THE Peterkins were in quite a muddle (for them) about the carnival
of authors, to be given in Boston. As soon as it was announced, their
interests were excited, and they determined that all the family should
go.
But they conceived a wrong idea of the entertainment, as they supposed
that every one must go in costume. Elizabeth Eliza thought their
lessons in the foreign languages would help them much in conversing in
character.
As the carnival was announced early Solomon John thought there would be
time to read up everything written by all the authors, in order to be
acquainted with the characters they introduced. Mrs. Peterkin did not
wish to begin too early upon the reading, for she was sure she should
forget all that the different authors had written before the day came.
But Elizabeth Eliza declared that she should hardly have time enough,
as it was, to be acquainted with all the authors. She had given up her
French lessons, after taking six, for want of time, and had, indeed,
concluded she had learned in them all she should need to know of that
language. She could repeat one or two pages of phrases, and she was
astonished to find how much she could understand already of what the
French teacher said to her; and he assured her that when she went to
Paris she could at least ask the price of gloves, or of some other
things she would need, and he taught her, too, how to pronounce
“garçon,” in calling for more.
Agamemnon thought that different members of the family might make
themselves familiar with different authors; the little boys were already
acquainted with “Mother Goose.” Mr. Peterkin had read the “Pickwick
Papers,” and Solomon John had actually seen Mr. Longfellow getting into
a horse-car.
Elizabeth Eliza suggested that they might ask the Turk to give lectures
upon the “Arabian Nights.” Everybody else was planning something of the
sort, to “raise funds” for some purpose, and she was sure they ought not
to be behindhand. Mrs.
Peterkin approved of this. It would be excellent if they could raise
funds enough to pay for their own tickets to the carnival; then they
could go every night.
Elizabeth Eliza was uncertain. She thought it was usual to use the funds
for some object. Mr. Peterkin said that if they gained funds enough they
might arrange a booth of their own, and sit in it, and take the carnival
comfortably.
But Agamemnon reminded him that none of the family were authors, and
only authors had booths. Solomon John, indeed, had once started upon
writing a book, but he was not able to think of anything to put in it,
and nothing had occurred to him yet.
Mr. Peterkin urged him to make one more effort. If his book could come
out before the carnival he could go as an author, and might have a booth
of his own, and take his family.
But Agamemnon declared it would take years to become an author. You
might indeed publish something, but you had to make sure that it would
be read. Mrs.
Peterkin, on the other hand, was certain that libraries were filled with
books that never were read, yet authors had written them. For herself,
she had not read half the books in their own library. And she was glad
there was to be a Carnival of Authors, that she might know who they
were.
Mr. Peterkin did not understand why they called them a “Carnival”; but
he supposed they should find out when they went to it.
Mrs. Peterkin still felt uncertain about costumes. She proposed looking
over the old trunks in the garret. They would find some suitable
dresses there, and these would suggest what characters they should take.
Elizabeth Eliza was pleased with this thought. She remembered an old
turban of white mull muslin, in an old bandbox, and why should not her
mother wear it?
Mrs. Peterkin supposed that she should then go as her own grandmother.
Agamemnon did not approve of this. Turbans are now worn in the East, and
Mrs.
Peterkin could go in some Eastern character. Solomon John thought she
might be Cleopatra, and this was determined on. Among the treasures
found were some old bonnets, of large size, with waving plumes.
Elizabeth Eliza decided upon the largest of these.
She was tempted to appear as Mrs. Columbus, as Solomon John was to take
the character of Christopher Columbus; but he was planning to enter
upon the stage in a boat, and Elizabeth Eliza was a little afraid of
sea-sickness, as he had arranged to be a great while finding the shore.
Solomon John had been led to take this character by discovering a
coal-hod that would answer for a helmet; then, as Christopher Columbus
was born in Genoa, he could use the phrases in Italian he had lately
learned of his teacher.
As the day approached the family had their costumes prepared.
Mr. Peterkin decided to be Peter the Great. It seemed to him a happy
thought, for the few words of Russian he had learned would come in play,
and he was quite sure that his own family name made him kin to that of
the great Czar. He studied up the life in the Encyclopædia, and decided
to take the costume of a ship-builder. He visited the navy-yard and
some of the docks; but none of them gave him the true idea of dress for
ship-building in Holland or St. Petersburg.
But he found a picture of Peter the Great, representing him in a
broad-brimmed hat. So he assumed one that he found at a costumer’s,
and with Elizabeth Eliza’s black waterproof was satisfied with his own
appearance.
Elizabeth Eliza wondered if she could not go with her father in some
Russian character. She would have to lay aside her large bonnet, but she
had seen pictures of Russian ladies, with fur muffs on their heads, and
she might wear her own muff.
Mrs. Peterkin, as Cleopatra, wore the turban, with a little row of false
curls in front, and a white embroidered muslin shawl crossed over her
black silk dress. The little boys thought she looked much like the
picture of their great-grandmother. But doubtless Cleopatra resembled
this picture, as it was all so long ago, so the rest of the family
decided.
Agamemnon determined to go as Noah. The costume, as represented in one
of the little boys’ arks, was simple. His father’s red-lined dressing
gown, turned inside out, permitted it easily.
Elizabeth Eliza was now anxious to be Mrs. Shem, and make a long dress
of yellow flannel, and appear with Agamemnon and the little boys. For
the little boys were to represent two doves and a raven. There were
feather-dusters enough in the family for their costumes, which would be
then complete with their india-rubber boots.
Solomon John carried out in detail his idea of Christopher Columbus.
He had a number of eggs boiled hard to take in his pocket, proposing to
repeat, through the evening, the scene of setting the egg on its end.
He gave up the plan of a boat, as it must be difficult to carry one into
town; so he contented himself by practising the motion of landing by
stepping up on a chair.
But what scene could Elizabeth Eliza carry out? If they had an ark, as
Mrs. Shem she might crawl in and out of the roof constantly, if it were
not too high. But Mr. Peterkin thought it as difficult to take an ark
into town as Solomon John’s boat.
The evening came. But with all their preparations they got to the hall
late. The entrance was filled with a crowd of people, and, as they
stopped at the cloakroom, to leave their wraps, they found themselves
entangled with a number of people in costume coming out from a
dressing-room below. Mr. Peterkin was much encouraged. They were thus
joining the performers. The band was playing the “Wedding March” as they
went upstairs to a door of the hall which opened upon one side of the
stage. Here a procession was marching up the steps of the stage, all in
costume, and entering behind the scenes.
“We are just in the right time,” whispered Mr. Peterkin to his family;
“they are going upon the stage; we must fall into line.” The little boys
had their feather-dusters ready. Some words from one of the managers
made Peterkin understand the situation.
“We are going to be introduced to Mr. Dickens,” he said.
“I thought he was dead!” exclaimed Mrs. Peterkin trembling.
“Authors live forever!” said Agamemnon in her ear.
At this moment they were ushered upon the stage. The stage manager
glared at them, as he awaited their names for introduction, while they
came up all unannounced,--a part of the programme not expected. But he
uttered the words upon his lips, “Great Expectations;” and the Peterkin
family swept across the stage with the rest: Mr. Peterkin costumed as
Peter the Great, Mrs. Peterkin as Cleopatra, Agamemnon as Noah, Solomon
John as Christopher Columbus, Elizabeth Eliza in yellow flannel as Mrs.
Shem, with a large, old-fashioned bonnet on her head as Mrs. Columbus,
and the little boys behind as two doves and a raven.
Across the stage, in face of all the assembled people, then following
the rest down the stairs on the other side, in among the audience, they
went; but into an audience not dressed in costume!
There were Ann Maria Bromwick and the Osbornes,--all the neighbors,--all
as natural as though they were walking the streets at home, though Ann
Maria did wear white gloves.
“I had no idea you were to appear in character,” said Ann Maria to
Elizabeth Eliza; “to what booth do you belong?”
“We are no particular author,” said Mr. Peterkin.
“Ah, I see, a sort of varieties’ booth,” said Mr. Osborne.
“What is your character?” asked Ann Maria of Elizabeth Eliza.
“I have not quite decided,” said Elizabeth Eliza. “I thought I should
find out after I came here. The marshal called us ‘Great Expectations.’”
Mrs. Peterkin was at the summit of bliss. “I have shaken hands with
Dickens!” she exclaimed.
But she looked round to ask the little boys if they, too, had shaken
hands with the great man, but not a little boy could she find.
They had been swept off in Mother Goose’s train, which had lingered on
the steps to see the Dickens reception, with which the procession of
characters in costume had closed. At this moment they were dancing
round the barberry bush, in a corner of the balcony in Mother Goose’s
quarters, their feather-dusters gayly waving in the air.
But Mrs. Peterkin, far below, could not see this, and consoled herself
with the thought, they should all meet on the stage in the grand closing
tableau. She was bewildered by the crowds which swept her hither and
thither. At last she found herself in the Whittier Booth, and sat a long
time calmly there. As Cleopatra she seemed out of place, but as her own
grandmother she answered well with its New England scenery.
Solomon John wandered about, landing in America whenever he found a
chance to enter a booth. Once before an admiring audience he set up his
egg in the centre of the Goethe Booth, which had been deserted by its
committee for the larger stage.
Agamemnon frequently stood in the background of scenes in the Arabian
Nights.
It was with difficulty that the family could be repressed from going
on the stage whenever the bugle sounded for the different groups
represented there.
Elizabeth Eliza came near appearing in the “Dream of Fair Women,” at its
most culminating point.
Mr. Peterkin found himself with the “Cricket on the Hearth,” in the
Dickens Booth. He explained that he was Peter the Great, but always in
the Russian language, which was never understood.
Elizabeth Eliza found herself, in turn, in all the booths. Every manager
was puzzled by her appearance, and would send her to some other, and she
passed along, always trying to explain that she had not yet decided upon
her character.
Mr. Peterkin came and took Cleopatra from the Whittier Booth.
“I cannot understand,” he said, “why none of our friends are dressed in
costume, and why we are.”
“I rather like it,” said Elizabeth Eliza, “though I should be better
pleased if I could form a group with some one.”
The strains of the minuet began. Mrs. Peterkin was anxious to join the
performers. It was the dance of her youth.
But she was delayed by one of the managers on the steps that led to the
stage.
“I cannot understand this company,” he said, distractedly.
“They cannot find their booth,” said another.
“That is the case,” said Mr. Peterkin, relieved to have it stated.
“Perhaps you had better pass into the corridor,” said a polite marshal.
They did this, and, walking across, found themselves in the
refreshment-room.
“This is the booth for us,” said Mr. Peterkin.
“Indeed it is,” said Mrs. Peterkin, sinking into a chair, exhausted.
At this moment two doves and a raven appeared,--the little boys, who had
been dancing eagerly in Mother Goose’s establishment, and now came down
for ice-cream.
“I hardly know how to sit down,” said Elizabeth Eliza, “for I am sure
Mrs. Shem never could. Still, as I do not know if I am Mrs. Shem, I will
venture it.”
Happily, seats were to be found for all, and they were soon arranged in
a row, calmly eating ice-cream.
“I think the truth is,” said Mr. Peterkin, “that we represent historical
people, and we ought to have been fictitious characters in books. That
is, I observe, what the others are. We shall know better another time.”
“If we only ever get home,” said Mrs. Peterkin, “I shall not wish to
come again. It seems like being on the stage, sitting in a booth, and it
is so bewildering, Elizabeth Eliza not knowing who she is, and going
round and round in this way.”
“I am afraid we shall never reach home,” said Agamemnon, who had been
silent for some time; “we may have to spend the night here. I find I
have lost our checks for our clothes in the cloak-room!”
“Spend the night in a booth, in Cleopatra’s turban!” exclaimed Mrs.
Peterkin.
“We should like to come every night,” cried the little boys.
“But to spend the night,” repeated Mrs. Peterkin.
“I conclude the Carnival keeps up all night,” said Mr. Peterkin.
“But never to recover our cloaks,” said Mrs. Peterkin; “could not the
little boys look round for the checks on the floors?”
She began to enumerate the many valuable things that they might never
see again.
She had worn her large fur cape of stone-marten,--her grandmother’s,--that
Elizabeth Eliza had been urging her to have made into a foot-rug. Now
how she wished she had! And there were Mr. Peterkin’s new overshoes,
and Agamemnon had brought an umbrella, and the little boys had their
mittens. Their india-rubber boots, fortunately, they had on, in the
character of birds. But Solomon John had worn a fur cap, and Elizabeth
Eliza a muff. Should they lose all these valuables entirely, and go home
in the cold without them? No, it would be better to wait till everybody
had gone, and then look carefully over the floors for the checks; if
only the little boys could know where Agamemnon had been, they were
willing to look. Mr. Peterkin was not sure as they would have time to
reach the train.
Still, they would need something to wear, and he could not tell the
time. He had not brought his watch. It was a Waltham watch, and he
thought it would not be in character for Peter the Great to wear it.
At this moment the strains of “Home, Sweet Home” were heard from the
band, and people were seen preparing to go.
“All can go home, but we must stay,” said Mrs. Peterkin, gloomily, as
the well-known strains floated in from the larger hall.
A number of marshals came to the refreshment-room, looked at them,
whispered to each other, as the Peterkins sat in a row.
“Can we do anything for you?” asked one at last. “Would you not like to
go?” He seemed eager they should leave the room.
Mr. Peterkin explained that they could not go, as they had lost the
checks for their wraps, and hoped to find their checks on the floor when
everybody was gone. The marshal asked if they could not describe
what they had worn, in which case the loss of the checks was not so
important, as the crowds had now almost left, and it would not be
difficult to identify their wraps. Mrs. Peterkin eagerly declared she
could describe every article.
It was astonishing how the marshals hurried them through the quickly
deserted corridors, how gladly they recovered their garments! Mrs.
Peterkin, indeed, was disturbed by the eagerness of the marshals; she
feared they had some pretext for getting the family out of the hall.
Mrs. Peterkin was one of those who never consent to be forced to
anything. She would not be compelled to go home, even with strains of
music. She whispered her suspicions to Mr. Peterkin; but Agamemnon came
hastily up to announce the time, which he had learned from the clock
in the large hall. They must leave directly if they wished to catch the
latest train, as there was barely time to reach it.
Then, indeed, was Mrs. Peterkin ready to leave. If they should miss the
train!
If she should have to pass the night in the streets in her turban! She
was the first to lead the way, and, panting, the family followed her,
just in time to take the train as it was leaving the station.
The excitement was not yet over. They found in the train many of their
friends and neighbors, returning also from the Carnival; so they had
many questions put to them which they were unable to answer. Still Mrs.
Peterkin’s turban was much admired, and indeed the whole appearance
of the family; so that they felt themselves much repaid for their
exertions.
But more adventures awaited them. They left the train with their
friends; but as Mrs. Peterkin and Elizabeth Eliza were very tired, they
walked very slowly, and Solomon John and the little boys were sent
on with the pass-key to open the door. They soon returned with the
startling intelligence that it was not the right key, and they could not
get in. It was Mr. Peterkin’s office-key; he had taken it by mistake, or
he might have dropped the house-key in the cloak-room of the Carnival.
“Must we go back?” sighed Mrs. Peterkin, in an exhausted voice. More
than ever did Elizabeth Eliza regret that Agamemnon’s invention in keys
had failed to secure a patent!
It was impossible to get into the house, for Amanda had been allowed to
go and spend the night with a friend, so there was no use in ringing,
though the little boys had tried it.
“We can return to the station,” said Mr. Peterkin; “the rooms will be
warm, on account of the midnight train. We can, at least, think what we
shall do next.”
At the station was one of their neighbors, proposing to take the New
York midnight train, for it was now after eleven, and the train went
through at half-past.
“I saw lights at the locksmith’s over the way, as I passed,” he said;
“why do not you send over to the young man there? He can get your door
open for you. I never would spend the night here.”
Solomon John went over to “the young man,” who agreed to go up to the
house as soon as he had closed the shop, fit a key, and open the door,
and come back to them on his way home. Solomon John came back to the
station, for it was now cold and windy in the deserted streets. The
family made themselves as comfortable as possible by the stove, sending
Solomon John out occasionally to look for the young man. But somehow
Solomon John missed him; the lights were out in the locksmith’s shop, so
he followed along to the house, hoping to find him there.
But he was not there! He came back to report. Perhaps the young man had
opened the door and gone on home. Solomon John and Agamemnon went back
together, but they could not get in. Where was the young man? He had
lately come to town, and nobody knew where he lived, for on the return
of Solomon John and Agamemnon it had been proposed to go to the house of
the young man. The night was wearing on.
The midnight train had come and gone. The passengers who came and went
looked with wonder at Mrs. Peterkin, nodding in her turban, as she sat
by the stove, on a corner of a long bench. At last the station-master
had to leave, for a short rest. He felt obliged to lock up the station,
but he promised to return at an early hour to release them.
“Of what use,” said Elizabeth Eliza, “if we cannot even then get into
our own house?”
Mr. Peterkin thought the matter appeared bad, if the locksmith had left
town. He feared the young man might have gone in, and helped himself to
spoons, and left.
Only they should have seen him if he had taken the midnight train.
Solomon John thought he appeared honest. Mr. Peterkin only ventured to
whisper his suspicions, as he did not wish to arouse Mrs. Peterkin, who
still was nodding in the corner of the long bench.
Morning did come at last. The family decided to go to their home;
perhaps by some effort in the early daylight they might make an
entrance.
On the way they met with the night-policeman, returning from his beat.
He stopped when he saw the family.
“Ah! that accounts,” he said; “you were all out last night, and the
burglars took occasion to make a raid on your house. I caught a lively
young man in the very act; box of tools in his hand! If I had been a
minute late he would have made his way in”--The family then tried to
interrupt--to explain--“Where is he?” exclaimed Mr. Peterkin.
“Safe in the lock-up,” answered the policeman.
“But he is the locksmith!” interrupted Solomon John.
“We have no key!” said Elizabeth Eliza; “if you have locked up the
locksmith we can never get in.”
The policeman looked from one to the other, smiling slightly when he
understood the case.
“The locksmith!” he exclaimed; “he is a new fellow, and I did not
recognize him, and arrested him! Very well, I will go and let him out,
that he may let you in!” and he hurried away, surprising the Peterkin
family with what seemed like insulting screams of laughter.
“It seems to me a more serious case than it appears to him,” said Mr.
Peterkin.
Mrs. Peterkin did not understand it at all. Had burglars entered the
house? Did the policeman say they had taken spoons? And why did he
appear so pleased? She was sure the old silver teapot was locked up in
the closet of their room. Slowly the family walked towards the house,
and, almost as soon as they, the policeman appeared with the released
locksmith, and a few boys from the street, who happened to be out early.
The locksmith was not in very good humor, and took ill the jokes of the
policeman. Mr. Peterkin, fearing he might not consent to open the door,
pressed into his hand a large sum of money. The door flew open; the
family could go in.
Amanda arrived at the same moment. There was hope of breakfast. Mrs.
Peterkin staggered towards the stairs. “I shall never go to another
carnival!” she exclaimed.