Part 8 (1/2)
”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.
n.o.body 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 pa.s.s 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.”