Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 1 July 1848

"The Ashfields have Egyptian," she repeated, and Pharaoh faded into insignificance before such grand authority – and so she ordered Egyptian too.

"Not there," said Mrs. Fairchild, "you need not measure there," as the cabinet-maker was taking the dimensions of her rooms. "I shall have a looking-glass there."

"A mirror in a library!" said the man of rule and inches, with a tone of surprise that made Mrs. Fairchild color. "Did you wish a mirror here, ma'am," he added, more respectfully.

"No, no," she replied quickly, "go on" – for she felt at once that he had seen the inside of more libraries than she had.

Her ideas received another illumination from the upholsterer, as she was looking at blue satin for a curtain to the one large window which opened on a conservatory, who said,

"Oh, it's for a library window; then cloth, I presume, madam, is the article you wish."

"Cloth!" she repeated, looking at him.

"Yes," he replied; "we always furnish libraries with cloth. Heavy, rich materials is considered more suitable for such a purpose than silk."

Mrs. Fairchild was schooled again. However, Mr. Ashfield was again the model.

And now the curtains were up, and the cases home, and all but the books there, which being somewhat essential to a library, Mrs. Fairchild said to her husband,

"My dear, you must buy some books. I want to fill these cases and get this room finished."

"I will," he replied. "There's an auction to-night. I'll buy a lot."

"An auction," she said, hesitatingly. "Is that the best place? I don't think the bindings will be apt to be handsome of auction books."

"I can have them rebound," he answered.

"But you cannot tell whether they will fit these shelves," she continued, anxiously. "I think you had better take the measure of the shelves, and go to some book-store, and then you can choose them accordingly."

"I see Ashfield very often at book auctions," he persisted, to which she innocently replied,

"Oh, yes – but he knows what he is buying, we don't;" to which unanswerable argument Mr. Fairchild had nothing to say. And so they drove to a great book importers, and ordered the finest books and bindings that would suit their measurements.

And now they were at last, as Mrs. Fairchild expressed it, "all fixed." Mr. Fairchild had paid and dismissed the last workman – she had home every article she could think of – and now they were to sit down and enjoy.

The succeeding weeks passed in perfect quiet – and, it must be confessed, profound ennui.

"I wish people would begin to call," said Mrs. Fairchild, with an impatient yawn. "I wonder when they will."

"There seems to be visiting enough in the street," said Mr. Fairchild, as he looked out at the window. "There seems no end of Ashfield's company."

"I wish some of them would call here," she replied sorrowfully.

"We are not fine enough for them, I suppose," he answered, half angrily.

"Not fine enough!" she ejaculated with indignant surprise. "We not fine enough! I am sure this is the finest house in the Avenue. And I don't believe there is such furniture in town."

Mr. Fairchild made no reply, but walked the floor impatiently.

"Do you know Mr. Ashfield?" she presently ask.

"Yes," he replied; "I meet him on 'change constantly."

"I wonder, then, why she does not call," she said, indignantly. "It's very rude in her, I am sure. We are the last comers."

And the weeks went on, and Mr. Fairchild without business, and Mrs. Fairchild without gossip, had a very quiet, dull time of it in their fine house.

"I wish somebody would call," had been repeated again and again in every note of ennui, beginning in impatience and ending in despair.

Mr. Fairchild grew angry. His pride was hurt. He looked upon himself as especially wronged by his neighbor Ashfield. The people opposite, too – "who were they, that the Ashfields were so intimate with them? The Hamiltons! Why he could buy them over and over again! Hamilton's income was nothing."

At last Mrs. Fairchild took a desperate resolution, "Why should not we call first? We'll never get acquainted in this way," which declaration Mr. Fairchild could not deny. And so she dressed one morning in her finest and drove round with a pack of cards.

Somehow she found every body "out." But that was not much, for, to tell the truth, her heart did beat a little at the idea of entering strange drawing-rooms and introducing herself, and she would be sure to be at home when they returned her calls; and that would be less embarrassing, and suit her views quite as well.

In the course of a few days cards were left in return.

"But, Lawrence, I told you to say I was at home." said Mrs. Fairchild, impatiently, as the servant handed her half a dozen cards.

"I did, ma'am," he replied.

"You did," she said, "then how is this?"

"I don't know, ma'am," he replied, "but the foot-man gave me the cards and said all was right."

Mrs. Fairchild flushed and looked disconcerted.

Before a fortnight had elapsed she called again; but this time her cards remained unnoticed.

"Who on earth is this Mrs. Fairchild?" said Mrs. Leslie Herbert to Mrs. Ashfield, "who is forever leaving her cards."

"The people who built next to us," replied Mrs. Ashfield. "I don't know who they are."

"What an odd idea," pursued the other, "to be calling once a week in this way. I left my card after the first visit; but if the little woman means to call every other day in this way, I shall not call again."

And so Mrs. Fairchild was dismissed from the minds of her new neighbors, while she sat in anxious wonderment at their not calling again.

Though Mr. Fairchild was no longer in business, yet he had property to manage, and could still walk down town and see some business acquaintances, and inquire into stocks, and lots, and other interesting matters; but poor Mrs. Fairchild had fairly nothing to do. She was too rich to sew. She could buy every thing she wanted. She had but two children, and they could not occupy all her time; and her house and furniture were so new, and her servants so many, that housekeeping was a mere name. As to reading, that never formed any part of either her or Mr. Fairchild's pleasures. They did not even know the names of half the books they had. He read the papers, which was more than she did beyond the list of deaths and marriages – and so she felt as if she would die in her grandeur for something to do, and somebody to see. We are not sure but that Mrs. Simpkins would have been most delightedly received if she had suddenly walked in upon her. But this Mrs. Simpkins had no idea of doing. The state of wrath and indignation in which Mrs. Fairchild had left her old friends and acquaintances is not easily to be described.

"She had begun to give herself airs," they said, "even before she left – street; and if she had thought herself a great lady then, in that little box, what must she be now?" said Mrs. Thompson, angrily.

"I met her not long ago in a store, and she pretended not to see me," replied Mrs Simpkins. "So I shall not trouble myself to call," she continued, with considerable dignity of manner; not telling, however, that she had called soon after Mrs. Fairchild moved, and her visit had never been returned.

"Oh, I am sure," said the other, "I don't want to visit her if she don't want to visit me;" which, we are sorry to say, Mrs. Thompson, was a story, for you know you were dying to get in the house and see and "hear all about it."

To which Mrs. Simpkins responded,

"That, for her part, she did not care about it – there was no love lost between them;" and these people, who had once been kind and neighborly friends, would not have been sorry to hear that Mr. Fairchild had failed – or rather would have been glad (which people mean when they say, "they would not be sorry,") to see them humbled in any way.

So much for Mrs. Fairchild's first step in prosperity.

Mrs. Fairchild pined and languished for something to do, and somebody to see. The memory of early habits came strongly over her at times, and she longed to go in the kitchen and make a good batch of pumpkin pies, by way of amusement; but she did not dare. Her stylish pampered menials already suspected she was "nobody," and constantly quoted the privileges of Mrs. Ashfield's servants, and the authority of other fashionable names, with the impertinence and contempt invariably felt by inferiors for those who they instinctively know to be ignorant and vulgar, and "not to the manor born."

She accidently, to her great delight, came across a young mantuamaker, who occasionally sewed at Mrs. Ashfield's; and she engaged her at once to come and make her some morning-dresses; not that she wanted them, only the opportunity for the gossip to be thence derived. And to those who know nothing of the familiarity with which ladies can sometimes condescend to question such persons, it would be astonishing to know the quantity of information she extracted from Miss Hawkins. Not only of Mrs. Ashfield's mode of living, number of dresses, &c., but of many other families of the neighborhood, particularly the Misses Hamilton, who were described to be such "nice young ladies," and for whom she chiefly sewed, as "Mrs. Ashfield chiefly imported most of her dresses," but she lent all her patterns to the Miss Hamiltons; and Miss Hawkins made up all their dresses after hers, only not of such expensive materials. And thus she found out all the Hamiltons' economies, which filled her with contempt and indignation – contempt for their poverty, and indignation at their position in society, and the company they saw notwithstanding.

She could not understand it. Her husband sympathized with her most fully on this score, for, like all ignorant, purse-proud men, he could comprehend no claims not based in money.

A sudden light broke in, however, upon the Fairchild's dull life. A great exertion was being made for a new Opera company, and Mr. Fairchild's money being as good as any body else's, the subscription books were taken to him. He put down his name for as large a sum as the best of them, and felt himself at once a patron of music, fashion, and the fine arts.

Mrs. Fairchild was in ecstasies. She had chosen seats in the midst of the Ashfields, Harpers, and others, and felt now "that they would be all together."

Mr. Fairchild came home one day very indignant with a young Mr. Bankhead, who had asked him if he would change seats with him, saying his would probably suit Mr. Fairchild better than those he had selected, as they were front places, &c., that his only object in wishing to change was to be next to the Ashfields, "as it would be a convenience to his wife, who could then go often with them when he was otherwise engaged."

Mr. Fairchild promptly refused in what Mr. Bankhead considered a rude manner, who rather haughtily replied "that he should not have offered the exchange if he had supposed it was a favor, his seats being generally considered the best. It was only on his wife's account, who wished to be among her friends that he had asked it, as he presumed the change would be a matter of indifference to Mr. Fairchild."

The young man had no idea of the sting conveyed in these words. Mrs. Fairchild was very angry when her husband repeated it to her. "It was not a matter of indifference at all. Why should not we wish to be among the Ashfields and Harpers as well as anybody?" she said, indignantly. "And who is this Mrs. Bankhead, I should like to know, that I am to yield my place to her;" to which Mr. Fairchild replied, with his usual degree of angry contempt when speaking of people of no property,

"A pretty fellow, indeed! He's hardly worth salt to his porridge! Indeed, I wonder how he is able to pay for his seats at all!"

While on the Bankhead's side it was,

"We cannot change our places, Mrs. Ashfield. Those Fairchilds refused."

"Oh, how provoking!" was the reply. "We should have been such a nice little set by ourselves. And so disagreeable, too, to have people one don't know right in the midst of us so! Why what do the creatures mean – your places are the best?"

"Oh, I don't know. He 's a vulgar, purse-proud man. My husband was quite sorry he had asked him, for he seemed to think it was a great favor, and made the most of the opportunity to be rude."

"Well, I am sorry. It's not pleasant to have such people near one; and then I am so very, very sorry, not to have you and Mr. Bankhead with us. The Harpers were saying how delightful it would be for us all to be together; and now to have those vulgar people instead – too provoking!"

Ignorant, however, of the disgust, in which her anticipated proximity was held, Mrs. Fairchild, in high spirits, bought the most beautiful of white satin Opera cloaks, and ordered the most expensive paraphernalia she could think of to make it all complete, and determined on sporting diamonds that would dazzle old acquaintances, (if any presumed to be there,) and make even the fashionables stare.

The first night opened with a very brilliant house. Every body was there, and every body in full dress. Mrs. Fairchild had as much as she could do to look around. To be sure she knew nobody, but then it was pleasant to see them all. She learnt a few names from the conversation that she overheard of the Ashfields and Harpers, as they nodded to different acquaintances about the house. And then, during the intervals, different friends came and chatted a little while with them, and the Bankheads leaned across and exchanged a few animated words; and, in short, every body seemed so full of talk, and so intimate with every body, except poor Mrs. Fairchild, who sat, loaded with finery, and no one to speak to but her husband, who was by this time yawning wearily, well-nigh worn out with the fatigue of hearing two acts of a grand Italian Opera.

As Mrs. Fairchild began to recover self-possession enough to comprehend what was going on among them, she found to her surprise, from their conversation, that the music was not all alike; that one singer was "divine," another "only so so;" the orchestra admirable, and the choruses very indifferent. She could not comprehend how they could tell one from another. "They all sang at the same time; and as for the chorus and orchestra, she did not know 'which was which.'"

Then there was a great deal said about "contraltos" and "sopranos;" and when her husband asked her what they meant, she replied, "she did not know, it was French!" They talked, too, of Rossini and Bellini, and people who read and wrote music, and that quite passed her comprehension. She thought "music was only played and sung;" and what they meant by reading and writing it, she could not divine. Had they talked of eating it, it would have sounded to her about as rational.

Occasionally one of the Hamiltons sat with some of the set, for it seemed they had no regular places of their own. "Of course not," said Mrs Fairchild, contemptuously. "They can't afford it," which expressive phrase summed up, with both husband and wife, the very essence of all that was mean and contemptible, and she was only indignant at their being able to come there at all. The Bankheads were bad enough; but to have the Hamiltons there too, and then to hear them all talking French with some foreigners who occasionally joined them, really humbled her.

This, then, she conceived was the secret of success. "They know French," she would reply in a voice of infinite mortification, when her husband expressed his indignant astonishment at finding these "nobodies" on 'change, "somebodies" at the Opera. To "know French," comprehended all her ideas of education, information, sense, and literature. This, then, she thought was the "Open Sesame" of "good society," the secret of enjoyment at the Opera; for, be it understood, all foreign languages were "French" to Mrs. Fairchild.

She was beginning to find the Opera a terrible bore, spite of all the finery she sported and saw around her, with people she did not know, and music she did not understand. As for Mr. Fairchild, the fatigue was intolerable; and he would have rebelled at once, if he had not paid for his places for the season, and so chose to have his money's worth, if it was only in tedium.

A bright idea, a bold resolution occurred to Mrs. Fairchild. She would learn French.

So she engaged a teacher at once, at enormous terms, who was to place her on a level with the best of them.

Poor little woman! and poor teacher, too! what work it was! How he groaned in spirit at the thick tongue that could not pronounce the delicate vowels, and the dull apprehension that knew nothing of moods and tenses.

And she, poor little soul, who was as innocent of English Grammar as of murder, how was she to be expected to understand the definite and indefinite when it was all indefinite; and as for the participle past, she did not believe any body understood it. And so she worked and puzzled, and sometimes almost cried, for a week, and then went to the Opera and found she was no better off than before.

In despair, and angry with her teacher, she dismissed him. "She did not believe any body ever learnt it that way out of books;" and "so she would get a French maid, and she'd learn more hearing her talk in a month, than Mr. A. could teach her, if she took lessons forever." And so she got a maid, who brought high recommendations from some grand people who had brought her from France, and then she thought herself quite set up.

But the experiment did not succeed. She turned out a saucy thing, who shrugged her shoulders with infinite contempt when she found "madame" did not comprehend her; and soon Mrs. Fairchild was very glad to take advantage of a grand flare-up in the kitchen between her and the cook, in which the belligerent parties declared that "one or the other must leave the house," to dismiss her.

In deep humility of spirit Mrs. Fairchild placed her little girl at the best French school in the city, almost grudging the poor child her Sundays at home when she must hear nothing but English. She was determined that she should learn French young; for she now began to think it must be taken like measles or whooping-cough, in youth, or else the attack must be severe, if not dangerous.

Mrs. Fairchild made no acquaintances, as she fondly hoped, at the Opera. A few asked, "Who is that dressy little body who sits in front of you, Mrs. Ashfield?"

"A Mrs. Fairchild. I know nothing about them except that they live next door to us."

"What a passion the little woman seems to have for jewelry," remarked the other. "It seems to me she has a new set of something once a week at least."

"Yes," said one of the Hamiltons, laughing, "she's as good as a jeweler's window. It's quite an amusement to me to see the quantity of bracelets and chains she contrives to hang around her."

"I would gladly have dispensed with that amusement, Ellen," replied Mrs. Ashfield, "for they have the places the Bankheads wanted; and he is so clever and well-informed, and she such a bright, intelligent little creature, that it would have added so much to our pleasure to have had them with us."

"Oh, to be sure! the Bankheads are jewels of the first water. And how they enjoy every thing. What a shame it is they have not those Fairchilds' money."

"No, no, Ellen, that is not fair," replied Mrs. Ashfield. "Let Mrs. Fairchild have her finery – it's all, I suppose, the poor woman has. The Bankheads don't require wealth for either enjoyment or consequence. They are bright and flashing in their own lustre, and like all pure brilliants, are the brighter for their simple setting."

"May be," replied the gay Ellen, "but I do love to see some people have every thing."

"Nay, Ellen," said Mrs. Ashfield, "Is that quite just? Be satisfied with Mrs. Bankhead's having so much more than Mrs. Fairchild, without robbing poor Mrs. Fairchild of the little she has."

Could Mrs. Fairchild have believed her ears had she heard this? Could she have believed that little Mrs. Bankhead, whose simple book-muslin and plainly braided dark hair excited her nightly contempt, was held in such respect and admiration by those who would not know her. And Bankhead, whom her husband spoke of with such infinite contempt, as having "nothing at all," "not salt to his porridge." And yet as Mrs. Fairchild saw them courted and gay, she longed for some of their porridge, "for they knew French."

And thus the season wore on in extreme weariness and deep mortification. The Fairchilds made no headway at all. She made no acquaintances at all at the opera, as she had fondly hoped. She even regretted that her husband had refused their seats to the Bankheads. Had he yielded them a favor may be they would have spoken to them.

Desperate, at last, she determined she would do something. She would give a party. But who to ask?

Not old friends and acquaintance. That was not to be thought of. But who else? She knew nobody.

"It was not necessary to know them," she told her husband. "She would send her card and invitations to all those fine people, and they'd be glad enough to come. The Bankheads, too, and the Hamiltons, she would ask them."

"You are sure of them, at any rate," said her husband contemptuously. "Poor devils! it's not often they get such a supper as they'll get here."

But somehow the Hamiltons and Bankheads were not as hungry as Mr. Fairchild supposed, for very polite regrets came in the course of a few days, to Mrs. Fairchild's great wrath and mortification.

This was but the beginning, however. Refusals came pouring in thick and fast from all quarters.

The lights were prepared, the music sounding, and some half dozen ladies, whose husbands had occasionally a business transaction with Mr. Fairchild, looked in on their way to a grand fashionable party given the same evening by one of their own clique, and then vanished, leaving Mrs. Fairchild with the mortified wish that they had not come at all, to see the splendor of preparations and the beggary of guests. Some few young men dropped in and took a look, and bowed themselves out as soon as the Fairchilds gave them a chance; and so ended this last and most desperate effort.

"My dear," said Mrs. Fairchild one day to her husband in perfect desperation, "let us go to Europe."

"To Europe," he said, looking up in amazement.

"Yes," she replied, with energy. "That's what all these fine people have done, and that's the way they know each other so well. All the Americans are intimate in Paris, and then when they come back they are all friends together."

Mr. Fairchild listened and pondered. He was as tired as his wife with nothing to do; and moreover deeply mortified, though he said less about it, at not being admitted among those with whom he had no tastes or associations in common, and he consented.

The house was shut up and the Fairchilds were off.

"Who are those Fairchilds," asked somebody in Paris, "that one sees every where, where money can gain admittance?"

"Oh, I don't know," replied Miss Rutherford. "They traveled down the Rhine with us last summer, and were our perfect torment. We could not shake them off."

"What sort of people are they?" was the next question.

"Ignorant past belief: but that would not so much matter if she were not such a spiteful little creature. I declare I heard more gossip and ill-natured stories from her about Americans in Paris than I ever heard in all the rest of my life put together."

"And rich?"

"Yes, I suppose so – for they spent absurdly. They are just those ignorant, vulgar people that one only meets in traveling, and that make us blush for our country and countrymen. Such people should not have passports."

"Fairchild," said Mrs. Castleton. "The name is familiar to me. Oh, now I remember. But they can't be the same. The Fairchilds I knew were people in humble circumstances. They lived in – street."

"Yes. I dare say they are the very people," replied Miss Rutherford. "He has made money rapidly within a few years."

"But she was the best little creature I ever knew," persisted Mrs. Castleton. "My baby was taken ill while we were in the country boarding at the same house, and this Mrs. Fairchild came to me at once, and helped me get a warm bath, and watched and nursed the child with me as if it had been her own. I remember I was very grateful for her excessive kindness and attention."