses, looking upon a broad and
lovely landscape,” and Henry whispers to me as a beautiful boy bounds
into the room, “Mrs. Potiphar, I am very happy.”
I doze again until Adele comes in and opens the shutters. I do not
hear the music any more; but those days I do somehow seem to hear it
all the time. Of course, Mr. P. is gone long before I wake, so he
knows nothing about all this. I generally come in at night after he is
asleep, and he is up and has his breakfast, and goes down town before
I wake in the morning. He comes home to dinner, but he is apt to be
silent; and after dinner he takes his nap in the parlor over his
newspaper, while I go up and let Adele dress my hair for the
evening. Sometimes Mr. P. groans into a clean shirt and goes with me
to the ball; but not often. When I come home, as I said, he is asleep,
so I don’t see a great deal of him, except in the summer, when I am at
Saratoga or Newport; and then, not so much, after all, for he usually
only passes Sunday, and I must be a good Christian, you know, and go
to church. On the whole, we have not a very intimate acquaintance; but
I have a great respect for him. He told me the other day that he
should make at least thirty thousand dollars this year.
My darling Carrie--I am very sorry I can’t write you a longer
letter. I want to consult you about wearing gold powder like the new
Empress. It would kill Mrs. Croesus if you and I should be the first
to come out in it; and don’t you think the effect would be fine, when
we were dancing, to shower the gold mist around us! How it would
sparkle upon the gentlemen’s black coats! (“Yes,” says Mr. P., “and
how finely Gauche Boosey, and Timon Croesus, and young Downe will look
in silk tights and small clothes!”) They say it’s genuine gold ground
up. I have already sent for a white velvet and lace--the Empress’s
bridal dress, you know. That foolish old P. asked me if I had sent for
the Emperor and the Bank of France too.
“Men ask such absurd questions,” said I. -- “Mrs. Potiphar, I never asked but one utterly absurd question in my
life,” said he, and marched out of the house.
_Au revoir, chère Caroline_. I have a thousand things to say, but
I know you must be tired to death.
Fondly yours,