Herr Teufelsdrockh informs those who read his famous book, the _Tailor
Sewer Over; or, the Philosophy of Clothes_, that Mr. Pellum announces,
among other canons regulating human apparel, that it is permitted to
mankind, under certain conditions, to wear white waistcoats. But it now
appears that, under certain conditions also, straw-colored gloves are
not only permissible, but imperative. When a Japanese ambassador
appears, and the white flag with the orb of day in its centre is
unfurled, straw-color, as to the hands, is the only wear. Therefore,
when the reception was to take place in Washington the deeply initiated
held hands of that mystic color. The only chagrin was that nobody
seemed to know the significant fact nor to care for it; and one
honorable gentleman asked with interest whether it would not be
extremely orthodox to wear a straw-hat. But these levities were ill
becoming the august occasion.
The feast of the straw-colored gloves in honor of the Japanese
ambassadors fell upon an evening when the poetic policeman thought of
every belle who stepped from her carriage,
"The bleak winds of March
Made her tremble and shiver."
But he thought it only; he did not say it. Yet the bleak wind of the
cold night had little chance at the guests, for a pavilion was laid to
the very curb-stone, and everybody stepped out into friendly shelter.
Then up the steep stairs, just as the illustrious guests were passing
from the cloak-room to the hall. As they entered it the crowd, swelling
upward from the door below, made for the ladies' room, or for the little
hole in a corner into which the gentlemen were to thrust their coats,
in the vague hope that they might be recovered. Some of the Japs who at
a later hour were buffeting the crowd and struggling towards the
aperture must have been impressed, if they were philosophers, with the
fact that a nation of so many happy contrivances as they fondly believe
us to be has not yet learned how to take charge of overcoats at public
feasts. It would not be very difficult to avoid the fierce crush at the
cloak-room; but it is not avoided, and it is as good-humored as it is
disagreeable and unnecessary.
But who cared for the crush at the door of the opera-house on a Jenny
Lind night, when coat skirts strewed the pavement, and the most
elaborately tied cravats were undone? Not otherwise was this pressure
when the door was passed and the pretty hall entered. Was this also an
opera? And had the curtain risen? For the first impression of the
brilliant scene was that of the trilling and warbling of canaries in
clusters of cages hung high overhead, and for a moment giving a sense of
enchanted gardens and rose bowers upon Bendermere's stream. Was this
impression disturbed when from their tiring-room the nymphs and dames
emerged powdered, beflowered, effulgent? There were toilets of all
kinds. There were even ladies in bonnets, as if they had run in
neighborly to hobnob an hour with Iwakura. There were others in the very
extreme of fashion. There was every kind of tasteful and rich and
beautiful and plain and grotesque attire. And now and then behold! the
ineffable calm of the lady--not one, but many--of whom Mr. Emerson tells
the excellent story that she said to feel herself perfectly well dressed
imparted a tranquil happiness that religion itself could not bestow.
The hall was very light, draped and festooned simply with the American
and two Japanese flags intertwined, the whole giving a certain gauzy
effect, which was pretty, if not fairy-like nor magnificent. Upon a
little platform at the end of the hall stood the guest and other
distinguished ministers. The space in the middle of the hall, between
improvised columns, was kept clear for some time, so that the picture
was charming. The throng pressed slowly up one side of the room towards
the platform, and, passing across it in front of the various members of
the embassy, were received by the Secretary of State and the Japanese
minister, and by the latter presented to Iwakura. He was dressed, with
all his associates, in the sad sables with which Western nations mourn
their own gayety. Instead of some glittering cloth of gold, in which,
whatever the fact may have been at the White House, we might have
expected an ambassador from Zipango or El Dorado to be arrayed, we had
the familiar and useful black broadcloth coat and trousers of
civilization. But when Sir Philip Sidney, in flowered velvet, was
presented to the great William of Orange, William was clad in a plain
serge coat, and Sir Philip probably did not know it, or forgot it. And
as the gallant Sidneys at this feast were presented to the chief
ambassador, they doubtless saw the man and not his clothes.
Iwakura is about fifty years old; not a large man; of great dignity and
serenity of character and manners, with a high-bred and elegant air,
and a face of clear intelligence and refinement. He bowed courteously to
every guest, with a subtile distance of salutation without offence which
is peculiar to many men of high self-respect. Hand-shaking is the most
religiously observed of all the social rites in Washington, and
especially and amusingly by the diplomatic corps, who evidently
constrain themselves to observe punctually this sacred habit; but
Iwakura did not offer his hand, yet did not refuse to engage in the
ceremony when it was unavoidable. Beyond him in the line were the chief
ladies of the occasion, the wives of the Vice-President, of the
Secretary of State, of the Speaker, and of the other secretaries. It was
simply a republican court, recalling the days when President Washington
and his wife stood upon a slightly raised dais at the end of the hall,
there being about those three inches of monarchy left at the beginning
of the republic, before Thomas Jefferson, alighting from his horse,
hitched him by the bridle to the fence, and then went into the Capitol
to be inaugurated President.
Descending from the immediate presence, the guests gathered in lines
along the hall, or slowly promenaded, engaged in watching and in
criticising each other. Meanwhile the band played, and the canaries,
excited by the music and the lights, sang loud and clear. Not so sweetly
sang the gossips, as they whispered and exclaimed at each other's fresh
oddity or extravagance of attire. Gently, good gossips! gently! for even
at this moment is the Scripture fulfilled, and ye who judge are judged.
"In a world where Martin Farquhar Tupper passes to the thirty-seventh
edition," said Thackeray, in a company of authors, "let us all think
small-beer of ourselves." When to the eye of men the dress of the fairer
sex is altogether bewildering, and certainly not, as Professor
Teufelsdrockh would say, unbeautiful, why should the good gossip
invidiously discriminate? Peace, peace! The sober matron at whom you
smile wears the plain dress because she preferred to pay her boy's
college bills with the money that would have arrayed her in Parisian
robes had he stayed at home. And you, dear madam, daughter of
Fortunatus and heiress of his purse, you wear those ponderous diamonds
and nudge your neighbors to look and laugh with you.
Hark the soft prelude of the waltz. What is the mysterious pathos of
that long pulsing strain? Why is that measure, moving to which the joy
and the hope of youth celebrate their triumph, of all measures the most
passionately sad? One after another the partners glide into the dance.
They swim, they float, they circle, they move in music and to music. And
what is this, and who is here? this comet, this meteor of a couple, who
come pumping and dashing through the throng. Are her hands really laid
upon his shoulders? Do his hands clasp her elbows, or is it an
extraordinary dream? No wonder that Japan draws to the edge of the dais
and gazes in wonder, for America also looks on in amazement. The amused
incredulity of the foreign guests as they watch the dancing is
interesting to see. Iwakura regards the scene with smiling gravity. To
him the spectacle seems a thousandfold more against nature than the
vision of a woman voting can possibly be to the most conservative
American. Yet the ambassador will find that the loveliest woman may
waltz with a man and still be womanly, and the conservative American may
go and do likewise. The fashions of a time and the traditions of a
nation are not the final laws of nature, and even Horatio's philosophy
does not exhaust the things in heaven and earth that are yet to be.
The ambassadors are still gazing, the band is still playing, and the
birds are still singing over the happy dancers as we come away. There is
a desperate but brief struggle at the orifice in the corner, whence, to
our delight, our coats emerge. We have a glimpse into the ladies'
tiring-room, where, like bright-winged birds, they are pluming
themselves for flight. Upon the steep staircase, where they stand
waiting for their carriages, there is tranquillity and order, so
excellent are the arrangements. Scores of sentences are left in
fragments upon the stairs, for in the midst of a remark the cry
resounds, "The Honorable Mr. Iago's carriage, Mrs. Bluebeard's, The
Ambassador from San Salvador, Mr. Smith-Jones's carriage!" And instantly
the bright-winged birds are flown, and rose-buds and violets go home to
happy dreams.