Chapter 4

However, to return to the party, I believe nothing else was injured except the curtains in the front drawing-room, which were so smeared with ice-cream and oyster gravy, that we must get new ones; and the cover of my porcelain tureen was broken by the servant, though the man said he didn’t really mean to do it, and I could say nothing; and a party of young men, after the German Cotillion, did let fall that superb cut-glass Claret, and shivered it, with a dozen of the delicately engraved straw-stems that stood upon the waiter. That was all, I believe--oh! except that fine “Dresden Gallery,” the most splendid book I ever saw, full of engravings of the great pictures in Dresden, Vienna, and the other Italian towns, and which was sent to Mr. P. by an old friend, an artist, whom he had helped along when he was very poor. Somebody unfortunately tipped over a bottle of claret that stood upon the table, (I am sure I don’t know how it got there, though Mr. P. says Gauche Boosey knows,) and it lay soaking into the book, so that almost every picture has a claret stain, which looks so funny. I am very sorry, I am sure, but as I tell Mr. P., it’s no use crying for spilt milk. I was telling Mr. Boosey of it at the Gnus’ dinner. He laughed very much, and when I said that a good many of the faces were sadly stained, he said in his droll way, “You ought to call it _L’Opera di Bordeaux; Le Domino rouge._” I supposed it was something funny, so I laughed a good deal. He said to me later: “Shall I pour a little claret into your book--I mean into your glass?”

Wasn’t it a pretty _bon-mot?_

Don’t you think we are getting very _spirituel_ in this country?

I believe there was nothing else injured except the bed-hangings in the back room, which were somehow badly burnt and very much torn in pulling down, and a few of our handsomest shades that were cracked by the heat, and a few plates, which it was hardly fair to expect wouldn’t be broken, and the colored glass door in my _escritoire_, against which Flattie Podge fell as she was dancing with Gauche Boosey; but he may have been a little excited, you know, and she, poor girl, couldn’t help tumbling, and as her head hit the glass, of course, it broke, and cut her head badly, so that the blood ran down and naturally spoiled her dress; and what little _escritoire_ could stand against Flattie Podge? So that went, and was a good deal smashed in falling. That’s all, I think, except that the next day Mrs. Croesus sent a note, saying that she had lost her largest diamond from her necklace, and she was sure that it was not in the carriage, nor in her own house, nor upon the sidewalk, for she had carefully looked everywhere, _and she would be very glad if I would return it by the bearer._

Think of that.

Well, we hunted everywhere, and found no diamond. I took particular pains to ask the servants if they had found it, for if they had, they might as well give it up at once, without expecting any reward from Mrs. Croesus, who wasn’t very generous. But they all said they hadn’t found any diamond: and our man John, who you know is so guileless,--although it _was_ a little mysterious about that emerald pin of mine,--brought me a bit of glass that had been nicked out of my large custard dish, and asked me if that was not Mrs. Croesus’s diamond. I told him no, and gave him a gold dollar for his honesty. John is an invaluable servant; he is so guileless.

_Do you know I am not so sure about Mrs. Croesus’s diamond!_

Mr. P. made a great howling about the ball. But it was very foolish, for he got safely to bed by six o’clock, and he need have no trouble about replacing the curtains, and glass, etc. I shall do all that, and the sum total will be sent to him in a lump, so that he can pay it.

Men are so unreasonable. Fancy us at seven o’clock that morning, when I retired. He wasn’t asleep. But whose fault was that?

“Polly,” said he, “that’s the last.”

“Last what?” said I. -- “Last ball at my house,” said he.

“Fiddle-dee-dee,” said I. -- “I tell you, Mrs. Potiphar, I am not going to open my house for a crowd of people who don’t go away till daylight; who spoil my books and furniture; involve me in a foolish expense; for a gang of rowdy boys, who drink my Margaux, and Lafitte, and Marcobrunner, (what kind of drinks are those, dear Caroline?) and who don’t know Chambertin from liquorice-water,--for a swarm of persons few of whom we know fewer, still care for me, and to whom I am only ‘Old Potiphar,’ the husband of you, a fashionable woman. I am simply resolved to have no more such tomfoolery in my house.”

“Dear Mr. P.,” said I, “you’ll feel much better when you have slept. Besides, why do you say such things? Mustn’t we see our friends, I should like to know; and if we do, are you going to let your wife receive them in a manner inferior to old Mrs. Podge or Mrs. Croesus? People will accuse you of meanness, and of treating me ill; and if some persons hear that you have reduced your style of living, they will begin to suspect the state of your affairs. Don’t make any rash vows, Mr. P.,” said I, “but go to sleep.”

(Do you know that speech was just what Mrs. Croesus told me she had said to her husband under similar circumstances?)

Mr. P. fairly groaned, and I heard that short, strong little word that sometimes inadvertently drops out of the best regulated mouths, as young Gooseberry Downe says when he swears before his mother. Do you know Mrs. Settum Downe? Charming woman, but satirical.

Mr. P. groaned, and said some more ill-natured things, until the clock struck nine, and he was obliged to get up. I should be sorry to say to anybody but you, dearest, that I was rather glad of it; for I could then fall asleep at my ease; and these little connubial felicities (I think they call them) are so tiresome. But everybody agreed it was a beautiful ball; and I had the great gratification of hearing young Lord Mount Ague (you know you danced with him, love) say that it was quite the same thing as a ball at Buckingham Palace, except, of course, in size, and the number of persons, and dresses, and jewels, and the plate, and glass, and supper, and wines, and furnishing of the rooms, and lights, and some of those things, which are naturally upon a larger scale at a palace than in a private house. But, he said, excepting such things, it was quite as fine. I am afraid that Lord Mount Ague flatters; just a little bit you know.

Yes; and there was young Major Staggers, who said that “Decidedly it was _the_ party of the season.”

“How odd,” said Mrs. Croesus, to whom I told it, and, I confess, with a little pride. “What a sympathetic man: that is, for a military man, I mean. Would you believe, dear Mrs. Potiphar, that he said precisely the same thing to me two days after my ball?”

Now, Caroline, dearest, _perhaps_ he did!

With all these pleasant things said about one’s party, I cannot see that it is such a dismal thing as Mr. P. tries to make out. After one of his solemn talks, I asked Mr. Cheese what he thought of balls, whether it was so very wicked to dance, and go to parties, if one only went to church twice a day on Sundays. He patted his lips a moment with his handkerchief, and then he said,--and, Caroline, you can always quote the Rev. Cream Cheese as authority,--

“Dear Mrs. Potiphar, it is recorded in Holy Scripture that the King danced before the Lord.”

Darling, _if anything should happen,_ I don’t believe he would object much to our dancing.

What gossips we women are, to be sure! I meant to write you about our new livery and I am afraid I have tired you out already. You remember when you were here, I said that I meant to have a livery, for my sister Margaret told me that when they used to drive in Hyde Park, with the old Marquis of Mammon, it was always so delightful to hear him say, “Ah! there is Lady Lobster’s livery.”

It was so aristocratic. And in countries where certain colors distinguish certain families, and are hereditary, so to say, it is convenient and pleasant to recognize a coat-of-arms, or a livery, and to know that the representative of a great and famous family is passing by.

“That’s a Howard, that’s a Eussell, that’s a Dorset, that’s de Colique, that’s Mount Ague,” old Lord Mammon used to say as the carriages whirled by. He knew none of them personally, I believe, except de Colique and Mount Ague, but then it was so agreeable to be able to know their liveries.

Now why shouldn’t we have the same arrangement? Why not have the Smith colors, and the Brown colors, and the Black colors, and the Potiphar colors, etc., so that the people might say, “Ah! there goes the Potiphar arms.”

There is one difficulty, Mr. P. says, and that is, that he found five hundred and sixty-seven Smiths in the Directory, which might lead to some confusion. But that was absurd, as I told him, because everybody would know which of the Smiths was able to keep a carriage, so that the livery would be recognized directly the moment that any of the family were seen in a carriage. Upon which he said, in his provoking way, “Why have any livery at all, then?” and he persisted in saying that no Smith was ever _the_ Smith for three generations, and that he knew at least twenty, each of whom was able to set up his carriage and stand by his colors.

“But then a livery is so elegant and aristocratic,” said I, “and it shows that a servant is a servant.”

That last was a strong argument, and I thought Mr. P. would have nothing to say against it; but he rattled on for some time, asking me what right I had to be aristocratic, or, in fact, anybody else;--went over his eternal old talk about aping foreign habits, as if we hadn’t a right to adopt the good usages of all nations, and finally said that the use of liveries among us was not only a “pure peacock absurdity,” as he called it, but that no genuine American would ever ask another to assume a menial badge.

“Why!” said I, “is not an American servant a servant still?”

“Most undoubtedly,” he said; “and when a man is a servant, let him serve faithfully; and in this country especially, where to-morrow he may be served, and not the servant, let him not be ashamed of serving. But, Mrs. Potiphar, I beg you to observe that a servant’s livery is not, like a general’s uniform the badge of honorable service, but of menial service. Of course, a servant may be as honorable as a general, and his work quite as necessary and well done. But, for all that, it is not so respected nor coveted a situation, I believe; and, in social estimation, a man suffers by wearing a livery, as he never would if he wore none. And while in countries in which a man is proud of being a servant (as every man may well be of being a good one), and never looks to anything else, nor desires any change, a livery may be very proper to the state of society, and very agreeable to his own feelings, it is quite another thing in a society constituted upon altogether different principles, where the servant of to-day is the senator of to-morrow. Besides that, which I suppose is too fine-spun for you, livery is a remnant of a feudal state, of which we abolish every trace as fast as we can. That which is represented by livery is not consonant with our principles.”

How the man runs on, when he gets going this way! I said, in answer to all this flourish, that I considered a livery very much the thing; that European families had liveries and American families might have liveries;--that there was an end of it, and I meant to have one. Besides if it is a matter of family, I should like to know who has a better right? There was Mr. Potiphar’s grandfather, to be sure, was only a skilful blacksmith and a good citizen, as Mr. P. says, who brought up a family in the fear of the Lord.

How oddly he puts those things!

But _my_ ancestors, as you know, are a different matter. Starr Mole, who interests himself in genealogies, and knows the family name and crest of all the English nobility, has “climbed our family tree,” as Staggers says, and finds that I am lineally descended from one of those two brothers who came over in some of those old times, in some of those old ships, and settled in some of those old places somewhere. So you see, dear Caroline, if birth gives any one a right to coats of arms and liveries, and all those things, I feel myself sufficiently entitled to have them.

But I don’t care anything about that. The Gnus, and Croesuses, and Silkes, and the Settum Downes, have their coats of arms, and crests, and liveries, and I am not going to be behind, I tell you. Mr. P. ought to remember that a great many of these families were famous before they came to this country; and there is a kind of interest in having on your ring, for instance, the same crest that your ancestor two or three centuries ago had upon her ring. One day I was quite wrought up about the matter, and I said as much to him.

“Certainly,” said he, “certainly; you are quite right. If I had Sir Philip Sidney to my ancestor, I should wear his crest upon my ring, and glory in my relationship, and I hope I should be a better man for it. I wouldn’t put his arms upon my carriage, however, because that would mean nothing but ostentation. It would be merely a flourish of trumpets to say that I was his descendant, and nobody would know that, either, if my name chanced to be Boggs. In my library I might hang a copy of the family escutcheon as a matter of interest and curiosity to myself, for I’m sure I shouldn’t understand it. Do you suppose Mrs. Gnu knows what _gules argent_ are? A man may be as proud of his family as he chooses, and, if he has noble ancestors, with good reason. But there is no sense in parading that pride. It is an affectation, the more foolish that it achieves nothing--no more credit at Stewart’s--no more real respect in society. Besides, Polly, who were Mrs. Gnu’s ancestors, or Mrs. Croesus’s, or Mrs. Settum Downe’s? Good, quiet, honest, and humble people, who did their work, and rest from their labors. Centuries ago, in England, some drops of blood from ‘noble’ veins may have mingled with the blood of the forefathers; or even, the founder of the family name may be historically famous. What then? Is Mrs. Gnu’s family ostentation less absurd? Do you understand the meaning of her crest, and coats of arms, and liveries? Do you suppose she does herself? But in forty-nine cases out of fifty, there is nothing but a similarity of name upon which to found all this flourish of aristocracy.”

My dear old Pot is getting rather prosy, Carrie. So when he had finished that long speech, during which I was looking at the lovely fashion plates in Harper, I said:

“What colors do you think I’d better have?”

He looked at me with that singular expression, and went out suddenly, as if he were afraid he might say something.

He had scarcely gone before I heard:

“My dear Mrs. Potiphar, the sight of you is refreshing as Hermon’s dew.”

I colored a little; Mr. Cheese says such things so softly. But I said good morning, and then asked him about liveries, etc.

He raised his hand to his cravat, (it was the most snowy lawn, Carrie, and tied in a splendid bow.)

“Is not this a livery, dear Mrs. Potiphar?”

And then he went off into one of those pretty talks, in what Mr. P. calls the “language of artificial flowers,” and wound up by quoting Scripture,--“Servants, obey your masters.”

That was enough for me. So I told Mr. Cheese that as he had already assisted me in colors once, I should be most glad to have him do so again. What a time we had, to be sure, talking of colors, and cloths, and gaiters, and buttons, and knee-breeches, and waistcoats, and plush, and coats, and lace, and hatbands, and gloves, and cravats, and cords, and tassels, and hats. Oh! it was delightful. You can’t fancy how heartily the Rev. Cream entered into the matter. He was quite enthusiastic, and at last he said, with so much expression, “Dear Mrs. Potiphar, why not have a _chasseur?_”

I thought it was some kind of French dish for lunch, so I said:

“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?