The Gilded Age - Mark Twain [116]
For instance, Mrs. A. pays her annual visit, sits in her carriage and sends in her card with the lower right hand corner turned down, which signifies that she has “called in person”; Mrs. B. sends down word that she is “engaged” or “wishes to be excused”—or if she is a Parvenu and low-bred, she perhaps sends word that she is “not at home.” Very good; Mrs. A. drives on happy and content. If Mrs. A.’s daughter marries, or a child is born to the family, Mrs. B. calls, sends in her card with the upper left hand corner turned down, and then goes along about her affairs—for that inverted corner means “Congratulations.” If Mrs. B.’s husband falls down stairs and breaks his neck, Mrs. A. calls, leaves her card with the upper right hand corner turned down, and then takes her departure; this corner means “Condolence.” It is very necessary to get the corners right, else one may unintentionally condole with a friend on a wedding or congratulate her upon a funeral. If either lady is about to leave the city, she goes to the other’s house and leaves her card with “P.P.C.” engraved under the name—which signifies, “Pay Parting Call.” But enough of etiquette. Laura was early instructed in the mysteries of society life by a competent mentor, and thus was preserved from troublesome mistakes.
The first fashionable call she received from a member of the ancient nobility, otherwise the Antiques, was of a pattern with all she received from that limb of the aristocracy afterward. This call was paid by Mrs. Major-General Fulke-Fulkerson and daughter. They drove up at one in the afternoon in a rather antiquated vehicle with a faded coat of arms on the panels, an aged white-wooled negro coachman on the box and a younger darkey beside him—the footman. Both of these servants were dressed in dull brown livery that had seen considerable service.
The ladies entered the drawing-room in full character; that is to say, with Elizabethan stateliness on the part of the dowager, and an easy grace and dignity on the part of the young lady that had a nameless something about it that suggested conscious superiority. The dresses of both ladies were exceedingly rich, as to material, but as notably modest as to color and ornament. All parties having seated themselves, the dowager delivered herself of a remark that was not unusual in its form, and yet it came from her lips with the impressiveness of Scripture:
“The weather has been unpropitious of late, Miss Hawkins.”
“It has indeed,” said Laura. “The climate seems to be variable.”
“It is its nature of old, here,” said the daughter—stating it apparently as a fact, only, and by her manner waving aside all personal responsibility on account of it. “Is it not so, mamma?”
“Quite so, my child. Do you like winter, Miss Hawkins?” She said “like” as if she had an idea that its dictionary meaning was “approve of.”
“Not as well as summer—though I think all seasons have their charms.”
“It is a very just remark. The general held similar views. He considered snow in winter proper; sultriness in summer legitimate; frosts in the autumn the same, and rains in spring not objectionable. He was not an exacting man. And I call to mind now that he always admired thunder. You remember, child, your father always admired thunder?”
“He adored it.”
“No doubt it reminded him of battle,” said Laura.
“Yes, I think perhaps it did. He had a great respect for Nature. He often said there was something striking about the ocean. You remember his saying that, daughter?”
“Yes, often, mother. I remember it very well.”
“And hurricanes. He took a great interest in hurricanes. And animals. Dogs, especially—hunting dogs. Also comets. I think we all have our predilections. I think it is this that gives variety to our tastes.” Laura coincided with this view. “Do you find it hard and lonely to be so far from your home and friends, Miss Hawkins?”
“I do find it depressing sometimes, but then there