Bab Bab 37 · NEW IMPRESSIONS

. NEW IMPRESSIONS

At three o’clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world at Nice

may be seen on the Promenade des Anglais—a charming place, for the wide

walk, bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs, is bounded on

one side by the sea, on the other by the grand drive, lined with hotels

and villas, while beyond lie orange orchards and the hills. Many

nations are represented, many languages spoken, many costumes worn, and

on a sunny day the spectacle is as gay and brilliant as a carnival.

Haughty English, lively French, sober Germans, handsome Spaniards, ugly

Russians, meek Jews, free-and-easy Americans, all drive, sit, or

saunter here, chatting over the news, and criticizing the latest

celebrity who has arrived—Ristori or Dickens, Victor Emmanuel or the

Queen of the Sandwich Islands. The equipages are as varied as the

company and attract as much attention, especially the low basket

barouches in which ladies drive themselves, with a pair of dashing

ponies, gay nets to keep their voluminous flounces from overflowing the

diminutive vehicles, and little grooms on the perch behind.

Along this walk, on Christmas Day, a tall young man walked slowly, with

his hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression of countenance.

He looked like an Italian, was dressed like an Englishman, and had the

independent air of an American—a combination which caused sundry pairs

of feminine eyes to look approvingly after him, and sundry dandies in

black velvet suits, with rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and orange

flowers in their buttonholes, to shrug their shoulders, and then envy

him his inches. There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the

young man took little notice of them, except to glance now and then at

some blonde girl in blue. Presently he strolled out of the promenade

and stood a moment at the crossing, as if undecided whether to go and

listen to the band in the Jardin Publique, or to wander along the beach

toward Castle Hill. The quick trot of ponies’ feet made him look up, as

one of the little carriages, containing a single young lady, came

rapidly down the street. The lady was young, blonde, and dressed in

blue. He stared a minute, then his whole face woke up, and, waving his

hat like a boy, he hurried forward to meet her.

“Oh, Laurie, is it really you? I thought you’d never come!” cried Amy,

dropping the reins and holding out both hands, to the great

scandalization of a French mamma, who hastened her daughter’s steps,

lest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of these

‘mad English’.

“I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas with you,

and here I am.”

“How is your grandfather? When did you come? Where are you staying?”

“Very well—last night—at the Chauvain. I called at your hotel, but you

were out.”

“I have so much to say, I don’t know where to begin! Get in and we can

talk at our ease. I was going for a drive and longing for company.

Flo’s saving up for tonight.”

“What happens then, a ball?”

“A Christmas party at our hotel. There are many Americans there, and

they give it in honor of the day. You’ll go with us, of course? Aunt

will be charmed.”

“Thank you. Where now?” asked Laurie, leaning back and folding his

arms, a proceeding which suited Amy, who preferred to drive, for her

parasol whip and blue reins over the white ponies’ backs afforded her

infinite satisfaction.

“I’m going to the bankers first for letters, and then to Castle Hill.

The view is so lovely, and I like to feed the peacocks. Have you ever

been there?”

“Often, years ago, but I don’t mind having a look at it.”

“Now tell me all about yourself. The last I heard of you, your

grandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin.”

“Yes, I spent a month there and then joined him in Paris, where he has

settled for the winter. He has friends there and finds plenty to amuse

him, so I go and come, and we get on capitally.”

“That’s a sociable arrangement,” said Amy, missing something in

Laurie’s manner, though she couldn’t tell what.

“Why, you see, he hates to travel, and I hate to keep still, so we each

suit ourselves, and there is no trouble. I am often with him, and he

enjoys my adventures, while I like to feel that someone is glad to see

me when I get back from my wanderings. Dirty old hole, isn’t it?” he

added, with a look of disgust as they drove along the boulevard to the

Place Napoleon in the old city.

“The dirt is picturesque, so I don’t mind. The river and the hills are

delicious, and these glimpses of the narrow cross streets are my

delight. Now we shall have to wait for that procession to pass. It’s

going to the Church of St. John.”

While Laurie listlessly watched the procession of priests under their

canopies, white-veiled nuns bearing lighted tapers, and some

brotherhood in blue chanting as they walked, Amy watched him, and felt

a new sort of shyness steal over her, for he was changed, and she could

not find the merry-faced boy she left in the moody-looking man beside

her. He was handsomer than ever and greatly improved, she thought, but

now that the flush of pleasure at meeting her was over, he looked tired

and spiritless—not sick, nor exactly unhappy, but older and graver than

a year or two of prosperous life should have made him. She couldn’t

understand it and did not venture to ask questions, so she shook her

head and touched up her ponies, as the procession wound away across the

arches of the Paglioni bridge and vanished in the church.

“Que pensez-vous?” she said, airing her French, which had improved in

quantity, if not in quality, since she came abroad.

“That mademoiselle has made good use of her time, and the result is

charming,” replied Laurie, bowing with his hand on his heart and an

admiring look.

She blushed with pleasure, but somehow the compliment did not satisfy

her like the blunt praises he used to give her at home, when he

promenaded round her on festival occasions, and told her she was

‘altogether jolly’, with a hearty smile and an approving pat on the

head. She didn’t like the new tone, for though not blase, it sounded

indifferent in spite of the look.

“If that’s the way he’s going to grow up, I wish he’d stay a boy,” she

thought, with a curious sense of disappointment and discomfort, trying

meantime to seem quite easy and gay.

At Avigdor’s she found the precious home letters and, giving the reins

to Laurie, read them luxuriously as they wound up the shady road

between green hedges, where tea roses bloomed as freshly as in June.

“Beth is very poorly, Mother says. I often think I ought to go home,

but they all say ‘stay’. So I do, for I shall never have another chance

like this,” said Amy, looking sober over one page.

“I think you are right, there. You could do nothing at home, and it is

a great comfort to them to know that you are well and happy, and

enjoying so much, my dear.”

He drew a little nearer, and looked more like his old self as he said

that, and the fear that sometimes weighed on Amy’s heart was lightened,

for the look, the act, the brotherly ‘my dear’, seemed to assure her

that if any trouble did come, she would not be alone in a strange land.

Presently she laughed and showed him a small sketch of Jo in her

scribbling suit, with the bow rampantly erect upon her cap, and issuing

from her mouth the words, ‘Genius burns!’.

Laurie smiled, took it, put it in his vest pocket ‘to keep it from

blowing away’, and listened with interest to the lively letter Amy read

him.

“This will be a regularly merry Christmas to me, with presents in the

morning, you and letters in the afternoon, and a party at night,” said

Amy, as they alighted among the ruins of the old fort, and a flock of

splendid peacocks came trooping about them, tamely waiting to be fed.

While Amy stood laughing on the bank above him as she scattered crumbs

to the brilliant birds, Laurie looked at her as she had looked at him,

with a natural curiosity to see what changes time and absence had

wrought. He found nothing to perplex or disappoint, much to admire and

approve, for overlooking a few little affectations of speech and

manner, she was as sprightly and graceful as ever, with the addition of

that indescribable something in dress and bearing which we call

elegance. Always mature for her age, she had gained a certain aplomb in

both carriage and conversation, which made her seem more of a woman of

the world than she was, but her old petulance now and then showed

itself, her strong will still held its own, and her native frankness

was unspoiled by foreign polish.

Laurie did not read all this while he watched her feed the peacocks,

but he saw enough to satisfy and interest him, and carried away a

pretty little picture of a bright-faced girl standing in the sunshine,

which brought out the soft hue of her dress, the fresh color of her

cheeks, the golden gloss of her hair, and made her a prominent figure

in the pleasant scene.

As they came up onto the stone plateau that crowns the hill, Amy waved

her hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and said, pointing

here and there, “Do you remember the Cathedral and the Corso, the

fishermen dragging their nets in the bay, and the lovely road to Villa

Franca, Schubert’s Tower, just below, and best of all, that speck far

out to sea which they say is Corsica?”

“I remember. It’s not much changed,” he answered without enthusiasm.

“What Jo would give for a sight of that famous speck!” said Amy,

feeling in good spirits and anxious to see him so also.

“Yes,” was all he said, but he turned and strained his eyes to see the

island which a greater usurper than even Napoleon now made interesting

in his sight.

“Take a good look at it for her sake, and then come and tell me what

you have been doing with yourself all this while,” said Amy, seating

herself, ready for a good talk.

But she did not get it, for though he joined her and answered all her

questions freely, she could only learn that he had roved about the

Continent and been to Greece. So after idling away an hour, they drove

home again, and having paid his respects to Mrs. Carrol, Laurie left

them, promising to return in the evening.

It must be recorded of Amy that she deliberately prinked that night.

Time and absence had done its work on both the young people. She had

seen her old friend in a new light, not as ‘our boy’, but as a handsome

and agreeable man, and she was conscious of a very natural desire to

find favor in his sight. Amy knew her good points, and made the most of

them with the taste and skill which is a fortune to a poor and pretty

woman.

Tarlatan and tulle were cheap at Nice, so she enveloped herself in them

on such occasions, and following the sensible English fashion of simple

dress for young girls, got up charming little toilettes with fresh

flowers, a few trinkets, and all manner of dainty devices, which were

both inexpensive and effective. It must be confessed that the artist

sometimes got possession of the woman, and indulged in antique

coiffures, statuesque attitudes, and classic draperies. But, dear

heart, we all have our little weaknesses, and find it easy to pardon

such in the young, who satisfy our eyes with their comeliness, and keep

our hearts merry with their artless vanities.

“I do want him to think I look well, and tell them so at home,” said

Amy to herself, as she put on Flo’s old white silk ball dress, and

covered it with a cloud of fresh illusion, out of which her white

shoulders and golden head emerged with a most artistic effect. Her hair

she had the sense to let alone, after gathering up the thick waves and

curls into a Hebe-like knot at the back of her head.

“It’s not the fashion, but it’s becoming, and I can’t afford to make a

fright of myself,” she used to say, when advised to frizzle, puff, or

braid, as the latest style commanded.

Having no ornaments fine enough for this important occasion, Amy looped

her fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea, and framed the white

shoulders in delicate green vines. Remembering the painted boots, she

surveyed her white satin slippers with girlish satisfaction, and

chasseed down the room, admiring her aristocratic feet all by herself.

“My new fan just matches my flowers, my gloves fit to a charm, and the

real lace on Aunt’s mouchoir gives an air to my whole dress. If I only

had a classical nose and mouth I should be perfectly happy,” she said,

surveying herself with a critical eye and a candle in each hand.

In spite of this affliction, she looked unusually gay and graceful as

she glided away. She seldom ran—it did not suit her style, she thought,

for being tall, the stately and Junoesque was more appropriate than the

sportive or piquante. She walked up and down the long saloon while

waiting for Laurie, and once arranged herself under the chandelier,

which had a good effect upon her hair, then she thought better of it,

and went away to the other end of the room, as if ashamed of the

girlish desire to have the first view a propitious one. It so happened

that she could not have done a better thing, for Laurie came in so

quietly she did not hear him, and as she stood at the distant window,

with her head half turned and one hand gathering up her dress, the

slender, white figure against the red curtains was as effective as a

well-placed statue.

“Good evening, Diana!” said Laurie, with the look of satisfaction she

liked to see in his eyes when they rested on her.

“Good evening, Apollo!” she answered, smiling back at him, for he too

looked unusually debonair, and the thought of entering the ballroom on

the arm of such a personable man caused Amy to pity the four plain

Misses Davis from the bottom of her heart.

“Here are your flowers. I arranged them myself, remembering that you

didn’t like what Hannah calls a ‘sot-bookay’,” said Laurie, handing her

a delicate nosegay, in a holder that she had long coveted as she daily

passed it in Cardiglia’s window.

“How kind you are!” she exclaimed gratefully. “If I’d known you were

coming I’d have had something ready for you today, though not as pretty

as this, I’m afraid.”

“Thank you. It isn’t what it should be, but you have improved it,” he

added, as she snapped the silver bracelet on her wrist.

“Please don’t.”

“I thought you liked that sort of thing.”

“Not from you, it doesn’t sound natural, and I like your old bluntness

better.”

“I’m glad of it,” he answered, with a look of relief, then buttoned her

gloves for her, and asked if his tie was straight, just as he used to

do when they went to parties together at home.

The company assembled in the long salle a manger, that evening, was

such as one sees nowhere but on the Continent. The hospitable Americans

had invited every acquaintance they had in Nice, and having no

prejudice against titles, secured a few to add luster to their

Christmas ball.

A Russian prince condescended to sit in a corner for an hour and talk

with a massive lady, dressed like Hamlet’s mother in black velvet with

a pearl bridle under her chin. A Polish count, aged eighteen, devoted

himself to the ladies, who pronounced him, ‘a fascinating dear’, and a

German Serene Something, having come to supper alone, roamed vaguely

about, seeking what he might devour. Baron Rothschild’s private

secretary, a large-nosed Jew in tight boots, affably beamed upon the

world, as if his master’s name crowned him with a golden halo. A stout

Frenchman, who knew the Emperor, came to indulge his mania for dancing,

and Lady de Jones, a British matron, adorned the scene with her little

family of eight. Of course, there were many light-footed, shrill-voiced

American girls, handsome, lifeless-looking English ditto, and a few

plain but piquante French demoiselles, likewise the usual set of

traveling young gentlemen who disported themselves gaily, while mammas

of all nations lined the walls and smiled upon them benignly when they

danced with their daughters.

Any young girl can imagine Amy’s state of mind when she ‘took the

stage’ that night, leaning on Laurie’s arm. She knew she looked well,

she loved to dance, she felt that her foot was on her native heath in a

ballroom, and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which comes when

young girls first discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to

rule by virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood. She did pity the Davis

girls, who were awkward, plain, and destitute of escort, except a grim

papa and three grimmer maiden aunts, and she bowed to them in her

friendliest manner as she passed, which was good of her, as it

permitted them to see her dress, and burn with curiosity to know who

her distinguished-looking friend might be. With the first burst of the

band, Amy’s color rose, her eyes began to sparkle, and her feet to tap

the floor impatiently, for she danced well and wanted Laurie to know

it. Therefore the shock she received can better be imagined than

described, when he said in a perfectly tranquil tone, “Do you care to

dance?”

“One usually does at a ball.”

Her amazed look and quick answer caused Laurie to repair his error as

fast as possible.

“I meant the first dance. May I have the honor?”

“I can give you one if I put off the Count. He dances divinely, but he

will excuse me, as you are an old friend,” said Amy, hoping that the

name would have a good effect, and show Laurie that she was not to be

trifled with.

“Nice little boy, but rather a short Pole to support...

A daughter of the gods,

Devinely tall, and most divinely fair,”

was all the satisfaction she got, however.

The set in which they found themselves was composed of English, and Amy

was compelled to walk decorously through a cotillion, feeling all the

while as if she could dance the tarantella with relish. Laurie resigned

her to the ‘nice little boy’, and went to do his duty to Flo, without

securing Amy for the joys to come, which reprehensible want of

forethought was properly punished, for she immediately engaged herself

till supper, meaning to relent if he then gave any signs penitence. She

showed him her ball book with demure satisfaction when he strolled

instead of rushed up to claim her for the next, a glorious polka

redowa. But his polite regrets didn’t impose upon her, and when she

galloped away with the Count, she saw Laurie sit down by her aunt with

an actual expression of relief.

That was unpardonable, and Amy took no more notice of him for a long

while, except a word now and then when she came to her chaperon between

the dances for a necessary pin or a moment’s rest. Her anger had a good

effect, however, for she hid it under a smiling face, and seemed

unusually blithe and brilliant. Laurie’s eyes followed her with

pleasure, for she neither romped nor sauntered, but danced with spirit

and grace, making the delightsome pastime what it should be. He very

naturally fell to studying her from this new point of view, and before

the evening was half over, had decided that ‘little Amy was going to

make a very charming woman’.

It was a lively scene, for soon the spirit of the social season took

possession of everyone, and Christmas merriment made all faces shine,

hearts happy, and heels light. The musicians fiddled, tooted, and

banged as if they enjoyed it, everybody danced who could, and those who

couldn’t admired their neighbors with uncommon warmth. The air was dark

with Davises, and many Joneses gamboled like a flock of young giraffes.

The golden secretary darted through the room like a meteor with a

dashing French-woman who carpeted the floor with her pink satin train.

The serene Teuton found the supper-table and was happy, eating steadily

through the bill of fare, and dismayed the garcons by the ravages he

committed. But the Emperor’s friend covered himself with glory, for he

danced everything, whether he knew it or not, and introduced impromptu

pirouettes when the figures bewildered him. The boyish abandon of that

stout man was charming to behold, for though he ‘carried weight’, he

danced like an India-rubber ball. He ran, he flew, he pranced, his face

glowed, his bald head shown, his coattails waved wildly, his pumps

actually twinkled in the air, and when the music stopped, he wiped the

drops from his brow, and beamed upon his fellow men like a French

Pickwick without glasses.

Amy and her Pole distinguished themselves by equal enthusiasm but more

graceful agility, and Laurie found himself involuntarily keeping time

to the rhythmic rise and fall of the white slippers as they flew by as

indefatigably as if winged. When little Vladimir finally relinquished

her, with assurances that he was ‘desolated to leave so early’, she was

ready to rest, and see how her recreant knight had borne his

punishment.

It had been successful, for at three-and-twenty, blighted affections

find a balm in friendly society, and young nerves will thrill, young

blood dance, and healthy young spirits rise, when subjected to the

enchantment of beauty, light, music, and motion. Laurie had a waked-up

look as he rose to give her his seat, and when he hurried away to bring

her some supper, she said to herself, with a satisfied smile, “Ah, I

thought that would do him good!”

“You look like Balzac’s ‘_Femme Peinte Par Elle-Meme_’,” he said, as he

fanned her with one hand and held her coffee cup in the other.

“My rouge won’t come off.” and Amy rubbed her brilliant cheek, and

showed him her white glove with a sober simplicity that made him laugh

outright.

“What do you call this stuff?” he asked, touching a fold of her dress

that had blown over his knee.

“Illusion.”

“Good name for it. It’s very pretty—new thing, isn’t it?”

“It’s as old as the hills. You have seen it on dozens of girls, and you

never found out that it was pretty till now—stupide!”

“I never saw it on you before, which accounts for the mistake, you

see.”

“None of that, it is forbidden. I’d rather take coffee than compliments

just now. No, don’t lounge, it makes me nervous.”

Laurie sat bold upright, and meekly took her empty plate feeling an odd

sort of pleasure in having ‘little Amy’ order him about, for she had

lost her shyness now, and felt an irrestible desire to trample on him,

as girls have a delightful way of doing when lords of creation show any

signs of subjection.

“Where did you learn all this sort of thing?” he asked with a quizzical

look.

“As ‘this sort of thing’ is rather a vague expression, would you kindly

explain?” returned Amy, knowing perfectly well what he meant, but

wickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable.

“Well—the general air, the style, the self-possession,

the—the—illusion—you know”, laughed Laurie, breaking down and helping

himself out of his quandary with the new word.

Amy was gratified, but of course didn’t show it, and demurely answered,

“Foreign life polishes one in spite of one’s self. I study as well as

play, and as for this”—with a little gesture toward her dress—“why,

tulle is cheap, posies to be had for nothing, and I am used to making

the most of my poor little things.”

Amy rather regretted that last sentence, fearing it wasn’t in good

taste, but Laurie liked her better for it, and found himself both

admiring and respecting the brave patience that made the most of

opportunity, and the cheerful spirit that covered poverty with flowers.

Amy did not know why he looked at her so kindly, nor why he filled up

her book with his own name, and devoted himself to her for the rest of

the evening in the most delightful manner; but the impulse that wrought

this agreeable change was the result of one of the new impressions

which both of them were unconsciously giving and receiving.