“You don’t say so!”
“It’s a fact. Why, it must have been a good week’s work to make that dress, even with her sewing-machine. Maria told me of her as a great secret, because she really works so well that if folks knew it she would be swamped with work, and then go to raising her price — that’s what they all do when they can get a chance — but I’ve been to her and engaged her for you.”
“I’m sure, Maria, I don’t know what we should do if you were not always looking out for us.”
“I don’t know — I’m getting to be an old woman,” said Aunt Maria. “I’m not what I was. But I consider your family as my appointed field of labor — just as our rector said last Sunday, we must do the duty next us. But tell the girls not to talk about this dressmaker. We shall want all she can do, and make pretty much our own terms with her. It’s nice and convenient for Eva that she lives somewhere down in those out-of-the-way regions where she has chosen to set up. Well, good-morning;” and Aunt Maria opened the house door and stood upon the top of the steps, when a second postscript struck her mind.
“There now!” said she, “I was meaning to tell you that it is getting to be reported everywhere that Alice and Jim Fellows are engaged.”
“Oh, well, of course there’s nothing in it,” said Mrs. Van Arsdel. “I don’t think Alice would think of him for a moment. She likes him as a friend, that’s all.”
“I don’t know, Nelly; you can’t be too much on your guard. Alice is a splendid girl, and might have almost anybody. Between you and me — now, Nelly, you must be sure not to mention it — but Mr. Davenport has been very much struck with her.”
“Oh, Maria, how can you? Why, his wife hasn’t been dead a year!”
“Oh, pshaw! these widowers don’t always govern their eyes by the almanac,” said Aunt Maria, with a laugh. “Of course, John Davenport will marry again. I always knew that; and Alice would be a splendid woman to be at the head of his establishment. At any rate, at the little company the other night at his sister’s, Mrs. Singleton’s, you know, he was perfectly devoted to her, and I thought Mrs. Singleton seemed to like it.”
“It would certainly be a fine position, if Alice can fancy him,” said Mrs. Van Arsdel. “Seems to me he is rather querulous and dyspeptic, isn’t he?”
“Oh, well, yes; his health is delicate; he needs a wife to take care of him.”
“He’s so yellow!” ruminated Mrs. Van Arsdel ingenuously. “I never could bear thin, yellow men.”
“Oh, come, don’t you begin, Nelly — it’s bad enough to have girls with their fancies. What we ought to look at are the solid excellences. What a pity that the marrying age always comes when girls have the least sense! John Davenport is a solid man, and if he should take a fancy to Alice, it would be a great piece of good luck. Alice ought to be careful, and not have these reports around, about her and Jim Fellows; it just keeps off advantageous offers. I shall talk to Alice the first time I get a chance.”
“Oh, pray don’t, Maria — I don’t think it would do any good. Alice is very set in her way, and it might put her up to make something of it more than there is.”
“Oh, never fear me,” said Aunt Maria, nodding her head; “I understand Alice, and know just what needs to be said. I sha’n’t do her any harm, you may be sure,” and Aunt Maria, espying her omnibus afar, ran briskly down the steps, thus concluding the conference.
Now it happened that adjoining the parlor where this conversation had taken place was a little writing-cabinet which Mr. Van Arsdel often used for the purposes of letter-writing. On this morning, when his wife supposed him out as usual at his office, he had retired there to attend to some correspondence. The entrance was concealed by drapery, and so he had been an unintentional and unsuspected but much amused listener to Aunt Maria’s adjurations to his wife on his behalf. All through his subsequent labors of the pen he might have been observed to pause from time to time and laugh to himself. The idea of lying as a quiet dead weight on the wheels of the progress of his energetic relation was something vastly pleasing to the dry and secretive turn of his humor — and he rather liked it than otherwise.
“We shall see whether I am losing my faculties,” he said to himself, as he gathered up his letters and departed.
CHAPTER IV
EVA HENDERSON TO HARRY’S MOTHER
My DEAR MOTHER, — Harry says I must do all the writing to you and keep you advised of all our affairs, because he is so driven with his editing and proof-reading that letter-writing is often the most fatiguing thing he can do. It is like trying to run after one has become quite out of breath.
The fact is, dear mother, the demands of this New York newspaper life are terribly exhausting. It’s a sort of red-hot atmosphere of hurry and competition. Magazines and newspapers jostle each other, and run races, neck and neck, and everybody connected with them is kept up to the very top of his speed, or he is thrown out of the course. You see, Bolton and Harry have between them the oversight of three papers — a monthly magazine for the grown folk, another for the children, and a weekly paper. Of course there are sub-editors, but they have the general responsibility, and so, you see, they are on the qui vive all the time to keep up; for there are other papers and magazines running against them, and the price of success seems to be eternal vigilance. What is exacted of an editor nowadays seems to be a sort of general omniscience. He must keep the run of everything, — politics, science, religion, art, agriculture, general literature; the world is alive and moving everywhere, and he must know just what’s going on and be able to have an opinion ready made and ready to go to press at any moment. He must tell to a T just what they are doing in Ashantee and Dahomey, and what they don’t do and ought to do in New York. He must be wise and instructive about currency and taxes and tariffs, and able to guide Congress; and then he must take care of the Church, — know just what the Old Catholics are up to, the last new kink of the Ritualists, and the right and wrong of all the free fights in the different denominations. It really makes my little head spin just to hear what they are getting up articles about. Bolton and Harry are kept on the chase, looking up men whose specialties lie in these lines to write for them. They have now in tow a Jewish Rabbi, who is going to do something about the Talmud, or Targums, or something of that sort; and a returned missionary from the Gaboon River, who entertained Du Chaillu and can speak authentically about the gorilla; and a lively young doctor who is devoting his life to the study of the brain and nervous system. Then there are all sorts of writing men and women sending pecks and bushels of articles to be printed, and getting furious if they are not printed, though the greater part of them are such hopeless trash that you only need to read four lines to know that they are good for nothing; but they all expect them to be remailed with explanations and criticisms, and the ladies sometimes write letters of wrath to Harry that are perfectly fearful.
Altogether there is a good deal of an imbroglio, and you see with it all how he comes to be glad that I have a turn for letter-writing and can keep you informed of how we of the interior go on. My business in it all is to keep a quiet, peaceable, restful home, where he shall always have the enjoyment of seeing beautiful things and find everything going on nicely without having to think why, or how, or wherefore; and, besides this, to do every little odd and end for him that he is too tired or too busy to do; in short, I suppose some of the ambitious lady leaders of our time would call it playing second fiddle. Yes, that is it; but there must be second fiddles in an orchestra, and it’s fortunate that I have precisely the talent for playing one, and my doctrine is that the second fiddle well played is quite as good as the first. What would the first be without it?
After all, in this great fuss about the men’s sphere and the women’s, isn’t the women’s ordinary work just as important and great in its way? For, you see, it’s what the men with all their greatness can’t do, for the life of them. I can go a good deal further in Harry’s sphere than he can in mine. I can judge about the merits of a transl
ation from the French, or criticise an article or story, a great deal better than he can settle the difference between the effect of tucking and inserting in a dress, or of cherry and solferino in curtains. Harry appreciates a room prettily got up as well as any man, but how to get it up — all the shades of color and niceties of arrangement, the thousand little differences and agreements that go to it — he can’t comprehend. So this man and woman question is just like the quarrel between the mountain and the squirrel in Emerson’s poem, where “Bun” talks to the mountain: —
“If I am not so big as you,
You ‘re not so small as I,
And not half so spry.
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut.”
I am quite satisfied that, first and last, I shall crack a good many nuts for Harry. Not that I am satisfied with a mere culinary or housekeeping excellence, or even an artistic and poetic skill in making home lovely; I do want a sense of something noble and sacred in life — something to satisfy a certain feeling of the heroic that always made me unhappy and disgusted with my aimless fashionable girl career. I always sympathized with Ida, and admired her because she had force enough to do something that she thought was going to make the world better. It is better to try and fail with such a purpose as hers than never to try at all; and in that point of view I sympathize with the whole woman movement, though I see no place for myself in it. But my religion, poor as it is, has always given this incitement to me: I never could see how one could profess to be a Christian at all and not live a heroic life — though I know I never have. When I hear in church of the “glorious company of the apostles,” the “goodly fellowship of the prophets,” the “noble army of martyrs,” I have often such an uplift — and the tears come to my eyes, and then my life seems so poor and petty, so frittered away in trifles. Then the Communion service of our Church always impresses me as something so serious, so profound, that I have wondered how I dared go through with it; and it always made me melancholy and dissatisfied with myself. To offer one’s soul and body and spirit to God a living sacrifice surely ought to mean something that should make one’s life noble and heroic, yet somehow it didn’t do so with mine.
It was one thing that drew me to Harry, that he seemed to me an earnest, religious man, and I told him when we were first engaged that he must be my guide; but he said no, we must go hand in hand, and guide each other, and together we would try to find the better way. Harry is very good to me in being willing to go with me to my Church. I told him I was weak in religion at any rate, and all my associations with good and holy things were with my Church, and I really felt afraid to trust myself without them. I have tried going to his sort of services with him, but these extemporaneous prayers don’t often help me. I find myself weighing and considering in my own mind whether that is what I really do feel or ask; and if one is judging or deciding one can’t be praying at the same time. Now and then I hear a good man who so wraps me up in his sympathies, and breathes such a spirit of prayer as carries me without effort, and that is lovely; but it is so rare a gift! In general, I long for the dear old prayers of my Church, where my poor little naughty heart has learned the way and can go on with full consent without stopping to think.
So Harry and I have settled on attending an Episcopal mission church in our part of the city. Its worshipers are mostly among the poor, and Harry thinks we might do good by going there. Our rector is a young Mr. St. John, a man as devoted as any of the primitive Christians. I never saw anybody go into work for others with more entire self-sacrifice. He has some property, and he supports himself and pays about half the expenses of the mission besides. All this excites Harry’s respect, and he is willing to do himself and have me do all we can to help him. Both Alice and I, and my younger sisters, Angelique and Marie, have taken classes in his mission school, and the girls help every week in a sewing-school, and, so far as practical work is concerned, everything moves beautifully. But then, Mr. St. John is very High Church and very stringent in his notions, and Harry, who is ultra-liberal, says he is good, but narrow; and so when they are together I am quite nervous about them. I want Mr. St. John to appear well to Harry, and I want Harry to please Mr. St. John. Harry is aesthetic and likes the Church services, and is ready to go as far as anybody could ask in the way of interesting and beautiful rites and ceremonies, and he likes antiquities and all that, and so to a certain extent they get on nicely; but come to the question of church authority, and Lloyd Garrison and all the radicals are not more untamable. He gets quite wild, and frightens me lest dear Mr. St. John should think him an infidel. And, in fact, Harry has such a sort of latitudinarian way of hearing what all sorts of people have to say, and admitting bits of truth here and there in it, as sometimes makes me rather uneasy. He talks with these Darwinians and scientific men who have an easy sort of matter-of-course way of assuming that the Bible is nothing but an old curiosity-shop of bygone literature, and is so tolerant in hearing all they have to say, that I quite burn to testify and stand up for my faith — if I knew enough to do it; but I really feel afraid to ask Mr. St. John to help me, because he is so set and solemn, and confines himself to announcing that thus and so is the voice of the Church; and you see that don’t help me to keep up my end with people that don’t care for the Church.
But, mother dear, isn’t there some end to toleration? Ought we Christians to sit by and hear all that is dearest and most sacred to us spoken of as a bygone superstition, and smile assent on the ground that everybody must be free to express his opinions in good society? Now, for instance, there is this young Dr. Campbell, whom Harry is in treaty with for articles on the brain and nervous system — a nice, charming, agreeable fellow, and a perfect enthusiast in science, and has got so far that love or hatred or inspiration or heroism or religion is nothing in his view but what he calls “cerebration” — he is so lost and absorbed in cerebration and molecules, and all that sort of thing, that you feel all the time he is observing you to get facts about some of his theories as they do the poor mice and butterflies they experiment with.
The other day he was talking, in his taking-for-granted, rapid way, about the absurdity of believing in prayer, when I stopped him squarely, and told him that he ought not, to talk in that way; that to destroy faith in prayer was taking away about all the comfort that poor, sorrowful, oppressed people had. I said it was just like going through a hospital and pulling all the pillows from under the sick people’s heads because there might be a more perfect scientific invention by and by, and that I thought it was cruel and hard hearted to do it. He looked really astonished, and asked me if I believed in prayer. I told him our Saviour had said, “Ask, and ye shall receive,” and I believed it. He seemed quite astonished at my zeal, and said he didn’t suppose any really cultivated people nowadays believed those things. I told him I believed everything that Jesus Christ said, and thought he knew more than all the philosophers, and that he said we had a Father that loved us and cared for us, even to the hairs of our heads, and that I shouldn’t have courage to live if I didn’t believe that. Harry says I did right to speak up as I did. Dr. Campbell don’t seem to be offended with me, for he comes here more than ever. He is an interesting fellow, full of life and enthusiasm in his profession, and I like to hear him talk.
But here I am, right in the debatable land between faith and no faith. On the part of a great many of the intelligent, good men whom Harry, for one reason or other, invites to our house, and wants me to be agreeable to, are all shades of opinion, of half faith, and no faith, and I don’t wish to hush free conversation, or to be treated like a baby who will cry if they make too much noise; and then on the other hand is Mr. St. John, — whom I regard with reverence on account of his holy, self-denying life, — who stands so definitely intrenched within the limits of the Church, and does not in his own mind ever admit a doubt of anything which the Church has settled; and between them and Harry and all I don’t know just what I ought to do.
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sp; I am sure, if there is a man in the world who means in all things to live the Christian life, it’s Harry. There is no difference between him and Mr. St. John there. He is ready for any amount of self-sacrifice, and goes with Mr. St. John to the extent of his ability in his efforts to do good; and yet he really does not believe a great many things that Mr. St. John thinks are Christian doctrines. He says he believes only in the wheat, and not in the chaff, and that it is only the chaff that will be blown away in these modern discussions. With all this, I feel nervous and anxious, and sometimes wish I could go right into some good, safe, dark church, and pull down all the blinds, and shut all the doors, and keep out all the bustle of modern thinking, and pray, and meditate, and have a lovely, quiet time.
Mr. St. John lends me from time to time some of his ritualistic books; and they are so refined and scholarly, and yet so devout, that Harry and I are quite charmed with their tone; but I can’t help seeing that, as Harry says, they lead right back into the Romish Church — and by a way that seems enticingly beautiful. Sometimes I think it would be quite delightful to have a spiritual director who would save you all the trouble of deciding, and take your case in hand and tell you exactly what to do at every step. Mr. St. John, I know, would be just the person to assume such a position. He is a natural schoolmaster, and likes to control people, and, although he is so very gentle, I always feel that he is very stringent, and that if I once allowed him ascendancy he would make no allowances. I can feel the main de fer through the perfect gentlemanly polish of his exterior; but, you see, I know Harry never would go completely under his influence, and I shrink from anything that would divide me from my husband, and so I don’t make any move in that direction.
You see, I write to you all about these matters, for my mamma is a sweet, good little woman who never troubles her head with anything in this line, and my godmother, Aunt Maria, is a dear worldly old soul, whose heart is grieved within her because I care so little for the pomps and vanities. She takes it to heart that Harry and I have definitely resolved to give up party-going, and all that useless round of calling and dressing and visiting that is called “going into society,” and she sometimes complicates matters by trying her forces to get me into those old grooves I was so tired of running in. I never pretend to talk to her of the deeper wants or reasons of my life, for it would be ludicrously impossible to make her understand. She is a person over whose mind never came the shadow of a doubt that she was right in her views of life; and I am not the person to evangelize her.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 376