gone in partnership, as it were, with the emotions, and with what sympathy, beautifully adjusted to the occasion, trade had met the afflictions of humanity.
After breakfast, I set out upon my sad errand, and had no difficulty in finding the maison de deuil in question. It met me in the sad habiliments of mourning. No vulgar colours glared from the shop-windows, no gilt annoyed with its festive glare. The name of the firm scarcely presumed to make itself seen in letters of the saddest grey, on a black ground. Here and there beads of white set off the general gloom of the house-front, like the crape pipings of a widow’s cap. The very metal window frames and plates had gone into a decorous mourning—zinc taking the place of—what we feel, under the circumstances, would be quite indecent—brass. Our neighbours across the Channel, who know how to dress up affliction as appropriately as their bonbonnière, have long since seen the necessity of classifying the trappings of grief, and of withdrawing them from the vulgar atmosphere of gayer costumes. In any of our smaller country towns, the ordinary mercer who has just been handling a flaunting silk, thinks it no shame to measure off, with his last smirk still upon his features, a dress of paramatta. The rude Anglo-Saxon provincial element feels no shock at the incongruity. They manage these things better in France, and we are following their example in the great metropolis.
On my pushing the plate-glass door, it gave way with a hushed and muffled sound, and I was met by a gentleman of sad expression, who, in the most sympathetic voice, inquired the nature of my want: and, on my reply, directed me to the Inconsolable Grief Department. The inside of the establishment I found to answer exactly to the appearance without. The long passage I traversed was panelled in white with black borderings, like so many mourning cards placed on end; and I was becoming impressed with the deep solemnity of the place, when I caught sight of a neat little figure rolling up some ribbon, and on inquiring if I had arrived at the Inconsolable Grief Department, she replied in a gentle voice, slightly shaded with gaiety, that that was the half-mourning counter, and that I must proceed until I had passed the repository for widows’ silk. Following her directions, I at last reached my destination, a large room draped with black, with a hushed atmosphere about it, as though a body was invisibly lying there in state.
An attendant in sable habiliments picked out with the inevitable white tie, and with an undertakerish eye and manner, awaited my commands. I accordingly produced my list. Scanning it critically, he said:
“Permit me to inquire, sir, if it is a deceased partner?”
I nodded assent.
“We take the liberty of asking this distressing question,” he replied, “as we are extremely anxious to keep up the character of this establishment by matching at once the exact shade of affliction. Our paramattas and crapes in this department give satisfaction to the deepest woe. Permit me to show you a new texture, which we term the Inconsolable.” With that he placed a pasteboard box before me, full of mourning fabrics.
“Is this it?” I inquired, lifting a lugubrious piece of drapery.
“Oh no!” he replied: “the one you have in your hand was manufactured for last year’s afflictions, and was termed ‘the stunning blow shade;’ it makes up well, however, with our sudden bereavement silk—a leading article—and our distraction trimmings.”
“I am afraid,” said I, “my commission says nothing about these novelties.”
“Ladies in the country,” he blandly replied, “are possibly not aware of the perfection to which the art of mourning genteelly is now brought. But I will see that your commission is attended to, to the letter.” Giving another glance over my list. “Oh! a widow’s cap is mentioned, I see. I must trouble you, sir, to proceed to the Weeds Department for that article—the first turning to the left.”
Proceeding as I was directed, I came to a recess fitted up with a solid phalanx of widows’ caps. I perceived, at a glance, that they exhausted the whole gamut of grief, from its deepest shade to that tone which is expressive of a pleasing melancholy. The foremost row confronted me with all the severity of crapen folds, in the midst of which my mind’s eye could see the set features of many a Mrs. Clennam, whilst those behind gradually faded off into the most jaunty tarlatan; and one or two of the outsiders even breaking out into worldly feathers, and the most flaunty weepers.
Forgetting the proprieties for the moment, I inquired of the grave attendant, if one of the latter would be suitable?
“Oh no, sir,” she replied, with a slight shade of severity in her voice; “you may gradually work up to it in a year or two; but any of these,” pointing to the front row of weeds, “are indispensable for the first burst of grief.”
Acquiescing in the propriety of this sliding-scale of sorrow, I selected some weeds expressive of the deepest dejection I could find; and having completed my commission, I inquired where I could procure for myself some lavender gloves?
“Oh, sir, for those things,” she said, in the voice of Tragedy speaking of Comedy, “you must turn to your right, and you will come to the Complimentary Mourning counter.”
Turning to the right, accordingly, I was surprised and a little shocked to find myself once more among worldly colours; tender lavender I had expected, but violet, mauve, and even absolute red, stared me in the face. I was about retiring, thinking I had made a mistake, when a young lady, with a charming tinge of cheerfulness in her voice, inquired if I wanted anything in her department?
“I was looking for the Complimentary Mourning counter,” I replied, “for some gloves, but I fear I am wrong.”
“You are quite right, sir,” she said; “this is it.”
She saw my eye glance at the cheerful silks, and, with the instinctive tact of woman, guessed my thoughts in a moment.
