Our Best Society
by George William Curtis
If gilt were only gold, or sugar-candy common sense, what a fine thing
our society would be! If to lavish money upon objets de vertu, to wear
the most costly dresses, and always to have them cut in the height of
the fashion; to build houses thirty feet broad, as if they were palaces;
to furnish them with all the luxurious devices of Parisian genius; to
give superb banquets, at which your guests laugh, and which make you
miserable; to drive a fine carriage and ape European liveries, and
crests, and coats-of-arms; to resent the friendly advances of your
baker's wife, and the lady of your butcher (you being yourself a
cobbler's daughter); to talk much of the "old families" and of your
aristocratic foreign friends; to despise labor; to prate of "good
society"; to travesty and parody, in every conceivable way, a society
which we know only in books and by the superficial observation of
foreign travel, which arises out of a social organization entirely
unknown to us, and which is opposed to our fundamental and essential
principles; if all this were fine, what a prodigiously fine society
would ours be!
This occurred to us upon lately receiving a card of invitation to
a brilliant ball. We were quietly ruminating over our evening fire,
with Disraeli's Wellington speech, "all tears," in our hands, with
the account of a great man's burial, and a little man's triumph across
the channel. So many great men gone, we mused, and such great crises
impending! This democratic movement in Europe; Kossuth and Mazzini
waiting for the moment to give the word; the Russian bear watchfully
sucking his paws; the Napoleonic empire redivivus; Cuba, and annexation,
and Slavery; California and Australia, and the consequent considerations
of political economy; dear me! exclaimed we, putting on a fresh hodful
of coal, we must look a little into the state of parties.
As we put down the coal-scuttle, there was a knock at the door. We said,
"come in," and in came a neat Alhambra-watered envelope, containing the
announcement that the queen of fashion was "at home" that evening week.
Later in the evening, came a friend to smoke a cigar. The card was lying
upon the table, and he read it with eagerness. "You'll go, of course,"
said he, "for you will meet all the 'best society.'"
Shall we, truly? Shall we really see the "best society of the city," the
picked flower of its genius, character and beauty? What makes the "best
society" of men and women? The noblest specimens of each, of course. The
men who mould the time, who refresh our faith in heroism and virtue, who
make Plato, and Zeno, and Shakespeare, and all Shakespeare's gentlemen,
possible again. The women, whose beauty, and sweetness, and dignity, and
high accomplishment, and grace, make us understand the Greek mythology,
and weaken our desire to have some glimpse of the most famous women
of history. The "best society" is that in which the virtues are most
shining, which is the most charitable, forgiving, long-suffering,
modest, and innocent. The "best society" is, by its very name, that in
which there is the least hypocrisy and insincerity of all kinds, which
recoils from, and blasts, artificiality, which is anxious to be all
that it is possible to be, and which sternly reprobates all shallow
pretense, all coxcombry and foppery, and insists upon simplicity as
the infallible characteristic of true worth. That is the "best
society," which comprises the best men and women.
Had we recently arrived from the moon, we might, upon hearing that we
were to meet the "best society," have fancied that we were about to
enjoy an opportunity not to be overvalued. But unfortunately we were
not so freshly arrived. We had received other cards, and had perfected
our toilette many times, to meet this same society, so magnificently
described, and had found it the least "best" of all. Who compose it?
Whom shall we meet if we go to this ball? We shall meet three classes of
persons: first, those who are rich, and who have all that money can buy;
second, those who belong to what are technically called "the good old
families," because some ancestor was a man of mark in the state or
country, or was very rich, and has kept the fortune in the family;
and, thirdly, a swarm of youths who can dance dexterously, and who are
invited for that purpose. Now these are all arbitrary and factitious
distinctions upon which to found so profound a social difference as that
which exists in American, or, at least in New York, society. First, as a
general rule, the rich men of every community, who make their own money,
are not the most generally intelligent and cultivated. They have a
shrewd talent which secures a fortune, and which keeps them closely at
the work of amassing from their youngest years until they are old. They
are sturdy men, of simple tastes often. Sometimes, though rarely, very
generous, but necessarily with an altogether false and exaggerated idea
of the importance of money. They are a rather rough, unsympathetic,
and, perhaps, selfish class, who, themselves, despise purple and fine
linen, and still prefer a cot-bed and a bare room, although they may
be worth millions. But they are married to scheming, or ambitious, or
disappointed women, whose life is a prolonged pageant, and they are
dragged hither and thither in it, are bled of their golden blood, and
forced into a position they do not covet and which they despise. Then
there are the inheritors of wealth. How many of them inherit the valiant
genius and hard frugality which built up their fortunes; how many
acknowledge the stern and heavy responsibility of their opportunities
how many refuse to dream their lives away in a Sybarite luxury; how
many are smitten with the lofty ambition of achieving an enduring name
by works of a permanent value; how many do not dwindle into dainty
dilettanti, and dilute their manhood with factitious sentimentality
instead of a hearty, human sympathy; how many are not satisfied with
having the fastest horses and the "crackest" carriages, and an unlimited
wardrobe, and a weak affectation and puerile imitation of foreign life?
And who are these of our secondly, these "old families?" The spirit
of our time and of our country knows no such thing, but the habitue
of "society" hears constantly of "a good family." It means simply,
the collective mass of children, grand-children, nephews, nieces, and
descendants, of some man who deserved well of his country, and whom
his country honors. But sad is the heritage of a great name! The son
of Burke will inevitably be measured by Burke. The niece of Pope must
show some superiority to other women (so to speak), or her equality is
inferiority. The feeling of men attributes some magical charm to blood,
and we look to see the daughter of Helen as fair as her mother, and the
son of Shakespeare musical as his sire. If they are not so, if they are
merely names, and common persons--if there is no Burke, nor Shakespeare,
nor Washington, nor Bacon, in their words, or actions, or lives, then we
must pity them, and pass gently on, not upbraiding them, but regretting
that it is one of the laws of greatness that it dwindles all things
in its vicinity, which would otherwise show large enough. Nay, in our
regard for the great man, we may even admit to a compassionate honor, as
pensioners upon our charity, those who bear and transmit his name. But
if these heirs should presume upon that fame, and claim any precedence
of living men and women because their dead grandfather was a hero--they
must be shown the door directly. We should dread to be born a Percy, or
a Colonna, or a Bonaparte. We should not like to be the second Duke of
Wellington, nor Charles Dickens, Jr. It is a terrible thing, one would
say, to a mind of honorable feeling, to be pointed out as somebody's
son, or uncle, or granddaughter, as if the excellence were all derived.
It must be a little humiliating to reflect that if your great-uncle had
not been somebody, you would be nobody--that, in fact, you are only a
name, and that, if you should consent to change it for the sake of a
fortune, as is sometimes done, you would cease to be anything but a rich
man. "My father was President, or Governor of the State," some pompous
man may say. But, by Jupiter! king of gods and men, what are you? is
the instinctive response. Do you not see, our pompous friend, that you
are only pointing your own unimportance? If your father was Governor
of the State, what right have you to use that fact only to fatten your
self-conceit? Take care, good care; for whether you say it by your lips
or by your life, that withering response awaits you--"then what are
you?" If your ancestor was great, you are under bonds to greatness.
If you are small, make haste to learn it betimes, and, thanking heaven
that your name has been made illustrious, retire into a corner and keep
it, at least, untarnished.
Our thirdly, is a class made by sundry French tailors, bootmakers,
dancing-masters, and Mr. Brown. They are a corps-de-ballet, for use
of private entertainments. They are fostered by society for the use of
young debutantes, and hardier damsels, who have dared two or three years
of the "tight" polka. They are cultivated for their heels, not their
heads. Their life begins at ten o'clock in the evening, and lasts
until four in the morning. They go home and sleep until nine; then they
reel, sleepy, to counting-houses and offices, and doze on desks until
dinnertime. Or, unable to do that, they are actively at work all
day, and their cheeks grow pale, and their lips thin, and their eyes
bloodshot and hollow, and they drag themselves home at evening to catch
a nap until the ball begins, or to dine and smoke at their club, and the
very manly with punches and coarse stories; and then to rush into hot
and glittering rooms, and seize very decollete girls closely around
the waist, and dash with them around an area of stretched linen, saying
in the panting pauses, "How very hot it is!" "How very pretty Miss Podge
looks!" "What a good redowa!" "Are you going to Mrs. Potiphar's?"
Is this the assembled flower of manhood and womanhood, called "best
society," and to see which is so envied a privilege? If such are the
elements, can we be long in arriving at the present state, and
necessary future condition of parties?
Vanity Fair is peculiarly a picture of modern society. It aims
at English follies, but its mark is universal, as the madness is. It is
called a satire, but, after much diligent reading, we can not discover
the satire. A state of society not at all superior to that of Vanity
Fair is not unknown to our experience; and, unless truth-telling be
satire; unless the most tragically real portraiture be satire; unless
scalding tears of sorrow, and the bitter regret of a manly mind over
the miserable spectacle of artificiality, wasted powers, misdirected
energies, and lost opportunities, be satirical; we do not find satire
in that sad story. The reader closes it with a grief beyond tears. It
leaves a vague apprehension in the mind, as if we should suspect the air
to be poisoned. It suggests the terrible thought of the enfeebling of
moral power, and the deterioration of noble character, as a necessary
consequence of contact with "society." Every man looks suddenly and
sharply around him, and accosts himself and his neighbors, to ascertain
if they are all parties to this corruption. Sentimental youths and
maidens, upon velvet sofas, or in calf-bound libraries, resolve that it
is an insult to human nature--are sure that their velvet and calf-bound
friends are not like the dramatis personae of Vanity Fair, and that
the drama is therefore hideous and unreal. They should remember, what
they uniformly and universally forget, that we are not invited, upon the
rising of the curtain, to behold a cosmorama, or picture of the world,
but a representation of that part of it called Vanity Fair. What its
just limits are--how far its poisonous purlieus reach--how much of the
world's air is tainted by it, is a question which every thoughtful man
will ask himself, with a shudder, and look sadly around, to answer. If
the sentimental objectors rally again to the charge, and declare that,
if we wish to improve the world, its virtuous ambition must be piqued
and stimulated by making the shining heights of "the ideal" more
radiant; we reply, that none shall surpass us in honoring the men whose
creations of beauty inspire and instruct mankind. But if they benefit
the world, it is no less true that a vivid apprehension of the depths
into which we are sunken or may sink, nerves the soul's courage quite
as much as the alluring mirage of the happy heights we may attain. "To
hold the mirror up to Nature," is still the most potent method of
shaming sin and strengthening virtue.
If Vanity Fair be a satire, what novel of society is not? Are Vivian
Grey, and Pelham, and the long catalogue of books illustrating
English, or the host of Balzacs, Sands, Sues, and Dumas, that paint
French society, less satires? Nay, if you should catch any dandy in
Broadway, or in Pall-Mall, or upon the Boulevards, this very morning,
and write a coldly true history of his life and actions, his doings and
undoings, would it not be the most scathing and tremendous satire?--if
by satire you mean the consuming melancholy of the conviction that the
life of that pendant to a mustache is an insult to the possible life of
a man.
We have read of a hypocrisy so thorough, that it was surprised you
should think it hypocritical: and we have bitterly thought of the
saying, when hearing one mother say of another mother's child, that
she had "made a good match," because the girl was betrothed to a stupid
boy whose father was rich. The remark was the key of our social feeling.
Let us look at it a little, and, first of all, let the reader consider
the criticism, and not the critic. We may like very well, in our
individual capacity, to partake of the delicacies prepared by our
hostess's chef, we may not be averse to pate and myriad objets
de gout, and if you caught us in a corner at the next ball, putting away
a fair share of dinde aux truffes, we know you would have at us in
a tone of great moral indignation, and wish to know why we sneaked into
great houses, eating good suppers, and drinking choice wines, and then
went away with an indigestion, to write dyspeptic disgusts at society.
We might reply that it is necessary to know something of a subject
before writing about it, and that if a man wished to describe the habits
of South Sea Islanders, it is useless to go to Greenland; we might also
confess a partiality for pate, and a tenderness for truffes,
and acknowledge that, considering our single absence would not put down
extravagant, pompous parties, we were not strong enough to let the
morsels drop into unappreciating mouths; or we might say, that if a
man invited us to see his new house, it would not be ungracious nor
insulting to his hospitality, to point out whatever weak parts we might
detect in it, nor to declare our candid conviction, that it was built
upon wrong principles and could not stand. He might believe us, if we
had been in the house, but he certainly would not, if we had never seen
it. Nor would it be a very wise reply upon his part, that we might build
a better if we didn't like that. We are not fond of David's pictures,
but we certainly could never paint half so well; nor of Pope's
poetry, but posterity will never hear of our verses. Criticism is not
construction, it is observation. If we could surpass in its own way
everything which displeased us, we should make short work of it, and
instead of showing what fatal blemishes deform our present society,
we should present a specimen of perfection, directly.
We went to the brilliant ball. There was too much of everything. Too
much light, and eating, and drinking, and dancing, and flirting, and
dressing, and feigning, and smirking, and much too many people. Good
taste insists first upon fitness. But why had Mrs. Potiphar given this
ball? We inquired industriously, and learned it was because she did not
give one last year. Is it then essential to do this thing biennially?
inquired we with some trepidation. "Certainly," was the bland reply,
"or society will forget you." Everybody was unhappy at Mrs. Potiphar's,
save a few girls and boys, who danced violently all the evening. Those
who did not dance walked up and down the rooms as well as they could,
squeezing by non-dancing ladies, causing them to swear in their hearts
as the brusque broadcloth carried away the light outworks of gauze and
gossamer. The dowagers, ranged in solid phalanx, occupied all the chairs
and sofas against the wall, and fanned themselves until supper-time,
looking at each other's diamonds, and criticizing the toilettes of the
younger ladies, each narrowly watching her peculiar Polly Jane, that
she did not betray too much interest in any man who was not of a
certain fortune.--It is the cold, vulgar truth, madam, nor are we in
the slightest degree exaggerating.--Elderly gentlemen, twisting single
gloves in a very wretched manner, came up and bowed to the dowagers,
and smirked, and said it was a pleasant party, and a handsome house,
and then clutched their hands behind them, and walked miserably away,
looking as affable as possible. And the dowagers made a little fun of
the elderly gentlemen, among themselves, as they walked away.
Then came the younger non-dancing men--a class of the community who wear
black cravats and waistcoats, and thrust their thumbs and forefingers in
their waistcoat-pockets, and are called "talking men." Some of them are
literary, and affect the philosopher; have, perhaps, written a book or
two, and are a small species of lion to very young ladies. Some are of
the blase kind; men who affect the extremest elegance, and are
reputed "so aristocratic," and who care for nothing in particular, but
wish they had not been born gentlemen, in which case they might have
escaped ennui. These gentlemen stand with hat in hand, and their coats
and trousers are unexceptionable. They are the "so gentlemanly" persons
of whom one hears a great deal, but which seems to mean nothing but
cleanliness. Vivian Grey and Pelham are the models of their ambition,
and they succeed in being Pendennis. They enjoy the reputation of being
"very clever," and "very talented fellows," and "smart chaps"; but they
refrain from proving what is so generously conceded. They are often men
of a certain cultivation. They have traveled, many of them--spending
a year or two in Paris, and a month or two in the rest of Europe.
Consequently they endure society at home, with a smile, and a shrug,
and a graceful superciliousness, which is very engaging. They are
perfectly at home, and they rather despise Young America, which, in
the next room, is diligently earning its invitation. They prefer to
hover about the ladies who did not come out this season, but are a
little used to the world, with whom they are upon most friendly terms,
and they criticize together, very freely, all the great events in the
great world of fashion.
These elegant Pendennises we saw at Mrs. Potiphar's, but not without a
sadness which can hardly be explained. They had been boys once, all of
them, fresh and frank-hearted, and full of a noble ambition. They had
read and pondered the histories of great men; how they resolved, and
struggled, and achieved. In the pure portraiture of genius, they had
loved and honored noble women, and each young heart was sworn to truth
and the service of beauty. Those feelings were chivalric and fair. Those
boyish instincts clung to whatever was lovely, and rejected the specious
snare, however graceful and elegant. They sailed, new knights, upon that
old and endless crusade against hypocrisy and the devil, and they were
lost in the luxury of Corinth, nor longer seek the difficult shores
beyond. A present smile was worth a future laurel. The ease of the
moment was worth immortal tranquillity. They renounced the stern
worship of the unknown God, and acknowledged the deities of Athens.
But the seal of their shame is their own smile at their early dreams,
and the high hopes of their boyhood, their sneering infidelity of
simplicity, their skepticism of motives and of men. Youths, whose
younger years were fervid with the resolution to strike and win, to
deserve, at least, a gentle remembrance, if not a dazzling fame, are
content to eat, and drink, and sleep well; to go to the opera and
all the balls; to be known as "gentlemanly," and "aristocratic," and
"dangerous," and "elegant"; to cherish a luxurious and enervating
indolence, and to "succeed," upon the cheap reputation of having
been "fast" in Paris. The end of such men is evident enough from the
beginning. They are snuffed out by a "great match," and become an
appendage to a rich woman; or they dwindle off into old roues, men of
the world in sad earnest, and not with elegant affectation, blase; and
as they began Arthur Pendennises, so they end the Major. But, believe
it, that old fossil heart is wrung sometimes by a mortal pang, as it
remembers those squandered opportunities and that lost life.
From these groups we passed into the dancing-room. We have seen dancing
in other countries, and dressing. We have certainly never seen gentlemen
dance so easily, gracefully, and well, as the American. But the style
of dancing, in its whirl, its rush, its fury, is only equaled by that
of the masked balls at the French opera, and the balls at the Salle
Valentino, the Jardin Mabille, the Chateau Rouge, and other
favorite resorts of Parisian grisettes and lorettes. We saw a few young
men looking upon the dance very soberly, and, upon inquiry, learned that
they were engaged to certain ladies of the corps-de-ballet. Nor did we
wonder that the spectacle of a young woman whirling in a decollete
state, and in the embrace of a warm youth, around a heated room, induced
a little sobriety upon her lover's face, if not a sadness in his heart.
Amusement, recreation, enjoyment! There are no more beautiful things.
But this proceeding falls under another head. We watched the various
toilettes of these bounding belles. They were rich and tasteful. But a
man at our elbow, of experience and shrewd observation, said, with a
sneer, for which we called him to account, "I observe that American
ladies are so rich in charms that they are not at all chary of them. It
is certainly generous to us miserable black coats. 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 polkaing 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 by 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 pretense, 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 Duesseldorf Gallery. It was merely to avoid saying how warm the room
was, and how pleasant the party was, facts upon which we had already
enlarged. "Yes, they are pretty pictures; but la! how long it must have
taken Mr. Duesseldorf 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, custard, 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--heel-taps 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 mamas, 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 prolonged cloaking, there were lingering
farewells. A few papas were in the supper-room, sitting among the
debris 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 mama 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's and the Jardin Mabille, or
have never been out of their father's 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 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 as it has been made? Who are enamored of
a puerile imitation of foreign splendors? Who strenuously endeavor to
graft the questionable points of Parisian society upon our own? Who pass
a few years in Europe and return skeptical of republicanism and human
improvement, longing and sighing for more sharply emphasized social
distinctions? Who squander, with profuse recklessness, the hard-earned
fortunes of their sires? Who diligently devote their time to nothing,
foolishly and wrongly supposing that a young English nobleman has
nothing to do? Who, in fine, evince by their collective conduct, that
they regard their Americanism as a misfortune, and are so the most
deadly enemies of their country? None but what our wag facetiously
termed "the best society."
If the reader doubts, let him consider its practical results in any
great emporiums of "best society." Marriage is there regarded as a
luxury, too expensive for any but the sons of rich men, or fortunate
young men. We once heard an eminent divine assert, and only half
in sport, that the rate of living was advancing so incredibly, that
weddings in his experience were perceptibly diminishing. The reasons
might have been many and various. But we all acknowledge the fact. On
the other hand, and about the same time, a lovely damsel (ah! Clorinda!)
whose father was not wealthy, who had no prospective means of support,
who could do nothing but polka to perfection, who literally knew almost
nothing, and who constantly shocked every fairly intelligent person by
the glaring ignorance betrayed in her remarks, informed a friend at
one of the Saratoga balls, whither he had made haste to meet "the best
society," that there were "not more than three good matches in society."
La Dame aux Camelias, Marie Duplessis, was to our fancy a much
more feminine, and admirable, and moral, and human person, than the
adored Clorinda. And yet what she said was the legitimate result of
the state of our fashionable society. It worships wealth, and the pomp
which wealth can purchase, more than virtue, genius or beauty. We may
be told that it has always been so in every country, and that the fine
society of all lands is as profuse and flashy as our own. We deny it,
flatly. Neither English, nor French, nor Italian, nor German society, is
so unspeakably barren as that which is technically called "society" here.
In London, and Paris, and Vienna, and Rome, all the really eminent men
and women help make up the mass of society. A party is not a mere ball,
but it is a congress of the wit, beauty, and fame of the capital. It is
worth while to dress, if you shall meet Macaulay, or Hallam, or Guizot,
or Thiers, or Landseer, or Delaroche--Mrs. Norton, the Misses Berry,
Madame Recamier, and all the brilliant women and famous foreigners. But
why should we desert the pleasant pages of those men, and the recorded
gossip of those women, to be squeezed flat against a wall, while young
Doughface pours oyster-gravy down our shirt-front, and Caroline
Pettitoes wonders at "Mr. Duesseldorf's" industry?
If intelligent people decline to go, you justly remark, it is their
own fault. Yes, but if they stay away, it is very certainly their great
gain. The elderly people are always neglected with us, and nothing
surprises intelligent strangers more than the tyrannical supremacy of
Young America. But we are not surprised at this neglect. How can we be,
if we have our eyes open? When Caroline Pettitoes retreats from the
floor to the sofa, and, instead of a "polker," figures at parties as a
matron, do you suppose that "tough old Joes" like ourselves are going to
desert the young Caroline upon the floor, for Madame Pettitoes upon the
sofa? If the pretty young Caroline, with youth, health, freshness, a
fine, budding form, and wreathed in a semi-transparent haze of flounced
and flowered gauze, is so vapid that we prefer to accost her with our
eyes alone, and not with our tongues, is the same Caroline married
into a Madame Pettitoes, and fanning herself upon a sofa--no longer
particularly fresh, nor young, nor pretty, and no longer budding, but
very fully blown--likely to be fascinating in conversation? We can not
wonder that the whole connection of Pettitoes, when advanced to the
matron state, is entirely neglected. Proper homage to age we can all
pay at home, to our parents and grandparents. Proper respect for some
persons is best preserved by avoiding their neighborhood.
And what, think you, is the influence of this extravagant expense
and senseless show upon these same young men and women? We can easily
discover. It saps their noble ambition, assails their health, lowers
their estimate of men, and their reverence for women, cherishes an
eager and aimless rivalry, weakens true feeling, wipes away the bloom of
true modesty, and induces an ennui, a satiety, and a kind of dilettante
misanthropy, which is only the more monstrous because it is undoubtedly
real. You shall hear young men of intelligence and cultivation, to whom
the unprecedented circumstances of this country offer opportunities
of a great and beneficent career, complaining that they were born
within this blighted circle; regretting that they were not bakers
and tallow-chandlers, and under no obligation to keep up appearances;
deliberately surrendering all the golden possibilities of that future
which this country, beyond all others, holds before them; sighing that
they are not rich enough to marry the girls they love, and bitterly
upbraiding fortune that they are not millionaires; suffering the
vigor of their years to exhale in idle wishes and pointless regrets;
disgracing their manhood by lying in wait behind their "so gentlemanly"
and "aristocratic" manners, until they can pounce upon a "fortune"
and ensnare an heiress into matrimony: and so, having dragged their
gifts--their horses of the sun--into a service which shames all their
native pride and power, they sink in the mire; and their peers and
emulators exclaim that they have "made a good thing of it."
Are these the processes by which a noble race is made and perpetuated?
At Mrs. Potiphar's we heard several Pendennises longing for a similar
luxury, and announcing their firm purpose never to have wives nor houses
until they could have them as splendid as jewelled Mrs. Potiphar, and
her palace, thirty feet front. Where were their heads, and their hearts,
and their arms? How looks this craven despondency, before the stern
virtues of the ages we call dark? When a man is so voluntarily imbecile
as to regret he is not rich, if that is what he wants, before he has
struck a blow for wealth; or so dastardly as to renounce the prospect
of love, because, sitting sighing, in velvet dressing-gown and slippers,
he does not see his way clear to ten thousand a year: when young women
coiffed a merveille, of unexceptionable "style," who, with or
without a prospective penny, secretly look down upon honest women who
struggle for a livelihood, like noble and Christian beings, and, as
such, are rewarded; in whose society a man must forget that he has
ever read, thought, or felt; who destroy in the mind the fair ideal
of woman, which the genius of art, and poetry, and love, their inspirer
has created; then, it seems to us, it is high time that the subject
should be regarded, not as a matter of breaking butterflies upon the
wheel, but as a sad and sober question, in whose solution, all fathers
and mothers, and the state itself, are interested. When keen observers,
and men of the world, from Europe, are amazed and appalled at the giddy
whirl and frenzied rush of our society--a society singular in history
for the exaggerated prominence it assigns to wealth, irrespective of
the talents that amassed it, they and their possessor being usually
hustled out of sight--is it not quite time to ponder a little upon
the Court of Louis XIV, and the "merrie days" of King Charles II?
Is it not clear that, if what our good wag, with caustic irony,
called "best society," were really such, every thoughtful man would
read upon Mrs. Potiphar's softly-tinted walls the terrible "mene,
mene" of an imminent destruction?
Venice in her purple prime of luxury, when the famous law was passed
making all gondolas black, that the nobles should not squander fortunes
upon them, was not more luxurious than New York to-day. Our hotels have
a superficial splendor, derived from a profusion of gilt and paint,
wood and damask. Yet, in not one of them can the traveler be so quietly
comfortable as in an English inn, and nowhere in New York can the
stranger procure a dinner, at once so neat and elegant, and economical,
as at scores of cafes in Paris. The fever of display has consumed
comfort. A gondola plated with gold was no easier than a black wooden
one. We could well spare a little gilt upon the walls, for more
cleanliness upon the public table; nor is it worth while to cover the
walls with mirrors to reflect a want of comfort. One prefers a wooden
bench to a greasy velvet cushion, and a sanded floor to a soiled and
threadbare carpet. An insipid uniformity is the Procrustes-bed, upon
which "society" is stretched. Every new house is the counterpart of
every other, with the exception of more gilt, if the owner can afford
it. The interior arrangement, instead of being characteristic, instead
of revealing something of the tastes and feelings of the owner, is
rigorously conformed to every other interior. The same hollow and
tame complaisance rules in the intercourse of society. Who dares say
precisely what he thinks upon a great topic? What youth ventures to say
sharp things, of slavery, for instance, at a polite dinner-table? What
girl dares wear curls, when Martelle prescribes puffs or bandeaux? What
specimen of Young America dares have his trousers loose or wear straps
to them? We want individuality, heroism, and, if necessary, an
uncompromising persistence in difference.
This is the present state of parties. They are wildly extravagant, full
of senseless display; they are avoided by the pleasant and intelligent,
and swarm with reckless regiments of "Brown's men." The ends of the
earth contribute their choicest products to the supper, and there is
everything that wealth can purchase, and all the spacious splendor that
thirty feet front can afford. They are hot, and crowded, and glaring.
There is a little weak scandal, venomous, not witty, and a stream of
weary platitude, mortifying to every sensible person. Will any of our
Pendennis friends intermit their indignation for a moment, and consider
how many good things they have said or heard during the season? If Mr.
Potiphar's eyes should chance to fall here, will he reckon the amount
of satisfaction and enjoyment he derived from Mrs. Potiphar's ball, and
will that lady candidly confess what she gained from it beside weariness
and disgust? What eloquent sermons we remember to have heard in which
the sins and the sinners of Babylon, Jericho and Gomorrah were scathed
with holy indignation. The cloth is very hard upon Cain, and completely
routs the erring kings of Judah. The Spanish Inquisition, too, gets
frightful knocks, and there is much eloquent exhortation to preach the
gospel in the interior of Siam. Let it be preached there and God speed
the Word. But also let us have a text or two in Broadway and the Avenue.
The best sermon ever preached upon society, within our knowledge, is
Vanity Fair. Is the spirit of that story less true of New York than
of London? Probably we never see Amelia at our parties, nor Lieutenant
George Osborne, nor good gawky Dobbin, nor Mrs. Rebecca Sharp Crawley,
nor old Steyne. We are very much pained, of course, that any author
should take such dreary views of human nature. We, for our parts, all go
to Mrs. Potiphar's to refresh our faith in men and women. Generosity,
amiability, a catholic charity, simplicity, taste, sense, high
cultivation, and intelligence, distinguish our parties. The statesman
seeks their stimulating influence; the literary man, after the
day's labor, desires the repose of their elegant conversation; the
professional man and the merchant hurry up from down town to shuffle
off the coil of heavy duty, and forget the drudgery of life in the
agreeable picture of its amenities and graces presented by Mrs.
Potiphar's ball. Is this account of the matter, or Vanity Fair, the
satire? What are the prospects of any society of which that tale
is the true history?
There is a picture in the Luxembourg gallery at Paris, The Decadence
of the Romans, which made the fame and fortune of Couture, the painter.
It represents an orgie in the court of a temple, during the last days
of Rome. A swarm of revellers occupy the middle of the picture, wreathed
in elaborate intricacy of luxurious posture, men and women intermingled;
their faces, in which the old Roman fire scarcely flickers, brutalized
with excess of every kind; their heads of dishevelled hair bound with
coronals of leaves, while, from goblets of an antique grace, they drain
the fiery torrent which is destroying them. Around the bacchanalian
feast stand, lofty upon pedestals, the statues of old Rome, looking,
with marble calmness and the severity of a rebuke beyond words, upon the
revellers. A youth of boyish grace, with a wreath woven in his tangled
hair, and with red and drowsy eyes, sits listless upon one pedestal,
while upon another stands a boy insane with drunkenness, and proffering
a dripping goblet to the marble mouth of the statue. In the corner of
the picture, as if just quitting the court--Rome finally departing--is
a group of Romans with care-worn brows, and hands raised to their faces
in melancholy meditation. In the foreground of the picture, which is
painted with all the sumptuous splendor of Venetian art, is a stately
vase, around which hangs a festoon of gorgeous flowers, its end dragging
upon the pavement. In the background, between the columns, smiles the
blue sky of Italy--the only thing Italian not deteriorated by time.
The careful student of this picture, if he have been long in Paris, is
some day startled by detecting, especially in the faces of the women
represented, a surprising likeness to the women of Paris, and perceives,
with a thrill of dismay, that the models for this picture of decadent
human nature are furnished by the very city in which he lives.
~~~~~~~ THE END ~~~~~~~
|
