Steeplechase

by Jane Langton

  Therefore, it was intolerable that anyone calling himself a Christian clergyman should declare that all creatures on earth had come into being by a series of accidents, and, furthermore, that even the greatest glory of creation, man himself (and woman, too, of course), could be traced back to some howling creature of the jungle.

  The Conversazione

  The town of Nashoba could not, like Concord, boast a nest of philosophers, but it was more than a rural backwater. It had its own lofty pretensions.

  It was true that Ingeborg Biddle chafed at the primitive nature of Nashoba society. She often wished that Horatio occupied a pulpit in a town where no hint of a pigsty wafted in the window and no chorus of crowing cocks fractured the peace of the morning, and, above all, where the advancement of womankind was not a terrifying new idea.

  Ingeborg herself was an ardent disciple of the movement for female suffrage. While her husband looked backward to the classics of Greece and Rome, Ingeborg was a woman of the future. She revered Miss Fuller’s Woman in the Nineteenth Century. She laughed at a timid friend who declared that she would never read George Eliot’s Adam Bede.

  “But why ever not, Elfrida?”

  “Why not? Because that woman’s personal life is a disgrace.”

  Oh, yes, it was too bad. The women of Nashoba were old-fashioned and conservative. They knew nothing of Miss Fuller’s famous defense of the ambitions of women, “Let them be sea-captains, if you will.” But these ladies were all that Ingeborg had to work with, so let her instruction begin here.

  Therefore, once a month she played hostess in her sitting room to something she called a conversazione. These uplifting afternoons were not sewing circles or gossip sessions, but feasts of intellect. Only the more thoughtful ladies of the parish had been invited. Most of her guests were women of mature experience, like Elfrida Poole, but young Ella Viles had been included for her ornamental contribution.

  The theme for today had been announced last time. The women had already pondered it gravely at home—whether life’s sorrows be not blessings in disguise. Thus the talk began as usual at a high level, but almost at once, to Ingeborg’s surprise, it descended from cloudy abstraction to a single naked example: the dreadful affliction that had fallen upon the family of Josiah Gideon.

  “Hardly a blessing in their case,” said Minnie Wilder, the wife of the postmaster.

  “More of a judgment,” agreed Elfrida Poole.

  Ingeborg thanked her lucky stars that Julia Gideon had not accepted her invitation to join the circle. Julia was certainly one of the more intelligent women of the parish, but her presence this afternoon would have silenced the free exchange of thought.

  Abandoning at once her role as captain of a ship tossing in a sea of philosophical speculation, Ingeborg leaned forward boldly and asked the question that was in everyone’s mind. “Has anyone actually seen him?”

  There was a general shudder. “They say,” whispered Eugenia Hunt, “that the poor boy has no lower jaw. No lower jaw whatsoever.”

  There were exclamations of horror and pity, and then everyone was relieved when Ingeborg’s fluffy cat sauntered into the room. Ingeborg swooped him up, dumped him in the hall, slammed the door, and signaled to Ella Viles to pour the tea. It was unnecessary to say anything more, to point out the conclusion of the afternoon’s discussion, because it was as plain as the nose on your face.

  But as Ella fluttered prettily to the tea table, Cynthia Smith said it out loud. “It’s a judgment. That poor young soldier’s condition is a judgment on the eccentric behavior of his father-in-law.”

  “And just think of the soldier’s wife,” said Ella Viles. “Poor Isabelle!”

  “Oh yes,” agreed the others, “poor, dear Isabelle.”

  Now, amid the clatter of teacups and the excited chatter of her guests, it was clear to Ingeborg that the afternoon was a success, another example of the uplifting power of a conversazione.

  Rise up, ye women of Athens! To the masthead, sea-captains all!

  The Scarred Soul of Ingeborg Biddle

  Yes, Ingeborg’s intellectual afternoons were successful, but there was a nagging scar on her soul. Why was it that Julia Gideon refused to join the select circle in her sitting room? Julia’s husband, Josiah, was indeed a thorn in Horatio’s flesh, but Ingeborg was well aware that it was Josiah’s wife, Julia, rather than herself, who was the queen of Nashoba society.

  Cruelly etched on Ingeborg’s soul was the memory of Julia standing in her doorway, reaching out her arms to poor weeping Dora Whipple after Dora’s little son was drowned in the bottomless depths of Quarry Pond. Why hadn’t Dora come running for consolation to the wife of her own pastor? Ingeborg would have embraced her just as warmly, soothed her just as tenderly.

  And this sort of thing had happened more than once. It was painfully evident that the women of the parish flocked to Julia Gideon in their times of trouble. And now—oh, how it hurt!—in Julia’s own time of affliction, she had rejected Ingeborg’s sympathy.

  Even Horatio had been slighted. As the kindly shepherd of his flock, he had called on the family at once, as soon as it was known that Isabelle and her mutilated husband had come home. But to Horatio’s surprise, he had not been permitted to kneel in prayer at the sufferer’s bedside.

  But surely, thought Ingeborg, the pastor’s wife would be less threatening. On the day after Horatio’s failure, she had bustled down the hill past the burial ground and across the road, eager to clasp Isabelle in her arms and offer a loving hand of friendship to Julia, the unhappy mother-in-law.

  But how had she been received? At the door, Julia Gideon had stood like a stick in her embrace. Ingeborg had been invited into the front room, but no lamp had been lighted for her, and no welcoming fire had been kindled in the parlor stove.

  Bravely, Ingeborg had held out her pretty bouquet. “My first daffodils, Julia dear. May I give them to your son-in-law?” But Julia had merely looked down and said nothing. Then Ingeborg had leaned forward and whispered as one woman to another, “I assure you, my dear, I will not flinch.”

  At this, Julia had shot up out of her chair, reached for the flowers, and said curtly, “Thank you. I will give them to James.”

  And that was all. Ingeborg had dithered for a moment, then taken her leave.

  But her curiosity had been fueled. She was determined to know the true nature of the Gideons’ shame, to behold the actual mutilated face of poor Lieutenant Shaw. Somehow or other, she would find a way.

  The Dolphin Lady

  In spite of the absence of Julia Gideon, Ingeborg Biddle’s conversaziones were a social triumph. But their success was partly due to the presence in her house of a distinguished secret. Its name was “the Dolphin.”

  Ingeborg’s Dolphin was not one of the appointments of her sitting room, so elegantly furnished with a Kidderminster carpet, a landscape of the Roman campagna, Raphael’s Madonna of the Chair, an Eastlake sofa, and a stereopticon with views of the Pyramid of Cheops.

  The Dolphin was sequestered upstairs behind a closed door. It was not the only ornament of that hygienic domain, because Ingeborg was the daughter of the vice president of the J. L. Mott Iron Works of New York City, and therefore she had been privileged to choose freely from their sumptuous catalog.

  All of the fixtures had names. The tub was “the Elizabethan” and the lavatory “the Nonpareil.” But the glory of all glories was the front-outlet washout ventilating water closet, called “the Dolphin” because the bowl was supported by a porcelain fish tinted with turquoise and gold.

  One did not speak of bathroom fixtures in polite company, but Ingeborg could not help smiling when every lady in attendance at one of her conversational tea parties excused herself and disappeared, returning wide-eyed a moment later.

  Thus, it was neither the death of Socrates nor the essays of Emerson that were chattered about at home; it was the Dolphin.

  If people snickered at Ingeborg behind her back, referring to her as “the Dolphin la
dy,” they were envious just the same. Indoor plumbing was still a rarity in Nashoba. Outhouses were attached to some of the houses, but the usual Nashoba privy stood at the end of a well-worn path.

  One afternoon, Ingeborg’s Dolphin provided her with a plan. As she pulled the chain, hauled up her drawers, and smoothed down her skirt, she was struck by an idea, and laughed with delight.

  It was clear that the house of Julia and Josiah Gideon was not blessed with indoor waterworks, because the pump in the front yard was clearly visible from the road. Undoubtedly, there was an outhouse in the back. An outhouse! If Josiah Gideon, his wife, Julia, and daughter, Isabelle, found it necessary to retire to the backyard privy from time to time, so also would the other occupant of the residence, the disfigured veteran who refused to show his face. It was a law of nature that could not be denied.

  The Seat of the Scornful

  The tower of Nashoba’s First Parish Church had been intended, like all church steeples, to represent the upward longing of the spirit, the flight of the soul, the bridge between earth and heaven. Ingeborg Gideon’s use of this modest steeple as a platform for spying on a neighboring privy was bizarre, but the sacred symbolism of her perch did not concern her. She sat on a stack of Sabbath school Bibles in the bell chamber, hoping to catch a glimpse of the disfigured son-in-law of Josiah Gideon as he made his way to the outhouse. Even from the attic of the parsonage, the rear premises of Josiah’s property were hidden by the chestnut tree. Only from the church steeple could she see the backyard of the house in which the unhappy young man was hidden away.

  The tower also opened up a delightful view of the entire town of Nashoba. Looking down from her high perch, Ingeborg had to admit that it was a pretty little village. The elms planted on the green by the Ornamental Tree Association were still only saplings, but one day they would arch high above the housetops. At this moment, stonemasons were at work in the middle of the green, constructing the pedestal for a war memorial. Concord had erected an obelisk, but Nashoba’s was to be a statue. There beside the pedestal lay the little stone soldier, rigidly clutching his rifle. Beyond the memorial, a few young ladies were setting up a game of croquet, pounding the hoops into the grass. The gentle tapping of their mallets was soon drowned out by the clashing pots and pans of a tinware peddler and the sharp rattle of a scissors grinder’s wheel. Then even these vulgar noises were overwhelmed by the grinding scream of the steam-powered sawmill on the other side of the graveyard.

  Ingeborg was indignant. The sawmill was an insult to the ears and an eyesore right here in the middle of town. Then to the noise of the sawmill was added the rumble of the gristmill on the other side of Quarry Pond.

  Suddenly, there was a hush as all the machinery stopped at once, and now Ingeborg could hear the tinkle of “The Happy Farmer” floating up from the piano studio of Elfrida Poole. Then the quiet was fractured once more as the engine of the Nashoba Steam Fire Society started up with a roar. The jolly volunteer firemen were playing with their new toy from New Hampshire, a shining contraption with the words Fire King painted on the side. As Ingeborg watched in dismay, the Fire King huffed and puffed and shot a stream of water high in the air. It crested like a fountain and fell on the green like a shower of rain, sending the young ladies ducking away from their game of croquet, stumbling over wickets and shrieking. Ingeborg was mortified. The fools called it practicing, but they were shouting with laughter.

  Now she shifted on her stack of Bibles to look westward toward the commercial center of Nashoba. Twenty years ago, when Horatio had accepted the call of the local congregation, the main street had boasted only a smithy, a grain merchant, a harness maker, a grocer, and a butcher, but now it was as up-and-coming as the Milldam in Concord. Sidewalks lined the street, and in the Hubbard Block, a gentleman’s haberdasher was doing a thriving business. The Nashoba Mercantile Bank occupied quarters between the post office and the law offices of Peabody and Brown. A livery stable supplied horses, carts, and buggies for hire, and a dry-goods store was stocked with a delightful assortment of sewing materials for the women of Nashoba—bolts of poplin, broadcloth, and French cassimere, as well as velvets, silks, and every sort of ruching, fringe, and braid. Regrettably, there was also a tavern at the end of the street, the Rising Sun.

  With a creak of her stays, Ingeborg turned sideways and craned her neck the other way. From here, she could see children emerging from the district school, escaping from Euclid’s Elements and the baggage trains of Julius Caesar. But the ornament of the village was housed in the Wheeler Block, the Nashoba Social Library. Not only did the library possess a thousand books; it also boasted a cabinet of minerals, the gift of Ingeborg Biddle. The most constant borrower of reading matter was Ingeborg herself—that is, after one other person.

  “I suppose, Maria,” Ingeborg had said to the librarian, “that I am the worst offender in emptying your shelves of books. Forgive me, dear.”

  “Oh, no, rest easy, Mrs. Biddle. You’re not nearly so bad as Mrs. Gideon.”

  Ingeborg winced, remembering the insult. But it wasn’t the views to east and west that were of interest to her now. Swiveling once again on her Bibles, she looked south to the house in which Julia Gideon was said to be reading even more books than Ingeborg Biddle. It did not occur to Ingeborg that within the tattered Bibles crushed beneath her stays was the Book of Psalms with its blessing on “the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful.”

  Scornful indeed was her seat, but this morning her observation seemed futile. It was laundry day in the Gideon household. Their backyard was a cloud of billowing sheets. Did that nightshirt belong to the monster?

  Ingeborg hitched forward on her pyramid of Old and New Testaments. Who were those people pulling up in front of the house in a high-seated gig? Oh, of course, it was Dr. Clock. The woman beside him must be his wife, Ida. The small boy jumping down from her lap was surely too old to be the fruit of this marriage. He must be the child of her first husband, the deserter. How kind of the doctor to raise the boy as his own!

  Ingeborg watched as Dr. Clock was welcomed into the house by Josiah’s daughter. Then she was surprised to see that instead of inviting the doctor’s wife and little stepson into the house, Isabelle ran out to join them. Ingeborg watched as Isabelle kissed Ida, hugged the little boy, and patted the horse’s nose.

  Patiently, Ingeborg waited for the end of the doctor’s visit. At last, he came hurrying out of the house and mounted the gig. At once, the horse started up with a sprightly bounce, nearly tossing the little boy over the side. The doctor grabbed him by the strap of his overalls, flicked his whip, and immediately horse and wagon were off and away, rattling down the turnpike on the way home to Concord.

  Surely now the women of the Gideon household would be free to do something about the tossing sheets in the backyard. Ingeborg stared impatiently. Why on earth didn’t someone take them in? By now, they must certainly be bone-dry. The enormous chestnut tree shaded the front of the house, but the sheets in the backyard flapped in the sunshine.

  Ingeborg was tired of her vigil. Frustration made her bold. What if she were to walk down the hill and wander behind the house as though looking for her fluffy gray pussy? Why ever not!

  Carefully, she picked up her skirts and made her way down the ladder to the platform where the ticking clockworks smelled of machine oil, and then down a staircase to the vestry. Here she brushed her skirts, patted her high-piled curls, and walked down the hill. With a dignified step, she strolled past the front of the Gideon house and turned the corner on Quarry Pond Road to observe the ménage from the side. But there were too many tall bushes. Darting a glance left and right, Ingeborg slipped in among the lilacs. The path to the privy was still out of sight. Boldly, she pushed branches aside, until at last she could see the back door, the path, and the latticed bower enclosing the outhouse.

  But then she had a fright. An orange cat, a clawing cat, a cat that was not her fluffy gray pussy, l
eaped out of the bushes and landed on her shoulder. Ingeborg screamed and sprawled full length across the path just as Josiah Gideon emerged from the outhouse.

  Gallantly, he helped her to her feet. “Madam,” he said, throwing wide the privy door, “I beg you to be my guest.”

  NOW

  The Lost Steeple

  Lost, lost is the music! Lost

  All the prayers and the people!

  Lost Is the Music

  I’ve been thinking,” said Mary, thumping down her empty beer glass on the kitchen table.

  “Dangerous habit,” said Homer. “What about?”

  “About the great unwashed. I mean in history.”

  “The great unwashed?” Homer snickered and wrenched open another bottle. “I worry more about the great washed. I hate the way everybody nowadays is so clean. They brush their teeth and gargle away their foul breath, and shampoo their hair until it’s squeaky-clean, and all the women shave their legs and all the men frustrate the urge of every whisker on their chins to emerge into the light, and that isn’t all. After purifying their bodies, they attack their brains with wire brushes and cleansing powder until everything of interest has been scrubbed away.”

  “But, Homer, that’s exactly what I mean. When you think about history—”

  “Unless, of course, it’s sexual intercourse,” Homer went on, correcting himself. “That stuff never goes away.”

  “Sexual intercourse?” Mary looked blank, then hurtled on. “Okay, but I’ve been thinking about history. Cleanliness wasn’t so rife in the past. Listen, Homer, what about all those great dead people? You know, the Shakespeares and Johann Sebastian Bachs and the Walt Whitmans and the Wordsworths of times gone by. They weren’t squeaky-clean. They didn’t have the plumbing for it, or maybe they didn’t even feel the need.”