| | 1 | Author: | Stowe
Harriet Beecher
1811-1896 | Add | | | Title: | My wife and I, or, Harry Henderson's history  | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | IT appears to me that the world is returning to its
second childhood, and running mad for Stories.
Stories! Stories! Stories! everywhere; stories in
every paper, in every crevice, crack and corner of the house.
Stories fall from the pen faster than leaves of autumn, and
of as many shades and colorings. Stories blow over here
in whirlwinds from England. Stories are translated from
the French, from the Danish, from the Swedish, from the
German, from the Russian. There are serial stories for
adults in the Atlantic, in the Overland, in the Galaxy, in
Harper's, in Scribner's. There are serial stories for youthful
pilgrims in Our Young Folks, the Little Corporal, “Oliver
Optic,” the Youth's Companion, and very soon we anticipate
newspapers with serial stories for the nursery. We shall have
those charmingly illustrated magazines, the Cradle, the Rocking
Chair, the First Rattle, and the First Tooth, with successive
chapters of “Goosy Goosy Gander,” and “Hickory
Dickory Dock,” and “Old Mother Hubbard,” extending
through twelve, or twenty-four, or forty-eight numbers. MY Dear Friend and Teacher:—I scarcely dare
trust myself to look at the date of your kind
letter. Can it really be that I have let it he
almost a year, hoping, meaning, sincerely intending to
answer it, and yet doing nothing about it? Oh! my
dear friend, I was a better girl while I was under your
care than I am now; in those times I really did my duties;
I never put off things, and I came somewhere near
satisfying myself. Now, I live in a constant whirl—a whirl
that never ceases. I am carried on from day to day, from
week to week, from month to month, with nothing to show
for it except a succession of what girls call “good times.”
I don't read any thing but stories; I don't study; I don't
write; I don't sew; I don't draw, or play, or sing, to any
real purpose. I just “go into society,” as they call it. I am
an idler, and the only thing I am good for is that I help to
adorn a house for the entertainment of idlers; that is
about all. My Dear Child:—You place me in an embarrassing position
in asking me to speak on a subject, when your parents
have already declared their wishes. My Dear Friend:—I am glad you have written as you have
to Eva. It is perfectly inexplicable to me that a girl of her
general strength of character can be so undecided. Eva has
been deteriorating ever since she came from Europe. This
fashionable life is to mind and body just like a hotbed to
tender plants in summer, it wilts everything down. Eva was
a good scholar and I had great hopes of her. She had a
warm heart; she has really high and noble aspirations, but
for two or three years past she has done nothing but run
down her health and fritter away her mind on trifles. She
is not half the girl she was at school, either mentally or
physically, and I am grieved and indignant at the waste.
Her only chance of escape and salvation is to marry a true
man. My Dear Belle: Thanks for your kind letter with all its
congratulations and inquiries,—for though as yet I have no
occasion for congratulation, and nothing to answer to
inquiry, I appreciate these all the same. My Dear Belle:—I told you I would write the end of my
little adventure, and whether the “hermit” comes or not.
Yes, my dear, sure enough, he did come, and mamma and
we all like him immensely; he had really quite a success
among us. Even Ida, who never receives calls, was gracious
and allowed him to come into her sanctum because he is a
champion of the modern idea about women. Have you seen
an article in the “Milky Way” on the “Women of our
Times,” taking the modern radical ground? Well, it was
by him; it suited Ida to a hair, but some little things in
it vexed me because there was a phrase or two about the
“fashionable butterflies,” and all that; that comes a great
deal too near the truth to be altogether agreeable. I don't
care when Ida says such things, because she's another
woman, and between ourselves we know there is a deal of
nonsense current among us, and if we have a mind to
talk about it among ourselves, why its like abusing one's
own relations in the bosom of the family, one of the sweetest
domestic privileges, you know; but, when lordly man
begins to come to judgment and call over the roll of our
sins, I am inclined to tell him to look at home, and to say,
“Pray, what do you know about us sir?” I stand up for my
sex, right or wrong; so you see we had a spicy little controversy,
and I made the hermit open his eyes, (and, between
us, he has handsome eyes to open). He looked innocently
astonished at first to be taken up so briskly, and called to
account for his sayings. You see the way these men have
of going on and talking without book about us quite blinds
them; they can set us down conclusively in the abstract
when they don't see us or hear us, but when a real live girl
meets them and asks an account of their sayings they
begin to be puzzled. However, I must say my lord can
talk when he fairly is put up to it. He is a true, serious,
earnest-hearted man, and does talk beautifully, and his
eyes speak when he is silent. The forepart of the evening,
you see we were in a state of most charming agreement;
he was in our little “Italy,” and we had the nicest
of times going over all the pictures and portfolios and the
dear old Italian life; it seems as if we had both of us seen,
and thought of, and liked the same things—it was really
curious! “Dear Cousin:—I have had no time to keep up
correspondence with anybody for the past year. The state
of my father's health has required my constant attention,
day and night, to a degree that has absorbed all my power,
and left no time for writing. For the last six months father
has been perfectly helpless with the most distressing form
of chronic rheumatism. His sufferings have been protracted
and intense, so that it has been wearing even to witness
them; and the utmost that I could do seemed to bring very
little relief. And when, at last, death closed the scene, it
seemed to be in mercy, putting an end to sufferings which
were intolerable. My Darling Belle:—I have been a naughty girl to let your
letter lie so long. But my darling, it is not true, as you
there suggest, that the bonds of sisterly affection, which
bound us in school, are growing weaker, and that I no
longer trust you as a confidential friend. Believe me, the
day will never come, dearest Belle, when I shall cease to
unfold to you every innermost feeling. My Dearest Belle:—Since I wrote to you last there have
been the strangest changes. I scarcely know what to think.
You remember I told you all about Easter Eve, and a certain
person's appearance, and about the stolen glove and all
that. Your theory of accounting for all this was precisely
mine; in fact I could think of no other. And, Belle, if I
could only see you I could tell you of a thousand little
things that make me certain that he cares for me more than
in the way of mere friendship. I thought I could not be
mistaken in that. There has been scarcely a day since our
acquaintance began when I have not in some way seen him
or heard from him; you know all those early services, when
he was as constant as the morning, and always walked
home with me; then, he and Jim Fellows always spend
at least one evening in a week at our house, and there
are no end of accidental meetings. For example, when we
take our afternoon drives at Central Park we are sure to
see them sitting on the benches watching us go by, and it
came to be quite a regular thing when we stopped the carriage
at the terrace and got out to walk to find them there,
and then Alice would go off with Jim Fellows, and Mr. H.
and I would stroll up and down among the lilac hedges and
in all those lovely little nooks and dells that are so charming.
I'm quite sure I never explored the treasures of the
Park as I have this Spring. We have rambled everywhere—
up hill and down dale—it certainly is the loveliest and
most complete imitation of wild nature that ever art perfected.
One could fancy one's self deep in the country in
some parts of it; far from all the rush and whirl and
frivolity of this great, hot, dizzy New York. You may
imagine that with all this we have had opportunity to
become very intimate. He has told me all about himself,
all the history of his life, all about his mother, and his
home; it seems hardly possible that one friend could speak
more unreservedly to another, and I, dear Belle, have
found myself speaking with equal frankness to him. We
know each other so perfectly that there has for a long time
seemed to be only a thin impalpable cob-web barrier between
us; but you know Belle, that airy filmy barrier is
something that one would not by a look or a word disturb.
For weeks I have felt every day that surely the next time
we meet all this must come to a crisis. That he would
say in words what he says in looks—in involuntary actions—
what in fact I am perfectly sure of. Till he speaks I must
be guarded. I must hold myself back from showing him
the kindly interest I really feel. For I am proud, as you
know, Belle, and have always held the liberty of my heart
as a sacred treasure. I have always felt a secret triumph in
the consciousness that I did not care for anybody, and that
my happiness was wholly in my own hands, and I mean
to keep it so. Our friendship is a pleasant thing enough,
but I am not going to let it become too necessary, you
understand. It isn't that I care so very much, but my curiosity
is really excited to know just what the real state of
the case is; one wants to investigate interesting phenomena
you know. When I saw that little glove movement
on Easter Eve I confess I thought the game all in my own
hands, and that I could quietly wait to say “checkmate”
in due form and due time; but after all nothing came of it;
that is, nothing decisive; and I confess I didn't know what
to think. Sometimes I have fancied some obstacle or en
tanglement or commitment with some other woman—this
Cousin Caroline perhaps—but he talks about her to me in
the most open and composed manner. Sometimes I fancy
he has heard the report of my engagement to Sydney. If
he has, why doesn't he ask me about it? I have no objection
to telling him, but I certainly shall not open the subject
myself. Perhaps, as Ida thinks, he is proud and poor
and not willing to be a suitor to a rich young good-for-nothing.
Well, that can't be helped, he must be a suitor if
he wins me, for I shan't be; he must ask me, for I certainly
shan't ask him, that's settled. If he would “ask
me pretty,” now, who knows what nice things he might
hear? I would tell him, perhaps, how much more one true
noble heart is worth in my eyes than all that Wat Sydney
has to give. Sometimes I am quite provoked with him
that he should look so much, and yet say no more, and I
feel a naughty wicked inclination to flirt with somebody
else just to make him open those “grands yeux” of his a
little wider and to a little better purpose. Sometimes I
begin to feel a trifle vindictive and as if I should like to
give him a touch of the claw. The claw, my dear, the little
pearly claw that we women keep in reserve in the “patte
de velours,” our only and most sacred weapon of defense. Dear Henderson:—You need feel no hesitancy about accepting
in full every advantage in the position I propose
to you, since you may find it weighted with disadvantages
and incumbrances you do not dream of. In short, I shall
ask of you services for which no money can pay, and till
I knew you there was no man in the world of whom I had
dared to ask them. I want a friend, courageous, calm, and
true, capable of thinking broadly and justly, one superior
to ordinary prejudices, who may be to me another, and in
some hours a stronger, self. MY DEAREST BELLE:—Since I last wrote you wondrous
things have taken place, and of course I
must keep you au courant. Dear Hal:—My head buzzes like a swarm of
bees. What haven't I done since you left? The Van Arsdels
are all packing up and getting ready to move out, and
of course I have been up making myself generally useful
there. I have been daily call-boy and page to the adorable
Alice. Mem:—That girl is a brick! Didn't use to think
so, but she's sublime! The way she takes things is so
confounded sensible and steady! I respect her—there's
not a bit of nonsense about her now—you'd better believe.
They are all going up to the old paternal farm to spend
the summer with his father, and by Fall there'll be an
arrangement to give him an income (Van Arsdel I mean),
so that they'll have something to go on. They'll take a
house somewhere in New York in the Fall and do fairly;
but think what a change to Alice! Dear Hal:—I promised you a family cat, but I am going
to do better by you. There is a pair of my kittens that
would bring laughter to the cheeks of a dying anchorite.
They are just the craziest specimens of pure jollity that
flesh, blood, and fur could be wrought into. Who wants
a comic opera at a dollar a night when a family cat will
supply eight kittens a year? Nobody seems to have found
out what kittens are for. I do believe these two kittens of
mine would cure the most obstinate hypochondria of mortal
man, and, think of it, I am going to give them to you!
Their names are Whisky and Frisky, and their ways are
past finding out. Dear Sister:—I am so tired out with packing, and all the
thousand and one things that have to be attended to! You
know mamma is not strong, and now you and Ida are
gone, I am the eldest daughter, and take everything on my
shoulders. Aunt Maria comes here daily, looking like a
hearse, and I really think she depresses mamma as much
by her lugubrious ways as she helps. She positively is a
most provoking person. She assumes with such certainty
that mamma is a fool, and that all that has happened out
of the way comes by some fault of hers, that when she has
been here a day mamma is sure to have a headache. But
I have discovered faculties and strength I never knew I
possessed. I have taken on myself the whole work of separating
the things we are to keep from those which are to
be sold, and those which we are to take into the country
with us, from those which are to be stored in New York
for our return. I don't know what I should have done if
Jim Fellows hadn't been the real considerate friend he is.
Papa is overwhelmed with settling up business matters,
and one wants to save him every care, and Jim has really
been like a brother—looking up a place to store the goods,
finding just the nicest kind of a man to cart them, and
actually coming in and packing for me, till I told him I
knew he must be giving us time that he wanted for himself
—and all this with so much fun and jollification that we
really have had some merry times over it, and quite
shocked Aunt Maria, who insists on maintaining a general
demeanor as if there were a corpse in the house. My Dear Eva:—Notwithstanding all that has passed, I
cannot help writing to show that interest in your affairs,
which it may be presumed, as your aunt and godmother,
I have some right to feel, and though I know that my
advice always has been disregarded, still I think it my
duty to speak, and shall speak. My Dear Old Boy:—I think we have got it. I mean got
the house. I am not quite sure what your wife will say,
but I happened to meet Miss Alice last night and I told her,
and she says she is sure it will do. Hear and understand. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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