A Madeira Party by S. Weir Mitchell
say itself of long habit."
With these words, the spare little, ruddy old gentleman bowed in turn toeach of his fellow-guests, and last to his host, and then said, with acertain sad serenity of manner: "Here is to each other,"--and with aslight quaver in his voice,--"and to one other."
With this they turned from the table to follow Hamilton.
John gravely divided the mahogany doors opening into the drawing-room,and as Mr. Wilmington passed, murmured under his breath, "Dat wine 's asherry, sar, sure 's ye 're born."
"Uncle John," replied Wilmington, "you are a great man. Here is adollar," and slowly followed his host, humming under his breath the olddrinking-song:
"The bottle 's the mistress I mean, I mean."
*"A LITTLE MORE BURGUNDY"*
The month of January, 1853, had been as dreary as only a midwinter bitof Paris weather can be. The Christmas season came and went, and leftme and my friend Pierce, two friendless students, rather more homesickthan usual, and a little indisposed to confess the malady, or to talk ofthose we loved, three thousand miles away.
This special night of the 21st of January I sat with William Pierce inthe second story of an ancient hotel, which for democratic conveniencehad been labeled 47 Rue St. Andre des Arts. The name of thestreet--like others in the pleasant, wicked old Latin quarter--has somerelation to the scholastic history of the Sorbonne; but who were thegreat folks to whom, long ago, this gray house belonged, I never knew.It was, in my time, a hive of students, and, standing _entre cour etjardin_, had a fine air of protesting against the meager trades aroundit, and the base uses to which it had come at last.
I never before, or since, lived in so vast a room as this in which Ispent the most of 1853. The lofty, half-domed ceiling over us was stillfestive with the tangled dance of nymphs and shepherds who began theirrevel when the naughty regent was in power. I used to wonder whatstrange and wicked things they must have seen; what quarrels, whatloves, what partings.
Tall windows, with balconies set in lovely traceries of stone, lookedout on the street; on the other side of the room a deep alcove held mybed. Successive economies had narrowed the broad chimney throat tolimits penuriously proportioned to the price of fuel; but two pensivecaryatides still upheld the carved mantel-shelf, over which droopedpendent rose-wreaths of marble, pipe-stained, wine-tinted, and chipped.
It was never warm in this great chamber; but on the night in question itwas colder than was comfortable even for the warm blood of youth. Overthe meager nest of a grate we two sat, striving to conjure up a blazefrom reluctant wood and coal. And this was rather with the hope thatthe fire might put a soul of heat into our _boiullotte_ and so give usmaterial for a consolatory punch, than with any vain belief that wecould ever be warmed again by what the French nation has agreed toconsider a fire.
"Dismal, is n't it?" said Pierce.
"No," I returned, cheerfully, because now the _bouillotte_ began,uneasily, to hop a little on the coals, as if nervous, and to puff andbreathe out steam at intervals. Seeing this, Pierce, who was by naturea silent son of New England, got up, with no more words, and went overto the far corner, and presently said:
"_Dame!_"
Now _dame_ is French, and has no harm in it, but is nearly assatisfactory as if it did not lack that final n, which makes thedifference between mere Celtic impatience and English verbal iniquity.
"Well?" I said.
"The cognac is out."
"Is it?" I said. It was not a great calamity, but it did seem to addsomething to the sum of our discomforts.
"Have a little hot water?" said my friend.
"Don't," I returned.
"But what shall we do? You are pretty poor company to-night. There isthe Closerie des Lilas, and Mabille, and the Cafe des Droles."
I would none of them. I sat with my head in my hands, staring into theembers of the fading fire. I was crying a man's tears, thinking of thehome fireside at evening, three thousand miles away. And if you think aman cannot cry without the shedding of material tears, life has taughtyou little of physiology; for this is the chief difference between manand woman.
At last Pierce rose up and said French and English profanities, andthought it no colder out of doors than within; therefore I put on myovercoat and a fez cap--such as we wore in those days--and followed himdown-stairs, across the courtyard, and under its gray escutcheon andarmorial bearings, and so into the outer air. A band of noisy studentswas passing out of the narrow Rue des Grands Augustins, singing. Howoften I have heard it, and how it rings in my head after these many longyears!
Par derrier' chez ma tante I'ya-t-un bois joli; Le rossignol y chante Et le jour et la nuit. Gai lon la, gai le rosier Du joli mois de mai.
Across the way two little maids in caps were filling their tins from thesteaming heap of fried potatoes in the tiny shop of my old acquaintanceMadame Beaumain.
We left the gayer streets and soon were walking through the maze ofnarrow avenues and lanes long since destroyed to make way for the wideboulevards of the Second Empire. We went along aimlessly, as it seemedto me, until presently Pierce stopped, exclaiming, "Yes, it is here,"and turned from the Rue de l'Universite into the short _impasse_ at itsfurther end. Here he paused.
"Well," I said, "where next?"
"My dear M----," he said, "I can't stand you alone any longer. I 'mgoing to take you to call on M. Des Illes."
Now, M. Des Illes was an acquaintance of a minute (to be accurate, offive minutes), and was nothing to me on earth but a quaint remembrance.I said I would go anywhere, call on devil or angel, do as he liked. AsI made clear to him the amiability of my indifferent mood, he paused atthe doorway of No. 37.
"Is this the place?"
"Yes, 37 _bis_." Upon this he rang, and the door opening in the usualmysterious Paris fashion, a concierge put out her head at the side ofthe passage, which seemed long and narrow.
"Is M. Des Illes at home?"
"Oui; tout en face, tout au fond; Porte a gauche."
"That 's droll," I said as we walked on. The passage was dimly lightedby a lantern hung on the wall. We went on quite three hundred feet, andcame out into a courtyard some thirty feet by twice that length. Thewalls were high around it, but before us was a small hotel with a ratherelaborate front, not easily made out by the feeble glimmer of a lanternover the door and another on the wall. The main entrance was a littleto the left of the middle of the house, which seemed to be but one storyhigh, and over this a Mansard roof.
"Interesting, is n't it?" said Pierce.
"Very," said I, as I rang. The door was opened at once, and we were in ahall some twenty feet square, beautifully lit with wax candles in themost charming of silver sconces. There were a few arms on the walls, anda portrait of a girl in a red gown and hoops. The servant who admittedus was in black from head to foot--a very tall man with an immense--anunusual nose, very red cheeks, and enormous ears.
I said, "M. Des Illes is at home?" and he, "Monsieur would oblige withthe names, and this way, please." We gave him our cards and went afterhim. He warned us of a step, and of another, and we came into a littleantechamber, where we were pleasantly bid to be seated. He came back atonce, followed by the strangest little old gentleman imaginable. I said,"M. Des Illes, I believe?"
"Ah," he cried. "It cannot be that I am deceived. It is Monsieur, mypreserver. What a happiness to see you here!" and upon this, to mygreat embarrassment, he kissed me upon both cheeks, while Pierce grinnedat me maliciously over his shoulders.
"It was a small matter," I said.
"To you, no doubt; but not to me. Life is never a small possession tohim that owns it. I have friends with me to-night who will feel it tobe more than an honor to welcome you. M. Michel and M. Pierce, you said,I think. This is a most fortunate hour."
I said all the effusively pleasant things I could think of, while hisservant relieved me of my overcoat. As Pierce was being aided in likemanner I had a good look at my ho
st, and made up my mind that he wasprobably dressed for a fancy ball. He was clearly a quite old man,curiously slight in person, and having almost the delicacy of featuresof a woman. Also he was clean shaven, wore his hair in a cue tied withblack ribbon, and was clad in black silk or satin, with jet buttons, along waistcoat, a full lace jabot, knee-breeches, black silk stockings,court shoes, and black jet buckles. With some puzzle of mind Iconcluded it to be a mourning suit of the last century, queer to see atthis time and in this place.
As we crossed the antechamber M. Des Illes fluttered about us,gesticulating and talking with vehemence of his great debt to me, whothought it small and embarrassingly made too much of. I have laid awaysomewhere among my mental negatives a picture
With these words, the spare little, ruddy old gentleman bowed in turn toeach of his fellow-guests, and last to his host, and then said, with acertain sad serenity of manner: "Here is to each other,"--and with aslight quaver in his voice,--"and to one other."
With this they turned from the table to follow Hamilton.
John gravely divided the mahogany doors opening into the drawing-room,and as Mr. Wilmington passed, murmured under his breath, "Dat wine 's asherry, sar, sure 's ye 're born."
"Uncle John," replied Wilmington, "you are a great man. Here is adollar," and slowly followed his host, humming under his breath the olddrinking-song:
"The bottle 's the mistress I mean, I mean."
*"A LITTLE MORE BURGUNDY"*
The month of January, 1853, had been as dreary as only a midwinter bitof Paris weather can be. The Christmas season came and went, and leftme and my friend Pierce, two friendless students, rather more homesickthan usual, and a little indisposed to confess the malady, or to talk ofthose we loved, three thousand miles away.
This special night of the 21st of January I sat with William Pierce inthe second story of an ancient hotel, which for democratic conveniencehad been labeled 47 Rue St. Andre des Arts. The name of thestreet--like others in the pleasant, wicked old Latin quarter--has somerelation to the scholastic history of the Sorbonne; but who were thegreat folks to whom, long ago, this gray house belonged, I never knew.It was, in my time, a hive of students, and, standing _entre cour etjardin_, had a fine air of protesting against the meager trades aroundit, and the base uses to which it had come at last.
I never before, or since, lived in so vast a room as this in which Ispent the most of 1853. The lofty, half-domed ceiling over us was stillfestive with the tangled dance of nymphs and shepherds who began theirrevel when the naughty regent was in power. I used to wonder whatstrange and wicked things they must have seen; what quarrels, whatloves, what partings.
Tall windows, with balconies set in lovely traceries of stone, lookedout on the street; on the other side of the room a deep alcove held mybed. Successive economies had narrowed the broad chimney throat tolimits penuriously proportioned to the price of fuel; but two pensivecaryatides still upheld the carved mantel-shelf, over which droopedpendent rose-wreaths of marble, pipe-stained, wine-tinted, and chipped.
It was never warm in this great chamber; but on the night in question itwas colder than was comfortable even for the warm blood of youth. Overthe meager nest of a grate we two sat, striving to conjure up a blazefrom reluctant wood and coal. And this was rather with the hope thatthe fire might put a soul of heat into our _boiullotte_ and so give usmaterial for a consolatory punch, than with any vain belief that wecould ever be warmed again by what the French nation has agreed toconsider a fire.
"Dismal, is n't it?" said Pierce.
"No," I returned, cheerfully, because now the _bouillotte_ began,uneasily, to hop a little on the coals, as if nervous, and to puff andbreathe out steam at intervals. Seeing this, Pierce, who was by naturea silent son of New England, got up, with no more words, and went overto the far corner, and presently said:
"_Dame!_"
Now _dame_ is French, and has no harm in it, but is nearly assatisfactory as if it did not lack that final n, which makes thedifference between mere Celtic impatience and English verbal iniquity.
"Well?" I said.
"The cognac is out."
"Is it?" I said. It was not a great calamity, but it did seem to addsomething to the sum of our discomforts.
"Have a little hot water?" said my friend.
"Don't," I returned.
"But what shall we do? You are pretty poor company to-night. There isthe Closerie des Lilas, and Mabille, and the Cafe des Droles."
I would none of them. I sat with my head in my hands, staring into theembers of the fading fire. I was crying a man's tears, thinking of thehome fireside at evening, three thousand miles away. And if you think aman cannot cry without the shedding of material tears, life has taughtyou little of physiology; for this is the chief difference between manand woman.
At last Pierce rose up and said French and English profanities, andthought it no colder out of doors than within; therefore I put on myovercoat and a fez cap--such as we wore in those days--and followed himdown-stairs, across the courtyard, and under its gray escutcheon andarmorial bearings, and so into the outer air. A band of noisy studentswas passing out of the narrow Rue des Grands Augustins, singing. Howoften I have heard it, and how it rings in my head after these many longyears!
Par derrier' chez ma tante I'ya-t-un bois joli; Le rossignol y chante Et le jour et la nuit. Gai lon la, gai le rosier Du joli mois de mai.
Across the way two little maids in caps were filling their tins from thesteaming heap of fried potatoes in the tiny shop of my old acquaintanceMadame Beaumain.
We left the gayer streets and soon were walking through the maze ofnarrow avenues and lanes long since destroyed to make way for the wideboulevards of the Second Empire. We went along aimlessly, as it seemedto me, until presently Pierce stopped, exclaiming, "Yes, it is here,"and turned from the Rue de l'Universite into the short _impasse_ at itsfurther end. Here he paused.
"Well," I said, "where next?"
"My dear M----," he said, "I can't stand you alone any longer. I 'mgoing to take you to call on M. Des Illes."
Now, M. Des Illes was an acquaintance of a minute (to be accurate, offive minutes), and was nothing to me on earth but a quaint remembrance.I said I would go anywhere, call on devil or angel, do as he liked. AsI made clear to him the amiability of my indifferent mood, he paused atthe doorway of No. 37.
"Is this the place?"
"Yes, 37 _bis_." Upon this he rang, and the door opening in the usualmysterious Paris fashion, a concierge put out her head at the side ofthe passage, which seemed long and narrow.
"Is M. Des Illes at home?"
"Oui; tout en face, tout au fond; Porte a gauche."
"That 's droll," I said as we walked on. The passage was dimly lightedby a lantern hung on the wall. We went on quite three hundred feet, andcame out into a courtyard some thirty feet by twice that length. Thewalls were high around it, but before us was a small hotel with a ratherelaborate front, not easily made out by the feeble glimmer of a lanternover the door and another on the wall. The main entrance was a littleto the left of the middle of the house, which seemed to be but one storyhigh, and over this a Mansard roof.
"Interesting, is n't it?" said Pierce.
"Very," said I, as I rang. The door was opened at once, and we were in ahall some twenty feet square, beautifully lit with wax candles in themost charming of silver sconces. There were a few arms on the walls, anda portrait of a girl in a red gown and hoops. The servant who admittedus was in black from head to foot--a very tall man with an immense--anunusual nose, very red cheeks, and enormous ears.
I said, "M. Des Illes is at home?" and he, "Monsieur would oblige withthe names, and this way, please." We gave him our cards and went afterhim. He warned us of a step, and of another, and we came into a littleantechamber, where we were pleasantly bid to be seated. He came back atonce, followed by the strangest little old gentleman imaginable. I said,"M. Des Illes, I believe?"
"Ah," he cried. "It cannot be that I am deceived. It is Monsieur, mypreserver. What a happiness to see you here!" and upon this, to mygreat embarrassment, he kissed me upon both cheeks, while Pierce grinnedat me maliciously over his shoulders.
"It was a small matter," I said.
"To you, no doubt; but not to me. Life is never a small possession tohim that owns it. I have friends with me to-night who will feel it tobe more than an honor to welcome you. M. Michel and M. Pierce, you said,I think. This is a most fortunate hour."
I said all the effusively pleasant things I could think of, while hisservant relieved me of my overcoat. As Pierce was being aided in likemanner I had a good look at my ho
As we crossed the antechamber M. Des Illes fluttered about us,gesticulating and talking with vehemence of his great debt to me, whothought it small and embarrassingly made too much of. I have laid awaysomewhere among my mental negatives a picture