Susie trying to work on bristol board failed some what and said “Well Mamma you know the world was not made in a day”—
*
Susie—4½. Perceiving that her shoes were damaging her feet, from being too small, I got her a very ample pair, of a most villainous shape and style. She made no complaint when they were put on her, but looked injured and degraded. At night when she knelt at her mother’s knee to say her prayers, the former gave her the usual admonition:
“Now, Susie—think about God.”
“Mamma, I can’t, with these shoes.”
*
Bay—2 yrs and 2 mos. She can say only a few words; is very fond of rocking and singing—to no tune.
She sings, “Dee papa, dee mamma, dee Do-ah, (Theodore Crane), dee Tah-tay (tante, German for aunt Sue) dee Yo-wah (Rosa, German nurse,) dee Shish-shee (sister), dee me-e.”
It is customary to say “Now, Bay, sing the holy family”—whereupon she performs as above.
Then we say, “Now, Bay, let us have the catechism. Who is a hard lot?”
“Papa.”
“Who is a particularly hard lot?”
“Do-ah.”
“Who is the hardest lot in Chemung county?”
“Tah-te.”
“Who is the hardest lot in the State of New York?”
“Shish-shee.”
“Who is the hardest lot in America?”
“Yo-wah.”
“Who is the hardest lot in the civilized world?”
“Mamma.”
“Who is the confoundedest hardest lot in the entire Universe?”
“Me.”
*
Several times Livy said to Susie, “There, there, child, you must not cry for little things.” One day (when there was nothing under discussion,) Susie came up out of a brown study with the formidable question, “Mamma, what is LITTLE things?” No man can answer that question—nor no woman; for nothing that grieves us can be called little: a child’s loss of a doll, and a king’s loss of a crown are events of the same size. Livy could not furnish a sufficient answer. But Susie did not give the matter up. She worked at the problem several days. One day, when Livy was about to drive down town—one of her errands being the purchase of a long-promised toy watch for Susie,—the child said, “If you forgot the watch, mamma, would that be a little thing?”
Yet she was not concerned about the watch; for she knew perfectly well it would not be forgotten; what the struggling mind was after, was the getting a satisfying grip upon that puzzling question.
*
October 1876 (aged 4 and upwards.)—Susie’s mother read to her the story of Joseph. The killing of the kid to stain the garment with blood was arrived at, in due course and made deep impression. Susie’s comment, full of sympathy and compassion, was: “Poor little kid!” This is probably the only time, in 4000 years, that any human being has pitied that kid—everybody has been too much taken up with pitying Joseph, to remember that that innocent little animal suffered even more violently than he, and is fairly entitled to a word of compassion. I did not suppose that an unhackneyed (let alone an original) thought could be started on an Old Bible subject, but plainly this is one.
*
Aged 4½.—Susie.
Susie repeated a little German stanza about the “Vöglein”; I read it from the book, and with deliberation and emphasis, to correct her pronunciation—whereupon, the Bay, in shattered English, corrected me. I said I had read it right, and asked Susie if I hadn’t. She said:
“Yes, papa, you did—but you read it so ’stinctly that it ’fused Bay.”
*
Apl. 1877.
Susie said to Miss Alice Spaulding: “I never was at church but once, and that was the day that Bay was crucified.” (Christened.)
*
Susie has always had a good deal of womanly dignity. One day Livy and Mrs. Lilly Warner were talking earnestly in the library; Susie interrupted them several times; finally Livy said, very sharply,—“Susie, if you interrupt again, I will send you instantly to the nursery!” Five minutes later, Livy saw Mrs. W. to the front door; on her way back she saw Susie on the stairs, and said, “Where are you going, Susie?” “To the nursery, Mamma.” “What are you going up there, for, dear?—don’t you want to stay with me in the library?” “You didn’t speak to me right, mamma.” Livy was surprised; she had forgotten that rebuke; she pushed her inquiries further; Susie said, with a gentle dignity that carried its own reproach, “You didn’t speak to me right, mamma.” She had been humiliated in the presence of an outsider. Livy felt condemned. She carried Susie to the library, and argued the case with her. Susie hadn’t a fault to find with the justice of the rebuke, but she held out steadily against the manner of it, saying gently, once or twice, “But you didn’t speak to me right, mamma.” She won her cause; and her mother had to confess that she hadn’t spoken to her “right.”
We require courteous speech from the children at all times and in all circumstances; we owe them the same courtesy in return; and when we fail of it we deserve correction.
*
Munich, (Bavaria,) Nov. 1878.
As we have been traveling for 8 months, this record has been neglected—the book was generally in some trunk that had been sent on ahead. So we will drop dates for the present.
*
In Geneva, in September, one morning, I lay abed late, and as Bay was passing through the room I took her on my bed a moment. Then she went to Clara Spaulding and said, “Aunt Clara, papa is a good deal of trouble to me, lately.”
“Is he?—Why?”
“Well, he wants me to get in bed with him, and I can’t do that with jelmuls (gentlemen)—I don’t like jelmuls, anyway.”
“What! you don’t like gentlemen? Don’t you like uncle Theodore?” (Crane)
“O yes—but he ain’t a jelmul—he’s a friend.”
*
To-night she was trying to remind her mother of something, and said—
“It was in Rome—no, Florence,—no, I think it was Venice—or Baden-Baden.” Then, after a pause—“Now I know!—it was where we saw that kitty.”
The moral lies in the fact that she has noticed nothing but kitties in all her European travels.
*
Nov. 17 1878.
Susie is sorely badgered with dreams; and her stock dream is that she is being eaten up by bears. Last night she had the usual dream. This morning she stood apart (after telling it) for some time, looking vacantly at the floor and absorbed in meditation. At last she looked up, and with the pathos of one who feels he has not been dealt by with even-handed fairness, said, “But mamma, the trouble is, that I am never the bear, but always the PERSON.” (I always give the exact language, in these records.) It would not have occurred to me that there might be an advantage, even in a dream, in occasionally being the eater, instead of always the party eaten, but I easily perceived that her point was well taken.
*
Nov. 30 1878.
This morning, when Bay discovered that this is my birth-day, she was greatly troubled because she had provided no gift for me—repeated her sorrow several times. Finally she went off musing to the nursery and presently returned with her newest and chiefest treasure, a large toy-horse and said, “You shall have this horse for your birth-day, papa.” I accepted it with many thanks. After an hour she was racing up and down the room with the horse when Susie said,—
“Why Clara! You gave that horse to papa, and now you’ve tooken it back again.”
Bay.—“I never give it to him for always; I give it to him for his birthday.”
*
Munich, Bavaria, Feb. 25, 1879.
Bay finished her little First German Reader, yesterday, and came in with the triumphant announcement: “I’m through, papa! I can read any German book that ever was, now!”
Susie announced, to-day, that she was also through, now, and could read any German book. “And if I can read German books, I can read German papers, too, can’t I?” She had the “A
llgemeine Zeitung” in her hand, ready to begin. I was obliged to dash her spirits by saying I didn’t believe anybody could read a German newspaper.
However, if the children are a trifle mistaken as to their ability to read German, they certainly speak it as well as they do English, and as glibly and prettily.
We leave for Paris day after tomorrow, to remain several months.
*
May 1879.
Hanover—(stopped there overnight, en route to Heidelberg.) The children had been required, for the past week, to converse with Rosa (the nurse,) in German only. They soon achieved such a hatred for the language that they began to openly rebel and speak to her in English; but she stuck to German in all her replies. This deeply aggravated Bay—and finally she said, “Aunt Clara, I wish God had made Rosa in English.”
*
March 1879 to Sept 1879
We staid in Paris four months and a half—from the end of February to the middle of July—at the Hotel de Normandie, 7 rue de l’Echelle, corner of the rue St Honoré; then traveled through Holland and Belgium; then spent a few weeks in London and finally reached home the 2d of September, after an absence of nearly a year and a half.
*
Susie made a philosophical remark one day in Paris—in one of her reflective moods—the wording of which I cannot recal; but the exact sense of it was that of the proverb, “It is the unexpected which happens.”
*
One day Livy and Clara Spaulding were exclaiming over the odd, queer ways of the French. Susie looked up from her work of doll-dressing and said, “Well, mamma, don’t you reckon we seem queer to them?”
*
One day in Paris Susie watched her mamma make her toilet for a swell affair at the Embassy, and it was plain that her soul was full of applause, though none of it escaped in words till the last touch was put on and the marvel completed; then she said, with a burst of envying admiration, “I wish I could have crooked teeth and spectacles, like mamma!”
*
One day on shipboard a group of ladies and gentlemen began to question Susie as to her relationships; and one lady who felt herself on the track of a kinship with Livy’s mother, asked Susie what her grandmamma’s name was, before she was married?—which brought out this grave slander, uttered with tranquil simplicity: “My grandmamma has never been married.”
*
Remark of Susie’s upon having her attention called to some folly or silliness of hers which must have had a bad appearance to the strangers who had been present at the time: “Well, mamma, you know I didn’t see myself; so I couldn’t know how it looked.”—
[The trouble with most of us is that we don’t “see ourselves” as others see us, else we would be saved frequent follies.]
*
One evening Susie had prayed; Bay was curled up for sleep; she was reminded that it was her turn to pray, now; she said, “O, one’s enough!” and dropped off to slumber.
*
Once in Paris we found that Susie had about ceased from praying. The matter was inquired into. She answered, with simplicity: “I hardly ever pray now; when I want anything, I just leave it to Him—He understands.”
[The words, without her voice and manner, do not convey her meaning. What she meant, was, that she had thought the thing all out, and arrived at the conclusion that there was no obstructing vagueness or confusion between herself and God requiring her to explain herself in set words;—when she felt a want, He knew it without its being formulated, and could be trusted to grant or wisely withhold as should be best for both parties; and she was conscious of the impropriety and the needlessness of bothering Him with every little craving that came into her head.]
*
One day, at home, Livy borrowed a little Japanese fan, of Susie, on the ombra—(a trifle that cost 5 cents;) but kept returning it after every two-minutes use of it, saying “That will do for the present, thank you, Susie.” But Susie is deep. She knew mamma would use the fan all the time except that she would not allow herself to deprive her of her plaything; so she went for her money-box and persuaded Patrick, (the coachman,) to leave his work and go down town—a mile and a half—and buy a similar fan for mamma to have all to herself. It was a thoughtful attention, and delicately done. She kept her secret till the thing was accomplished; for she knew that otherwise mamma would insist upon paying for the fan herself. [And it was characteristic of Patrick, too, to tramp three miles to humor the child’s kindly whim.]
*
Susie is singularly thoughtful. She often makes me blush for my distinguished lack of that quality. Many a time I have proposed to her some dazzling enterprise which I expected her to jump at with delight, and have been shot down with the remark: “But papa, you know mamma does not allow us to do that.” Perfectly true, but I had forgotten it—for the moment. She and Bay will have every right to remember their mother with pride, and speak of her with affection and reverence, as long as they live; for their rearing, under her hands, has been a master-work of good sense, sound judgment, loving consideration, and steady, even-handed justice. They never have known what it was to owe allegiance to, and be the shuttle-cock of, a capricious fool in petticoats, who is all sugar one moment and all aqua-fortis the next; who thrashes for a misdemeanor to-day which she will allow to pass tomorrow; who requires obedience by fits and starts, and puts up with the opposite between-times. No—this description, which fits more or less closely the vast majority of mothers, does not fit theirs in any part. Their mother has always kept faith with them; they could always depend upon her; they never could doubt her. When she promised them a punishment or a present, they knew it was just as sure to come as if the Angel of Fate had spoken it; they knew that all her promises were as good as gold, for she never told them a lie, nor ever beguiled them with a subterfuge. They also knew that she never punished in revenge, but in love; and that the infliction wrung her mother-heart, and was a sore task to her. Let them bless her more for those punishments, whilst they live, than for her gifts; for she was born to give, and it cost her no pang; but to deal out penalties was against her nature; but she did deal them out, firmly and unflinchingly, for the great love she bore her children. Mothers have all sorts of formulas: “Do that, or I will punish you;” “If you do that again, I will punish you;” “If you will do so-and-so, I will give you something nice, by and by”—and so on; and still the child disobeys, persistently, and nothing comes of it; for the child has learned that the promise of punishment will not be kept, and that the promised “nice thing” will be given anyhow, for the sake of peace. Livy’s formula was simply “Do this”—and it had to be done. It was kindly and gently spoken, but it admitted of no deflection from the exact performance. She is a perfect mother, if ever there was one.
One day a neighbor of ours whose children never obey her except when it suits them, begged Susie and Bay to come in and see her (they were in her grounds.) They declined, and said mamma had told them (at some time or other) not to go into a house without her permission—thus intimating their knowledge that although the command had not lately been repeated, it was still in force and must be respected until it was distinctly abrogated. This ought to have compelled this lady’s admiration; on the contrary she heedlessly set herself to work to persuade the children to come in, against their consciences—saying she would take all the responsibility, etc., and at last won their reluctant acquiescence; she took all this trouble to undermine a foundation of obedience which had been laid at such protracted and pains-taking cost. I never can think of this outrage and keep my temper. However, at the end of two minutes she found that the children were so full of doubts and misgivings, and so ill at ease that they were far from enjoying themselves—so she let them go. This lady is one of the noblest and loveliest spirits in the land, but she is no more fitted to govern children than she is to govern the Indians.
*
Quarry Farm, July 1880.
The children have been taught to conceal nothing from their mother. They h
ave been taught to come to her and confess their misdeeds, explain how the whole thing was, and trust the matter of the punishment to her, knowing that her perfect fairness can always be relied on. Well, hay-cutting time was approaching, and for days the children were in a state of vast excitement; because, for the first time in their lives they were going to be allowed to embark in the prodigious adventure of a ride to the barn on the summit of a load of hay. It was all the talk. The hay was cut at last—next day it would be hauled! And now came Susie with a confession; she had been doing something of superlative naughtiness—she had struck Bay, I think. But no matter what it was. Her mother followed her invariable custom—took the child to a private room to talk the matter over—for she never inflicts punishment until she has made the culprit understand its fault and why it is punished. At the end of the talk, this time, Susie comprehended her crime, and acknowledged that it was of very serious magnitude. A punishment of corresponding size had to be devised; so upon this work mamma began, and took Susie into the matter, also, as a kind of consulting counsel. Various penalties were canvassed and discussed—among them, deprivation of the hay-wagon ride—and this one manifestly hit Susie the hardest of all. By and by there was a summing up, and mamma said, “Well, Susie, which one do you think it ought to be?” Susie studied a while, and said, “Which do you think, mamma?” “Well, Susie, I would rather leave it to you—you make the choice yourself.” After a deal of deep thought, Susie got the thing all weighed out satisfactorily in her mind, and said, “Well, mamma, I will make it the hay-wagon; because you know, mamma, the other things might not make me remember not to do it again; but if I don’t get to ride on the hay wagon, I can remember easily.” [They perfectly understand that the main purpose of punishment is to make them remember to not commit the fault again.] Poor child! anybody’s natural impulse would be to jump up in a gushy way and say “Go free! your Spartan fidelity to the bitter task laid upon you has won your pardon.” I do not know what Livy did, but I judge she did not do that. Firstly, she would not be likely to establish the precedent of allowing a just and honorable compact to be departed from; and secondly, since she was distinctly trying to contrive a punishment which would make Susie remember, she would not be likely to throw it aside from a mistaken generous impulse and leave her in a position to go and commit the fault again.
A Family Sketch and Other Private Writings Page 7