Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  “Certainly, it’s the most natural thing in the world,” said Eva, as she stepped into the little adjoining workroom, and brought out a filmy cap, trimmed with the most delicate shade of rosy lilac ribbons. “There!” she said, settling it on Mrs. Betsey’s head, and tying a bow under her chin, “if anybody says you’re not a beauty in this, I’d like to ask them why.”

  “I know it’s silly at my age, but I do like pretty things,” said Mrs. Betsey, looking at herself with approbation in the glass, “and all the more that it’s so very kind of you, dear Mrs. Henderson.”

  “Me? Oh, I like to do it. I’m a born milliner,” said Eva.

  “And now I want to ask a favor. Do you think it would do for us to take our Dinat to church to see the ceremony? I don’t know anybody that could enjoy it more, and Dinah has so few pleasures.”

  “Why, certainly. Dinah! my faithful adviser and help in time of need? Why, of course, give my compliments to her, and tell her I shall depend on seeing her there.”

  “Dinah is so delighted at the thought that your sister and Mr. Fellows are coming to live with us, she is busy cleaning their rooms, and does it with a will. You know Mr. Fellows has just that gay, pleasant sort of way that delights all the servants, and she says your sister is such a beauty!”

  “Well, be sure and tell Dinah to come to the wedding, and she shall have a slice of the cake to dream on.”

  “I think I shall feel so much safer when we have a man in the house,” continued Mrs. Betsey. “You see, we have so much silver, and so many things of that kind, and Dorcas frightens me to death, because she will have the basket lugged up into our room at night. I tell her if she’d only set it outside in the entry, then if the burglars came they could just go off with it, without stopping to murder us; but if it was in our room, why, of course, they would. The fact is, I have got so nervous about burglars that I am up and down two or three times a night.”

  “But you have Jack to take care of you.”

  “Jack is a good watch-dog — he’s very alert; but the trouble is, he barks just as loud when there isn’t anything going on as when there is. Night after night, that dog has started us both up with such a report, and I’d go all over the house and find nothing there. Sometimes I think he hears people trying the doors or windows. Altogether, I think Jack frightens me more than he helps, though I know he does it all for the best, and I tell Dorcas so when he wakes her up. You know experienced people always do say that a small dog is the very safest thing you can have; but when Mr. Fellows comes I shall really sleep peaceably. And now, Mrs. Henderson, you don’t think that light mauve silk of mine will be too young looking for me?”

  “No, indeed,” said Eva. “Why shouldn’t we all look as young as we can?”

  “I haven’t worn it for more than thirty years; but the silk is good as ever, and your little dressmaker has made it over with an overskirt, and Dinah is delighted with it, and says it makes me look ten years younger!”

  “Oh! well I must come over and see it on you.”

  “Would you care?” said Mrs. Betsey, delighted. “How good you are; and then I’ll show you the toilet cushions I’ve been making for the dear young ladies; and Dorcas is going to give each of them a pair of real old India vases that have been in the family ever since we can remember.”

  “Why, you’ll be robbing yourselves.”

  “No, indeed; it would be robbing ourselves not to give something, after all the kindness you’ve shown us.”

  And Eva went over to the neighboring house with Mrs. Betsey; and entered into all the nice little toilet details with her; and delighted Dinah with an invitation in person; and took a sympathizing view of Dinah’s new bonnet and shawl, which she pronounced entirely adequate to the occasion; and thus went along, sowing little seeds of pleasure to make her neighbors happier — seeds which were to come up in kind thoughts and actions on their part by and by.

  CHAPTER LIII

  WEDDING PRESENTS

  ST. JOHN and Angie were together, one evening, in the room that had been devoted to the reception of the wedding presents. This room had been Aunt Maria’s pride and joy, and already it had assumed quite the appearance of a bazaar, for the family connections of the Van Arsdels were large, and numbered many among the richer classes. Arthur’s uncle, Dr. Gracey, and the family connections through him were also people in prosperous worldly circumstances, and remarkably well pleased with the marriage; and so there had been a great abundance of valuable gifts. The door-bell for the last week or two had been ringing incessantly, and Aunt Maria had eagerly seized the parcels from the servant and borne them to the depository, and fixed their stations with the cards of the givers conspicuously displayed.

  Of course the reader knows that there were the usual amount of berry-spoons, and pie-knives, and crumb-scrapers; of tea-spoons and coffee-spoons; of silver tea-services; of bracelets and chains and studs and brooches and shawl-pins and cashmere shawls and laces. Nobody could deny that everything was arranged so as to make the very most of it.

  Angie was showing the things to St. John, in one of those interminable interviews in which engaged people find so much to tell each other. “Really, Arthur,” she said, “it is almost too much. Everybody is giving to me, just at a time when I am so happy that I need it less than ever I did in my life. I can’t help feeling as if it was more than my share.”

  Of course Arthur didn’t think so; he was in that mood that he couldn’t think anything on land or sea was too much to he given to Angie. —

  “And look here,” she said, pointing him to a stand which displayed a show of needle-books and pincushions, and small matters of that kind, “just look here — even the little girls of my sewing-class must give me something. That needle-book, little Lottie Price made. Where she got the silk I don’t know, but it’s quite touching. See how nicely she’s done it! It makes me almost cry to have poor people want to make me presents.”

  “Why should we deny them that pleasure — the greatest and purest in the world?” said St. John. “It is more blessed to give than to receive.”

  “Well, then, Arthur, I’ll tell you what I was thinking of. I wouldn’t dare tell it to anybody else, for they’d think perhaps I was making believe to be better than I was; but I was thinking it would make my wedding brighter to give gifts to poor, desolate people who really need them than to have all this heaped upon me.”

  Then Arthur told her how, in some distant ages of faith and simplicity, Christian weddings were always celebrated by gifts to the poor.

  “Now, for example,” said Angie, “that poor, little, pale dressmaker that Aunt Maria found for me, — she has worked day and night over my things, and I can’t help wanting to do something to brighten her up. She has nothing but hard work and no holidays; no lover to come and give her pretty things, and take her to Europe; and then she has a sick mother to take care of — only think. Now, she told me, one day, she was trying to save enough to get a sewing-machine.”

  “Very well,” said Arthur, “if you want to give her one, we’ll go and look one out to-morrow and send it to her, with a card for the ceremony, so there will be one glad heart.”

  “Arthur, you” —

  But what Angie said to Arthur, and how she rewarded him, belongs to the literature of Eden — it cannot be exactly translated.

  Then they conferred about different poor families, whose wants and troubles and sorrows were known to those two, and a wedding gift was devised to be sent to each of them; and there are people who may believe that the devising and executing of these last deeds of love gave Angie and St. John more pleasure than all the silver and jewelry in the wedding bazaar.

  “I have reserved a place for our Sunday-school to be present at the ceremony,” said Arthur; “and there is to be a nice little collation laid for them in my study; and we must go in there a few minutes after the ceremony, and show ourselves to them, and bid them good-by before we go to your mother’s.”

  “Arthur, that is exactly what I wa
s thinking of. I believe we think the same things always. Now, I want to say another thing. You wanted to know what piece of jewelry you should get for my wedding present.”

  “Well, darling?”

  “Well, I have told Aunt Maria and mamma and all of them that your wedding gift to me was something I meant to keep to myself; that I would not have it put on the table, or shown, or talked about. I did this, in the first place, as a matter of taste. It seems to me that a marriage gift ought to be something sacred between us two.”

  “Like the white stone with the new name that no man knoweth save him that receiveth it,” said St. John.

  “Yes; just like that. Well, then, Arthur, get me only a plain locket with your hair in it, and give all the rest of the money to these uses we talked about, and I will count it my present. It will be a pledge to me that I shall not be a hindrance to you in your work, but a help; that you will do more and not less good for having me for your wife.”

  What was said in reply to this was again in the super-angelic dialect, and untranslatable; but these two children of the kingdom understood it gladly, for they were, in all the higher and nobler impulses, of one heart and one soul.

  “As to the ceremony, Arthur,” said Angie, “you know how very loving and kind your uncle has been to us. He has been like a real father; and since he is to perform it, I hope there will be nothing introduced that would be embarrassing to him or make unnecessary talk and comment. Just the plain, usual service of the Prayer-Book will be enough, will it not?”

  “Just as you say, my darling; this, undoubtedly, is your province.”

  “I think,” said Angie, “that there are many things in themselves beautiful and symbolic, and that might be full of interest to natures like yours and mine, that had better be left alone if they offend the prejudices of others, especially of dear and honored friends.”

  “I don’t know but you are right, Angie; at any rate, our wedding, so far as that is concerned, shall have nothing in it to give offense to any one.”

  “Sometimes I think,” said Angie, “we please God by giving up, for love’s sake, little things we would like to do in his service, more than by worship.”

  “Well, dear, that principle has a long reach. We will talk more about it by and by; but now, good-night! — or your mother will be scolding you again for sitting up late. Somehow, the time does slip away so when we get to talking.”

  CHAPTER LIV

  MARRIED AND A’

  WELL, the day of days came at last, and a fairer May morning never brightened the spire of old Trinity or woke the sparrows of the Park. Even the dingy back garden of the Vanderheyden house had bubbled out in golden crocus and one or two struggling hyacinths, and the old lilacs by the chamber windows were putting forth their first dusky, sweet-scented buds. In about half a dozen houses, everybody was up early, with heads full of wedding dresses, and wedding fusses, and wedding cake. Aunt Maria, like a sergeant of police, was on hand, as wide awake and as fully possessed of the case as it was possible for mortal woman to be. She was everywhere, — seeing to everything, reproving, rebuking, exhorting, and pushing matters into line generally.

  This was her hour of glory, and she was mistress of the situation. Mrs. Van Arsdel was sweet and loving, bewildered and tearful; and wandered hither and thither doing little bits of things and remorselessly snubbed by her energetic sister, who, after pushing her out of the way several times, finally issued the order: “Nelly, I do wish you’d go to your room and keep quiet. I understand what I want, and you don’t.”

  The two brides, in their respective dressing-rooms, were receiving those attentions which belong to the central figures of the tableau. —

  Marie, the only remaining unmarried sister, who had been spending the winter in Philadelphia, had charge, as dressing-maid, of one bride, and Eva of the other. There was the usual amount of catastrophes — laces that broke in critical moments, when somebody had to be sent tearing out distractedly for another; gloves that split across the back on trying; coiffures that came abominably late, after keeping everybody waiting, and then had to be pulled to pieces and made all over; in short, no one item of the delightful jumble of confusions, incident to a wedding, was missing.

  The little chapel was dressed with flowers, and was a bower of sweetness; and, as St. John had planned, there was space reserved for the Sunday-school children and the regular attendants of the mission.

  Besides those, there was a goodly select show of what Aunt Maria looked upon as the choice jewels of rank and fashion.

  Dr. Gracey performed the double ceremony with great dignity and solemnity; but the reporters, who fought for good places to see the show, and Miss Gusher and Miss Vapors, were disappointed. There was only the plain old Church of England service — neither less nor more.

  Mrs. Van Arsdel, and other soft-hearted ladies, in different degrees of family connection, did the proper amount of tender weeping upon their best lace pocket-handkerchiefs; and everybody said the brides looked so lovely. Miss Dorcas and Mrs. Betsey had excellent situations to see the whole, and Dinah, standing right behind them, broke out into ejaculations of smothered rapture, from time to time, in Mrs. Betsey’s ear. Dinah was so boiling over with delight that, but for this tolerated escape-valve, there might have been some explosion.

  Just as the ceremonies had closed, Mrs. Betsey heard Dinah whispering hoarsely, “Good Lor’! if dar ain’t Jack!”

  And sure enough, Jack was there in the church, sitting up as composedly as a vestryman, and apparently enjoying the spectacle. When one of the ushers approached to take him out, he raised himself on his haunches and waved his paws with affability.

  Jim caught sight of him just as the wedded party were turning from the altar to leave the church, and the sight was altogether too much for his risibility. The fact was that Jack had been the subject of great discussion and an elaborate locking up that morning. But divining an intention on the part of his mistresses to go somewhere, he had determined not to be left. So he had leaped out of a window upon a back shed, and thence to the ground, and had followed the coach at discreet distance, and so was “in at the death.”

  Well, courteous reader, a marriage is by common consent the end of a story, and we have given you two. “We and Our Neighbors,” therefore, are ready to receive your congratulations.

  SIX OF ONE BY HALF A DOZEN OF THE OTHER

  Six of One and Half a Dozen of the Other is a composite novel published in 1872. Stowe was one of six authors, who wrote the book about three mismatched couples that hope to find more appropriate partners as they travel through three American cities together. The other authors were Adeline D. T. Whitney, Lucretia P. Hale, Fredrick W. Loring, Fredrick B. Perkins and Edward E. Hale. The work was a family affair started by Edward E. Hale, who asked his sister Lucretia to write with him again after they had collaborated on a work some years earlier. He then recruited his brother-in-law Frederick B. Perkins before calling upon the skills of Stowe to whom he was related through his wife. The composite novel began to become more popular towards the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth century.

  One of the most famous examples of this type of collaboration was ‘The Whole Family’ published in 1908 which had 12 authors including Henry James, Elizabeth Jordan, Mary Heaton Vorse and William Dean Howells who conceived of the project. The fascination of composite novels is the interaction between the writers and whether they strive to create a unified, collective vision or if they attempt to impose their own narrative and creative style on their co-authors.

  The first edition

  CONTENTS

  FIRST PREFACE.

  SECOND PREFACE.

  THIRD PREFACE.

  FOURTH PREFACE.

  FIFTH PREFACE.

  SIXTH PREFACE.

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

&
nbsp; CHAPTER VIII.

  CHAPTER IX.

  CHAPTER X.

  CHAPTER XI.

  CHAPTER XII.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  CHAPTER XV.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  CHAPTER XX.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  The original title page

  FIRST PREFACE.

  THE history of this composition is precisely told in the November number of OLD AND NEW, in which it was first announced to the public.

  “What is this,” said Anna Haliburton, “about a new serial in OLD AND NEW? ‘Six of One by Half a Dozen of the Other,’-is that the name?”

  The Editor of OLD AND NEW was not present; but Colonel Ingham answered for him, as, at a pinch, he does sometimes.

  “What you saw was one of the unconscious prophecies which give the world a hint of its best blessings in advance.”

  “Would it please you, dear padre, to abandon the method of the pulpit for a moment, and, in somewhat clearer language, to tell us what our chief does intend, in an enterprise in which he has not enlisted our endeavors?”

  “He has not enlisted you,” said Ingham, “because, as it is, the Editor has enlisted our five best home story-writers,-Mr. McDonald being, alas! too far away, to unite their forces,-and it being, alas! evident that even in our seventeen hundred annual pages we cannot print a whole novel by each of them, and at the same time take care of all the world of literature, art, and religion beside.”

  “Once more,” said Felix Carter again, “will you please to abandon the method of the bar, and state explicitly what the chief proposes?”