The Potiphar Papers Part 13

He went with us to the opera, where we were to see the Countess de Papillon and Madame Casta Diva. The house was full, and the young gentlemen had told us where to look for their box. Mrs. Potiphar had made Mr. P. as presentable as possible, and begged the Sennaar Minister to see that Mr. P. did not talk too loud, nor go to sleep, nor offend the proprieties in any way; especially to cut off all his attempts at speaking French. She had hired the most expensive box.

"People respect money, my dear," said Mrs. Potiphar to me.

"But not always its owners, my dear," whispered Kurz Pacha in my other ear.

When we entered the box all the gla.s.ses in the house were levelled at us. Mrs. Potiphar gayly seated herself in the best seat, nodding and chatting with the Amba.s.sador; her diamonds glittering, her brocade glistening, her fan waving, while I slipped into the seat opposite, and Mr. Potiphar stood behind me in a dazzling expanse of white waistcoat, and his gla.s.s in his eye, as Mrs. P. had taught him.

"A very successful entree" whispered the Pacha to Mrs. P. "I shall give out to my friends that it is the heiress presumptive of the Comanchees."

"No, really; what is the Comanchees?" said Polly levelling her gla.s.s all round the house, and laughing, and talking, and rustling, as if she were very, very happy.

Suddenly there was a fresh volley of gla.s.ses towards our box, and, to our perfect dismay, we turned and saw that Mr. Potiphar had advanced to the front, and having put down his eye-gla.s.s, had taken out his old, round, silver-barred spectacles, and was deliberately wiping them with that great sheet of a hideous red bandanna, "prepartory to an exhaustive survey of the house," whispered Kurz Pacha to me.

Mrs. P. wouldn't betray any emotion, but still smiling, she hissed to him, under her breath:

"Mr. P., get back this minute. Don't make a fool of yourself. _Mais, monsieur, c'est vraiment charmant._"

The latter sentence was addressed with smiles to the Amba.s.sador, as she saw that the neighbor in the next box was listening.

"It's uncommonly warm," said Mr. Potiphar in a loud tone, as he wiped his forehead with the bandanna.

"Yes, I observe that Mrs. Potiphar betrays the heat in her face," said the Pacha, "which however, is merely a becoming carnation, Madame,"

concluded he, sinking his voice, and rubbing his hands.

At that moment in the box opposite, I saw our friends, Mr. Boosey and Mr. Firkin. By their sides sat two such handsome women! They wore a great quant.i.ty of jewelry, and had the easiest, most smiling faces you ever saw. They entered making a great noise, and I could see that the modesty of our friends kept them in the rear. For they seemed almost afraid of being seen.

"I like that," said Kurz Pacha; "it shows that such stern republicans don't intend ever to appear delighted with the smiles of n.o.bility."

"The largest one is Madame la Marquise Casta Diva," said Mrs. Potiphar, scanning them carefully, "I know her by her patrician air. What a splendid thing blood is, to be sure!"

She gave herself several minutes to study the toilette of the lady, while I looked at the younger lady, Countess de Papillon, who had all kinds of little fluttering ends of ribbons, and laces, and scallops, and ruffles, and was altogether so stylis.h.!.+

"I see now where Mr. Firkin gets his elegant manners," said Mrs. Potiphar; "it is a great privilege for young Americans to be admitted familiarly into such society. I now understand better the tone of their conversation when they refer to the French Salons."

"Yes, my dear Madame," answered the Pacha, "this is indeed making the best of one's opportunities. This is well worth coming to Europe for.

It is, in fact, for this that Europe is chiefly valuable to an American, as the experience of an observer shows. Paris is, notoriously, the great centre of historical and romantic interest. To be sure, Italy, Rome, Switzerland, and Germany,--yes, and even England,--have some few objects of interest and attention. But the really great things of Europe, the superior interests, are all in Paris. Why, just reflect. Here is the _Cafe de Paris_, the _Trois Freres_, and the _Maison Doree_. I don't think you can get such dinners elsewhere. Then, there is the Grand Opera, the Comic Opera, and now and then the Italian--I rather think that is good music. Are there any such theatres as the _Vaudeville,_ the _Varietes,_ and the _Montansier,_ where there is the most dexterous balancing on the edge of decency that ever you saw; and when the balance is lost, as it always is, at least a dozen times every evening, the applause is tremendous, showing that the audience have such a subtile sense of propriety that they can detect the slightest deviation from the right line. Is there not the _Louvre_, where, if there is not the best picture of a single great artist, there are good specimens of all? Will you please to show me such a promenade as the Boulevards, such fetes as those of the _Champ Elysees_, such shops as those of the _Pa.s.sages_, and the _Palais Royal_. Above all, will you indicate to such students of mankind as Mr. Boosey, Mr.

Firkin, and I, a city more abounding in piquant little women, with eyes, and coiffures and toilettes, and _je ne sais quoi_, enough to make Diogenes a dandy, to obtain their favor? I think, dear Madame, you would be troubled to do it. And while these things are Paris, while we are sure of an illimitable allowance of all this in the gay capital, we do right to remain here. Let who will, sadden in mouldy old Rome, or luxuriate in the orange-groves of Sorento and the south, or wander among the ruins of the most marvellous of empires, and the monuments of art of the highest human genius, or float about the ca.n.a.ls of Venice, or woo the Venus and the Apollo; and learn from the silent lips of those teachers a lore sweeter than the French novelists impart;--let who will, climb the tremendous Alps, and feel the sublimity of Switzerland as he rises from the summer of Italian lakes and vineyards to the winter of the glaciers, or makes the tour of all climates in a day by descending those mountains towards the south;--let those who care for it, explore in Germany the sources of modern history, and the remote beginnings of the American spirit;--ours be the Boulevards, the demoiselles, the operas, and the unequalled dinners. Decency requires that we should see Rome, and climb an Alps. We will devote a summer week to the one, and a winter month to the other. They will restore us renewed and refreshed for the manly, generous, n.o.ble, and useful life we lead in Paris."

"Admirably said," returned Mrs. Potiphar, who had been studying the ladies opposite while the Pacha was speaking, "but a little bit prosy," she whispered to me.

It would charm you to hear how intelligently Mrs. P. speaks about French society, since that evening at the opera. When we return, you will find how accomplished she is. We have been here only a few weeks, and we already know all the fas.h.i.+onable shops, and a little more French, and we go to the confectioners, and eat _savarins_ every morning at 12, and we drive in the _Bois de Boulogne_ in the afternoon, and we dine splendidly, and in the evening we go to the opera or a theatre. To be sure, we don't have much society beside our own party. But then the shop-girls point out the distinguished women to Mrs. Potiphar, so that she can point them out when we drive; and our banker calls and keeps us up in gossip; and Mrs. Potiphar's maid, Adele, is inestimable in furnis.h.i.+ng information; and Mr. Potiphar gets a great deal out of his commissionaire, and goes about studying his Galignani's Guide, and frequents the English Heading Room, where I am told, he makes himself a little conspicuous when he finds that Englishmen won't talk, by saying, "Oh! dear me!" and wiping his face with a bandanna. He usually opens his advances by making sure of an Englishman, and saying, "_Bon matin,_--but, perhaps, sir, you don't speak French."

"You evidently do not, sir," replied one gentleman.

"No, sir; you're right there," answered Mr. P. But he couldn't get another word from his companion.

In this delightful round the weeks glide by.

"You must be enjoying yourself immensely," says the Pacha. "You understand life, my dear Mrs. Potiphar. Here you are, speaking very little French, in a city where the language is an atmosphere, and where you are in no sense acclimated until you can speak it fluently--with all French life shut out from you--living in a hotel--cheated by butcher, baker, and candlestick-maker--going to hear plays that you imperfectly understand--to an opera where you know n.o.body, and where your box is filled with your own countrymen, who are delightful, indeed, but whom you didn't come to Paris to see--constantly buying a hundred things because they are pretty, and because you are in Paris--entirely ignorant, and quite as careless, of the historical interests of the city, of the pictures, of the statues, and buildings--surrounded by celebrities of all kinds, of whom you never heard, and therefore lose the opportunity of seeing them--in fact, paying the most extravagant price for everything, and purchasing only the consciousness of being in Paris--why, you ought to be happy, and considered to be having a fine time of it, if you are not? How naturally you will sigh for all this when you return and recur to Paris as the culmination of human bliss! Here's my honored Potiphar, who has this morning been taken to a darkened room in a grand old house, in a lonely, aristocratic street; and there a picture-agent has shown him a splendid Nicolas Poussin, painted in his prime for the family, whose heir in reduced circ.u.mstances must now part with it at a tearful sacrifice. Honored P.'s friend, the commissionaire, interprets this story, while the agent stands sadly meditating the sacrifice with which his duty acquaints him. He informs the good P., through the friendly commissionaire, that he has been induced to offer him the picture, not only because all Americans have so fine a taste (as his experience has proved to him) in paintings, nor because they are so much more truly munificent than the n.o.bility of other nations, but because the heir in reduced circ.u.mstances wishes to think of the picture as entirely removed from the possibility of being seen in France. Family pride, which is almost crushed in disposing of so great and valued a work, would be entirely quenched, if the sale were to be known, and the picture recognized elsewhere in the country. Monsieur is a gentleman, and he will understand the feelings of a gentleman under such circ.u.mstances. The commissionaire and the picture-agent therefore preserve a profound silence, and my honored friend feels for his red bandanna, and is not comfortable in the lonely old house, with the picture and the people. The agent says that it is not unusual for the owner to visit the picture about that very hour, to hear what chance there is for its sale. If this knock should be he, it would not be very remarkable. The heir enters. He has a very heavy moustache, dark hair, and a slightly Hebrew cast of countenance.

"Mr. Potiphar is introduced. The heir contemplates the picture sadly, and he and the agent point out its beauties to each other. In fine, my honored Potiphar buys the work of art. To any one else, of course, in France, for instance, the price should be eleven thousand francs. But the French and the Americans have fraternized; a thousand francs shall be deducted.

"You see clearly it's quite worth while coming to Paris to do this, because I suppose, there are not more than ten or twenty artists at home who could paint ten or twenty times as good a picture for a quarter of the price. But you, dearest Mrs. P., who know all about pictures, naturally don't want American pictures in your house, any more than you want anything else American there.

"My young friends and allies, Messrs. Boosey, Firkin, and Croesus, say that they come to Paris to see the world. They get the words wrong, you know. They come that the world (that is, _their_ world at home) may not see them. To accompany Mesdames de Papillon and Casta Diva to the opera, then to return to beautifully furnished apartments to sup, and to prolong the entertainment until morning, is what those charming youths mean when they say 'see the world.' To attend at that _reunion_ of the _Haut Ton_, Monsieur Celarius' dancing academy, is to see good society in Paris, after the manner of those das.h.i.+ng men of the world. It's amusing enough, and it's innocent enough in its way. They won't go very far. They'll spend a good deal of money for nothing. They'll be plucked at gaming-houses. They'll be quietly laughed at by Mesdames de Papillon and Casta Diva, and the male friends of those ladies who enjoy the benefit of the lavish bounty of our young Croesus and Firkins. They'll swagger a good deal, and take airs, and come home and indulge in foreign habits now grown indispensable. They will p.r.o.nounce upon the female toilette, and upon the _gantier le plus comme il faut_, in Paris. They will beg your pardon for expressing a little phrase in French--to which, really the English is inadequate. They will have, necessarily, the foreign air. Some of them will settle away into business men, and be very exemplary. Others will return to Paris, as moths to the light, a.s.serting that the only place for a gentleman to live agreeably, to indulge his tastes, and get the most for his money, is Paris--which is strictly true of such gentlemen as they. A view of life that starts from the dinner-table, inevitably selects Paris for its career. For, obviously, if you live to dine well you must live where there is good cooking.

"You women are rather worse off than the young men, Mrs. P.; because you are necessarily so much more confined to the house. Unless, indeed, you imitate Mrs. Vite, who goes wherever the gentlemen go, and who is famous as _L'Americaine_. If you like that sort of thing, you can do as much of it as you please. It will always surround you with a certain kind of man,--and withdraw from your society a certain kind of woman, and a certain kind of respect."

{Ill.u.s.tration}

"To conclude my sermon, ladies, Europe is a charmed name to Americans, because in Europe are the fountains of all our education and training.

History is the story of that hemisphere; the ruins of empires, arts, and civilizations, are here. Now, if there is any use in living at all, which I am far from a.s.serting, is it worth while to get nothing out of Europe but a prolonged supper with Madame Casta Diva, or a wardrobe of all the charming dresses in Paris, and a facility of scandal which has all the wickedness and none of the wit of the finest French-woman? I beg a thousand pardons for preaching, but the text was altogether too pregnant."

And so Kurz Pacha whirled out of the room, humming a waltz of Strauss. He has heard of his recall to Sennaar since he has been here--and we shall hear nothing more of him. We, too, leave Paris in a few days for home, and you will not hear from us again. Mrs. Potiphar has been as busy as possible getting up the greatest variety of dresses. You will see that she has not been to Paris for nothing. Kurz Pacha asked us if we had been to the Louvre, where the great pictures are. But when I inquired if there were any of Mr. Dusseldorf's there, and he said no, why, of course, as he is my favorite, and I know more of his works than I do of any others, I didn't go. There are some very pretty things there, Mr. Boosey says. But ladies have no time for such matters. Do you know, the other evening we went to the ball at the Tuileries, and oh! it was splendid. There were one duke and three marquesses, and a great many counts, presented to me. They all said, "It's charming, this evening," and I said, "very charming, indeed."

Wasn't it nice?

But you should have seen Mrs. Potiphar when the Emperor Napoleon III. spoke to her. You know what a great man he is, and what a benefactor to his country, and how pure, and n.o.ble, and upright his private character and career have been; and how, as Kurz Pacha said, he is radiant with royalty, and honors everybody to whom he speaks. Well, Mrs. P. was presented, and sank almost to the ground in her reverence. But she actually trembled with delight when the Emperor said:

"Madame, I remember with the greatest pleasure the beautiful city of New York."

I am sure the Emgress Eugenie would have been jealous, could she have heard the tone in which it was said. Wasn't it affable in such a great monarch towards a mere republican? I wonder how people can slander him so, and tell such stories about him. I never saw a nicer man; only he looks sleepy. I suppose the cares of state oppress him, poor man! But one thing you may be sure of, dear Mrs. Downe, if people at home laugh at the Emperor and condemn him, just find out _if they have ever been invited to the Tuileries_. If not, you will understand the reason of their hatred. Mrs. Potiphar says to the Americans here that she can't hear the Emperor spoken against, for they are on the best of terms.

"Of course the French dislike him" says Mr. Firkin, who has a turn for politics, "for they want a republic before they are ready for it."

How you would enjoy all this, dear, and how sorry I am you are not here. I think Mr. Potiphar is rather disconsolate. He whistles and looks out of the window down into the garden of the Tuileries, where the children play under the trees; and as he looks he stops whistling, and gazes sometimes for half an hour; and whenever he goes out afterward, he is sure to buy something for Freddy. When the shopkeeper asks where it shall be sent, Mr. P. says, in a loud, slow voice--"Hotel Mureece, Kattery-vang-sank-o-trorsyaim."

It is astonis.h.i.+ng, as Kurz Pacha said that we are not more respected abroad. "Foreigners will never know what you really are," said he to Mr. P., "until they come to you. Your going to them has failed."

Good bye, dearest Mrs. Downe. We are so sorry to come home! You won't hear from us again.

Your ever affectionate

CAROLINE

VI. -- KURZ PACHA TO THE KING OF SENNAAR,

UPON RECEIVING HIS LETTERS OF RECALL.

(NOW FIRST TRANSLATED.)

MOST SABLE AND SERENE MASTER:

I hear and obey. You said to me, Go, and I went. You now say, come, and I am coming, with the readiness that befits a slave, and the cheerfulness that marks the philosopher.