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 towards 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 talking as he
approached; and he came up to me.
“Minna, my dear,” said he, “I hear everybody 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 at
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 it came. Nancy Fungus leaned her head on my 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_.
{Illustration}
And so the thing went on multiplying 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 cannot deny himself a
joke, came up to pa in the 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 anybody 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
of women to have an ‘air’ and to speak French, 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 _Téle de Choux_, that it is a
very warm day, and that will hardly be _spirituelle_ in her
exotic French. It edge 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 mind. It is wonderful
in the hands of such 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 anything 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 accomplishel
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 beach at six o’clock. She is one of those who 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 _téte de
veau farci_. Aren’t you coming to the beach? Everybody 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, and we don’t laugh loud until we’re 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,--Laura Larmes wonders that any man can be
so 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 view
of things,’ that to enjoy the high ‘privilege of reading books,--of
cultivating their minds; and, when they are married, minding their
babies, and ministering to the 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 fines 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 a few
morning vapors. They are evanescent as 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 life is a full dress parade of social
weaknesses. 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 night, is to
answer all questions of social position.
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 Peonys. 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 a level with them in
the estimation of her own 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 that it is just the thing for
her. She wore it at the hall 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 bouquet:
“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 an hour--a neighborhood in which, I am told, 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 black hair. I might have said
something--approving 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 grudge it to me for a moment.’ It’s
pretty; isn’t it? Just look here at this trimming.”
And she showed me the very handsomest part of it, and so much
handsomer than mine, that I can never wear it.
“Polly, I am so glad you know me so well,” said I. “I’m delighted with
the dress. To be sure, it’s rather _prononce_ 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 that somebody would come to ask me. Nobody came.
“You don’t dance?” asked Kurz Pacha, who stood by during my little
talk with Polly P.
“Oh, yes,” answered I, and hummed the polka.
Kurz Pacha hummed too, looked on at the dancers a few minutes then
turned to me, and looking at my bouquet, said:
“It is astonishing how little taste there is for spring-flowers.”
At that moment young Croesus “came in” warm with the whirl of the
dance, with Daisy Clover.
“It’s very warm,” said he, in a gentlemanly manner.
“Dear me! yes, very warm,” said Daisy.
“Been long in Newport?”
“No; only a few days. We always come, after, Saratoga for a couple of
weeks. But isn’t it delightful?”
“Quite so,” said Timon, coolly, and smiling at the idea of anybody’s
being enthusiastic about anything. That elegant youth has pumped life
dry; and now the pump only wheezes.
“Oh!” continued Daisy, “it’s so pleasant to run away from the hot
city, and breathe this cool air. And then Nature is so beautiful. Are
you fond of Nature, Mr. Croesus?”
“Tolerably,”’ returned Timon.
“Oh! but Mr. Croesus! to go to the glen and skip stones, and then walk
on the cliff, and drive to Bateman’s, and the fort, and to go to the
beach by moonlight; and then the bowling-alley, and the archery, and
the Germania. Oh! it’s a splendid place. But perhaps, you don’t like
natural scenery, Mr. Croesus?”
“Perhaps not,” said Mr. Croesus.
“Well, some people don’t,” said darling little Daisy, folding up her
fan, as if quite ready for another turn.
“Come, now; there it is,” said Timon, and, grasping her with his right
arm, they glided away.
“Kurz Pacha,” said I, “I wonder who sent Ada Aiguille that bouquet?”
“Sir John Franklin, I presume,” returned he.
“What do you mean by that,” asked I. -- Before he could answer, Boosey and Mrs. Potiphar stopped by us.
“No, no, Mr. Boosey,” panted Mrs. P., “I will not have him
introduced. They say his father actually sells dry goods by the yard
in Buffalo.”
“Well, 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 is
handsome to be sure, and gentlemanly, and I am told, very
intelligent. But, you know, we can’t be visiting our shoemakers and
shopmen. That’s the great difficulty of a watering-place, one doesn’t
know who’s who. Why Mrs. Gnu was here three summers ago, and there sat
next to her, at table, a middle-aged foreign gentleman, who had only a
slight accent, and who was so affable and agreeable, so intelligent
and modest, and so perfectly familiar with all kinds of little ways,
you know, that she supposed he was the Russian Minister, who, she
heard, was at Newport incognito for his health. She used to talk with
him in the parlor, and allowed him to join her upon the piazza.
Nobody could find out who he was. There were suspicions, of
course. But he paid his bills, drove his horses, and was universally
liked. Dear me! appearances are so deceitful! who do you think he
was?”
“I’m sure I can’t imagine.”
“Well, the next spring she went to a music store in Philadelphia, to
buy some guitar strings for Claribel, and who should advance to sell
them but the Russian Minister! Mrs. Gnu said she colored--”
“So I’ve always understood,” said Gauche, laughing.
“Fie! Mr. Boosey,” continued Mrs. P. smiling. “But the music-seller
didn’t betray the slightest consciousness. He sold her the strings,
received the money, and said nothing, and looked nothing. Just think
of it! She supposed him to be a gentleman, and he was really a
music-dealer. You see that’s the sort of thing one is exposed to here,
and though your friend may be very nice, it isn’t safe for me to know
him. In a country where there’s no aristocracy one can’t be too
exclusive. Mrs. Peony says she thinks that in future she shall really
pass the summer in a farm-house or if she goes to a watering-place,
confine herself to her own rooms and her carriage, and look at the
people through the blinds. I’m afraid, myself, it’s coming to
that. Everybody goes to Saratoga now, and you see how Newport is
crowded. For my part I agree with the Rev. Cream Cheese, that there
are serious evils in a republican form of government. What a hideous
head-dress that is of Mrs. Settum Downe’s! What a lovely
polka-redowa!”
“So it is, by Jove! Come on,” replied the gentlemanly Boosey, and they
swept down the hall.
“_Ah! ciel!_” exclaimed a voice close by us--Kurz Pacha and I
turned at the same moment. We beheld a gentleman twirling his
moustache and a lady fanning. They were smiling intelligently at each
other, and upon his whispering something that I could not hear, she
said, “_Fi! donc_” and folding her fan and laying her arm upon
his shoulder, they slid along again in the dance.
“Who is that?” inquired the Pacha.
“Don’t you know Mrs. Vite?” said I, glad of my chance. “Why, my dear
sir, she is our great social success. She shows what America can do
under a French _regime_. She performs for society the inestimable
service of giving some reality to the pictures of Balzac and George
Sand, by the quality of her life and manners. She is just what you
would expect a weak American girl to be who was poisoned by
Paris,--who mistook what was most obvious for what was most
characteristic,--whose ideas of foreign society and female habits were
based upon an experience of resorts, more renowned for ease than
elegance,--who has no instinct fine enough to tell her that 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 of eight upon the characters of your friends. You
must excuse me, but it seems to me odd that Miss Minerva Tattle, who
used to treat serious things so lightly, should now be treating light
things so seriously. You ought to frequent the comic opera more, and
dine with Mrs. Potiphar once a week. If your good humor can’t digest
such a _hors d’oeuvre_ 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, I
should like to know what it does mean,” replied Caroline, tossing her
head.
Norman de Famille smiled, and Caroline continued with rather a flushed
face, because Norman had been doing very much the same thing with her:
“What is a girl to understand by such attentions?”
“Why, that the gentleman finds it an amusing game, and hopes she is
equally pleased,” returned De Famille.
“_Merci_, M. de Famille,” said Caroline, with an energy I never
suspected in her, “and at the end of the game she may go break her
heart, I suppose.”
“Hearts are not so brittle, Miss Pettitoes,” replied Norman. “Besides,
why should you girls always play for such high stakes?”
They were just about beginning the waltz again, when the music
stopped, and they walked away. But I saw the tears in Caroline’s
eyes. I don’t know whether they were tears of vexation, or of
disappointment. The men have the advantage of us because they can
control their emotions so much better. I suppose Caroline blushed and
cried, because she found herself blushing and crying, quite as much as
because she fancied her partner didn’t care for her.
I turned to Kurz Pacha, who stood by my side, smiling, and rubbing his
hands.
“A charming evening we have had of it, Miss Minerva,” said he, “an
epitome of life--a kind of last-new-novel effect. The things that we
have heard and seen here, multiplied and varied by a thousand or so,
produce the net result of Newport. Given, a large house, music,
piazzas, beaches, cliff, port, griddle-cakes, fast horses,
sherry-cobblers, ten-pins, dust, artificial flowers, innocence,
worn-out hearts, loveliness, black-legs, bank-bills, small men, large
coat-sleeves, little boots, jewelry, and polka-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 afterward to refit her faith, probably. Daisy Clover thinks
it’s heavenly. Darling little Daisy! life is an endless German
cotillion to her. She thinks the world is gay but well-meaning, is
sure that it goes to church on Sundays and never tells lies. Cerulea
Bass looks at it for a moment with her hard, round, ebony eyes, and
calmly wonders that people will make such fools of themselves. And
you, Miss Minerva, pardon me,--you come because you are in the habit
of coming--because you are not happy out of such society, and have a
tantalizing sadness in it. Your system craves only the piquant sources
of scandal and sarcasm, which can never satisfy it. You wish that you
liked tranquil pleasures and believed in men and women. But you get no
nearer than a wish. You remember when you did believe, but you
remember with a shudder and a sigh. You pass for a brilliant
woman. You go out to dinners and balls; and men are, what is called,
‘afraid of you.’ You scorn most of us. You are not a favorite, but
your pride is flattered by the very fear on the part of others which
prevents your being loved. Time and yourself are your only enemies,
and they are in league, for you betray yourself to him. You have found
youth the most fascinating and fatal of flirts, but he, although your
heart and hope clung to him despairingly, has jilted you and thrown
you by. Let him go, if you can, and throw after him the white muslin
and the baby-waist. Give up milk and the pastoral poets. Sail, at
least, under your own colors; even pirates hoist a black flag. An old
belle who endeavors to retain by sharp wit and spicy scandal the place
she held only in virtue of youth and spirited beauty is, in a new
circle of youth and beauty, like an enemy firing at you from the
windows of your own house. The difficulty of your position, dear Miss
Minerva, is, that you can never deceive those who alone are worth
deceiving. Daisy Clover and Young America, of course, consider you a
talented, tremendous kind of woman. Daisy Clover wonders all the men
are not in love with you. Young America sniffs and shakes its little
head, and says disapprovingly, ‘Strong-minded woman!’ But you fail,
you know, notwithstanding. You couldn’t bring old Potiphar to his
knees when he first came home from China, and he must needs plunge in
love with Miss Polly, whom you despised, but who has certainly
profited by her intimacy with Mrs. Gnu, Mrs. Croesus, and Mrs. Settum
Downe, as you saw by her conversation with you this evening.
“Ah, Miss Minerva, I am only a benighted diplomat from Sennaar, but
when I reflect upon all I see around me in your country; when I take
my place with terror in a railroad car, because the certainty of
frightful accidents fills all minds with the same vague apprehensions
as if a war were raging in the land; when I see the universal rush and
fury--young men who never smile, and who fall victims to paralysis;
old men who are tired of life and dread death; young women pretty and
incapable; old women listless and useless; and both young and old, if
women of sense, perishing of ennui, and longing for some kind of a
career;--why, I don’t say that it is better anywhere else,--perhaps it
isn’t,--in most ways it certainly is not. I don’t say certainly, that
there’s a higher tone of life in London or Paris than in New York, but
only that, whatever it may be there, this, at least, is rather a
miserable business.”
“What is your theory of life, then?” asked I. “What do you propose?”
Kurz Pacha smiled again.
{Illustration}
“Suppose, Miss Minerva, I say the Golden Rule is 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 right to complain of hunger until he had
grasped a piece of bread. ‘What do you propose to do, Mr. Carlyle?’
said they, ‘what with the Irish, for instance?’ Mr. C. said that he
would compel every Irishman to work, or he would sink the island in
the sea. ‘Barbarous man, this is your boasted reform!’ cried they in
indignant chorus, unsuited either way, and permitting the Irish to go
to the dogs in the meanwhile. So suffer me, dearest Miss Minerva, to
regret a state of things which no sensible man can approve. Even if it
seems to you light, allow me, at least, to treat it seriously, nor
suppose I love anything less, because I would see it better. You are
the natural fruit of this state of things, O Minerva Tattle! By thy
fruits ye shall know them.”
After a few moments, he added in the old way:
“Don’t think I am going to break my heart about it, nor lose my
appetite. Look at the absurdity of the whole thing. I am preaching to
you in your baby-waist, here in a Newport ball-room at midnight. I
humbly beg your pardon. There are more potent preachers here than
I. Besides, I’m engaged to Mrs. Potiphar’s supper at 12. Take things
more gently, dear Miss Minerva. Don’t make faces at Mrs. Vite, nor
growl at your darling Polly. Women as smart as you are, will say
precisely as smart thing of you as you say of them. We shall all
laugh, first with you, and then at you. But don’t deny yourself the
pleasure of saying the smart things in hope that they will also
refrain. That’s vanity, not virtue. People are much better than you
think, but they are also much worse. I might have been king of
Sennaar, but I am only his ambassador. You might have been only a
chambermaid, but you are the brilliant and accomplished Miss
Tattle. Tum, tum, tum, ti, ti, ti,--what a pretty waltz! Here come
Daisy and Timon Croesus, and now Mrs. Potiphar and Gauche Boosey, and
now again Caroline Pettitoes and De Famille. She is smiling again, you
see. She darts through the dance like a sunbeam as she is. Caroline is
a philosopher. Just now, you remember, it was down, down, down,--now
it is up, up, up. It is a good world, if you don’t rub it the wrong
way. Sit in the sun as much as possible. One preserves one’s
complexion, but gets so cold in the shade. Ah! there comes
Mrs. Potiphar. Why, she is radiant! She shakes her fan at me. Adieu,
Miss Minerva. Sweet dreams. To-morrow morning at the Bowling Alley at
eleven, you know, and the drive at six. _Au revoir_.”
And he was gone. The ball was breaking up. A few desperate dancers
still floated upon the floor. The chairs were empty. The women were
shawling, and the men stood attendant with bouquets. I went to a
window and looked out. The moon was rising, a wan, waning moon. The
broad fields lay dark beneath, and as the music ceased, I heard the
sullen roar of the sea. If my heart ached with an indefinite
longing,--if it felt that the airy epicurism of the Pacha was but a
sad cynicism, masquerading in smiles,--if I dreaded to ask whether the
wisest were not the saddest,--if the rising moon, and the plunging
sea, and the silence of midnight, were mournful, if I envied Daisy
Clover her sweet sleep and vigorous waking,--why, no one need ever
know it, nor suspect that the brilliant Minerva Tattle is a failure.