The Potiphar Papers. George William Curtis
miserable blackcoats. But, do you know, it strikes me as a generosity of display that must necessarily leave the donor poorer in maidenly feeling.” We thought ourselves cynical, but this was intolerable; and in a very crisp manner we demanded an apology.
“Why,” responded our friend with more of sadness than of satire in his tone, “why are you so exasperated? Look at this scene! Consider that this is, really, the life of these girls. This is what they ‘come out’ for. This is the end of their ambition. They think of it, dream of it, long for it. Is it amusement? Yes, to a few, possibly. But listen, and gather, if you can, from their remarks (when they make any) that they have any thought beyond this, and going to church very rigidly on Sunday. The vigor of polking and church-going are proportioned; as is the one so is the other. My young friend, I am no ascetic, and do not suppose a man is damned because he dances. But Life is not a ball (more’s the pity, truly, for these butterflies), nor is its sole duty and delight, dancing. When I consider this spectacle—when I remember what a noble and beautiful woman is, what a manly man—when I reel, dazzled by this glare, drunken with these perfumes, confused by this alluring music, and reflect upon the enormous sums wasted in a pompous profusion that delights no one—when I look around upon all this rampant vulgarity in tinsel and Brussels lace, and think how fortunes go, how men struggle and lose the bloom of their honesty, how women hide in a smiling pretence, and eye with caustic glances their neighbor’s newer house, diamonds, or porcelain, and observe their daughters, such as these—why, I tremble and tremble, and this scene to-night, every ‘crack’ ball this winter will be, not the pleasant society of men and women, but—even in this young country—an orgie such as rotting Corinth saw, a frenzied festival of Rome in its decadence.”
There was a sober truth in this bitterness, and we turned away to escape the sombre thought of the moment. Addressing one of the panting Houris who stood melting in a window, we spoke (and confess how absurdly) of the Düsseldorf Gallery. It was merely to avoid saying how warm the room was, and how pleasant the party was; facts upon which we had already sufficiently enlarged. “Yes, they are pretty pictures; but la! how long it must have taken Mr. Düsseldorf to paint them all;” was the reply.
By the Farnesian Hercules! no Roman sylph in her city’s decline would ever have called the sun-god, Mr. Apollo. We hope that Houri melted entirely away in the window, but we certainly did not stay to see.
Passing out toward the supper-room we encountered two young men. “What, Hal,” said one, “you at Mrs. Potiphar’s?” It seems that Hal was a sprig of one of the old “families.” “Well, Joe,” said Hal, a little confused, “it is a little strange. The fact is I didn’t mean to be here, but I concluded to compromise by coming, and not being introduced to the host.” Hal could come, eat Potiphar’s supper, drink his wines, spoil his carpets, laugh at his fashionable struggles, and affect the puppyism of a foreign Lord, because he disgraced the name of a man who had done some service somewhere, while Potiphar was only an honest man who made a fortune.
The supper-room was a pleasant place. The table was covered with a chaos of supper. Everything sweet and rare, and hot and cold, solid and liquid, was there. It was the very apotheosis of gilt gingerbread. There was a universal rush and struggle. The charge of the guards at Waterloo was nothing to it. Jellies, custards, oyster-soup, ice-cream, wine and water, gushed in profuse cascades over transparent precipices of tulle, muslin, gauze, silk, and satin. Clumsy boys tumbled against costly dresses and smeared them with preserves—when clean plates failed, the contents of plates already used were quietly “chucked” under the table—heeltaps of champagne were poured into the oyster tureens or overflowed upon plates to clear the glasses—wine of all kinds flowed in torrents, particularly down the throats of very young men, who evinced their manhood by becoming noisy, troublesome, and disgusting, and were finally either led, sick, into the hat room, or carried out of the way, drunk. The supper over, the young people attended by their matrons descended to the dancing-room for the “German.” This is a dance commencing usually at midnight or a little after, and continuing indefinitely toward daybreak. The young people were attended by their matrons, who were there to supervise the morals and manners of their charges. To secure the performance of this duty, the young people took good care to sit where the matrons could not see them, nor did they, by any chance, look toward the quarter in which the matrons sat. In that quarter through all the varying mazes of the prolonged dance, to two o’clock, to three, to four, sat the bediamonded dowagers, the mothers, the matrons—against nature, against common sense. They babbled with each other, they drowsed, they dozed. Their fans fell listless into their laps. In the adjoining room, out of the waking sight, even, of the then sleeping mammas, the daughters whirled in the close embrace of partners who had brought down bottles of champagne from the supper-room, and put them by the side of their chairs for occasional refreshment during the dance. The dizzy hours staggered by—“Azalia, you must come now,” had been already said a dozen times, but only as by the scribes. Finally it was declared with authority. Azalia went—Amelia—Arabella. The rest followed. There was a prolonged cloaking, there were lingering farewells. A few papas were in the supper-room, sitting among the débris of game. A few young non-dancing husbands sat beneath gas unnaturally bright, reading whatever chance book was at hand, and thinking of the young child at home waiting for mamma who was dancing the “German” below. A few exhausted matrons sat in the robing-room, tired, sad, wishing Jane would come up; assailed at intervals by a vague suspicion that it was not quite worth while; wondering how it was they used to have such good times at balls; yawning and looking at their watches; while the regular beat of the music below, with sardonic sadness, continued. At last Jane came up, had had the most glorious time, and went down with mamma to the carriage, and so drove home. Even the last Jane went—the last noisy youth was expelled, and Mr. and Mrs. Potiphar having duly performed their biennial social duty, dismissed the music, ordered the servants to count the spoons, and an hour or two after daylight went to bed. Enviable Mr. and Mrs. Potiphar!
We are now prepared for the great moral indignation of the friend who saw us eating our dinde aux truffes in that remarkable supper-room. We are waiting to hear him say in the most moderate and “gentlemanly” manner, that it is all very well to select flaws and present them as specimens, and to learn from him, possibly with indignant publicity, that the present condition of parties is not what we have intimated. Or, in his quiet and pointed way, he may smile at our fiery assault upon edged flounces and nuga pyramids, and the kingdom of Lilliput in general.
Yet, after all, and despite the youths who are led out, and carried home, or who stumble through the “German,” this is a sober matter. My friend told us we should see the “best society.” But he is a prodigious wag. Who make this country? From whom is its character of unparalleled enterprise, heroism and success derived? Who have given it its place in the respect and the fear of the world? Who, annually, recruit its energies, confirm its progress, and secure its triumph? Who are its characteristic children, the pith, the sinew, the bone, of its prosperity? Who found, and direct, and continue its manifold institutions of mercy and education? Who are, essentially, Americans? Indignant friend, these classes, whoever they may be, are the “best society,” because they alone are the representatives of its character and cultivation. They are the “best society” of New York, of Boston, of Baltimore, of St. Louis, of New Orleans, whether they live upon six hundred or sixty thousand dollars a year—whether they inhabit princely houses in fashionable streets (which they often do), or not—whether their sons have graduated at Celarius’ and the Jardin Mabille, or have never been out of their fathers’ shops—whether they have “air” and “style,” and are “so gentlemanly” and “so aristocratic,” or not. Your shoemaker, your lawyer, your butcher, your clergyman—if they are simple and steady, and, whether rich or poor, are unseduced by the sirens of extravagance and ruinous display, help make up the “best society.” For that mystic communion is not composed of the rich, but of the worthy; and is “best” by its virtues, and not by its vices. When Johnson, Burke, Goldsmith, Garrick, Reynolds, and their friends, met at supper in Goldsmith’s rooms, where was the “best society” in England? When George the Fourth outraged humanity and decency in his treatment of Queen Caroline, who was the first scoundrel in Europe?
Pause yet a moment, indignant friend. Whose habits and principles would ruin this country as rapidly