 | CHAPTER XIX.
FLIRTATION. My wife and I, or, Harry Henderson's history |  |
19. CHAPTER XIX.
FLIRTATION.
“LOOK there,” said Jim Fellows, throwing down a
pair of Jouvin's gloves. “There's from the
divine Alice.”
“A present?”
“A philopena.”
“Seems to me, Jim, you are pushing your fortunes in that
quarter?”
“Yes; having a gay time! Adoring at the shrine and all
that,” said Jim. “The lovely Alice is like one of the Madonna
pictures—to be knelt to, sworn to, vowed to—but I
can't be the possessor. In the meanwhile, let's have as good
a time as possible. We have the very best mutual understanding.
I am her sworn knight, and wear her colors—
behold!”
And Jim opened his coat, and showed a pretty knot of
carnation-colored ribbon.
“But, I thought, Jim, you talked the other night as if you
could get any of them you wanted?”
“Who says I couldn't, man? Does not the immortal
Shakespeare say, `She is a woman; therefore to be won'?
You don't go to doubting Shakespeare at this time of day, I
hope?”
“Well, then—”
“Well, then; you see Hal, we get wiser every day—that
is, I do—and it begins to be borne in on my mind that these
rich girls won't pay, if you could get them. The game isn't
worth the candle.”
“But there is real thought and feeling and cultivation
among them,” said I, taking up the gauntlet with energy.
“So there is real juice in hot-house grapes; but if I should
have a present of a hot-house to-morrow, what should I
royal princesses, and all the habits and wants of them; and
what could a fellow do with them if he got them? We
haven't any Parliament to vote dowries to keep them up
on. I declare, I wish you had heard those girls the other
night go on about that engagement, and what they expected
when their time comes. Do you know the steps of getting
engaged?”
“I cannot say I have that happiness,” said I.
“Well, first, there's the engagement-ring, not a sign of
love, you understand, but a thing to be discussed and compared
with all the engagement-rings, past, present, and to
come, with Tom's ring, and Dick's ring, and Harry's ring.
If you could have heard the girls tell over the prices of
the different engagement-rings for the last six months, and
bring up with Rivington's, which, it seems, is a solitaire
worth a thousand! Henceforth nothing less is to be thought
of. Then the wedding present to your wife. Rivington
gives $30,000 worth of diamonds. Wedding fees, wedding
journey to every expensive place that can be thought of,
you ought to have a little fortune to begin with. The
lovely creatures are perfectly rapacious in their demands
under these heads. I heard full lists of where they were
going and what they wanted to have. Then comes a house,
in a fashionable quarter, to the tune of fifty thousand dollars;
then furniture, carriages, horses, opera-boxes. The
short of the matter is, old Van Arsdel's family are having a
jolly time on the income of a million. There are six of
them, and every one wants to set up in life on the same income.
So, you see, the sum is how to do divide a million so
as to make six millions out of it. The way to do it is plain.
Each son and daughter must marry a million, and get as
much of a man or woman with it as pleases heaven.”
“And suppose some of them should love some man, or
woman, more than gold or silver, and choose love in place of
money?” said I.
“Well,” said Jim, “that's quite supposable; any of these
poor girl to take her at her word. What do they know
about it? The only domestic qualification the most practical
of them ever think of attaining, is how to make sponge-cake.
I believe, when they are thinking of getting married,
they generally make a little sponge-cake, and mix a salad
dressing, that fits them for the solemn and awful position of
wife and mother, which you hear so much about. Now, the
queenly Alice is a splendid girl, and can talk French and
German and Italian; but her knowledge of natural history
is limited. I imagine she thinks gloves grow in packs on
the trees, and artificial flowers are raised from seed, and
dresses develop by uniform laws of nature at the rate of
three or four a month. If you could get the darling to fly to
your arms, and the old gentleman should come 'round, and
give her what he could afford, how could you console her
when she finds out the price of gloves and gaiter-boots, and
all the ordinary comforts? I'm afraid the dear child will
be ready to murder you for helping her to her own way.
So you see, Jim doesn't invest in engagement-rings this
year.”
Thereupon I sung:
A bunch of grapes that hung so high,” &c.
“Sing away, my good fellow,” said Jim. “Maybe I am
the fox; but I'm a fox that has cut his eye-teeth. I'm too
cute to put my neck in that noose, you see. No, sir; you
can mention to Queen Victoria that if she wants Jim Fellows
to marry one of her daughters, why Parliament has got
to come down handsomely with dowry to keep her on.
They are worth keeping, these splendid creations of nature
and art; but it takes as much as to run a first-class steamer.
They go exactly in the line of fine pictures and statuary,
and all that. They may be adorable and inspiring, and exalting
and refining and purifying, the very poetry of existence,
the altogether lovely; but, after all, it is only the rich
than a carriage or a conscience, and both those are luxuries
too expensive for Jim.”
“Jim! Jim!! Jim!!!” I exclaimed, in tones of expostuion;
but the impracticable Jim cut a tall pirouette, and
sung,
Best looking nigger in the country, O!
I looked in the glass and I found it so—o—o—O—O.”
The crescendo here made the papers flutter, and created a
lively breeze in the apartment.
“And now, farewell, divinest Alice, Jim must go to work.
Let's see. Oh! I've promised a rip-staving skinner on Tom
Brown in that Custom House affair.”
“What is that business? What has Brown done? If all is
true that is alleged he ought to be turned out of decent
society.”
“Oh pshaw! you don't understand; its nothing but a dust
we're kicking up because its a dry time. Brown's a good
fellow enough, I dare say, but you know we want to sell our
papers and these folks want hot hash with their breakfast
every morning, and somebody has got to be served up. You
see the Seven Stars started this story, and sold immensely,
and we come in on the wave; the word to our paper is
`pitch in' and so I'm pitching in.”
“But, Jim, is it the fair thing to do when you don't
know the truth of the story?”
“The truth! well, my dear fellow, who knows or cares
anything about truth in our days? We want to sell our
papers.”
“And to sell your papers you will sell your honor as
a man and a gentleman.”
“Oh! bother, Hal, with your preaching.”
“But, Jim, you ought to examine both sides and know the
truth.”
“I do examine; generally write on both sides when these
rows come on. I'm going to defend Brown in the Forum;
Jim makes his little peculium both ways.”
“Jim, is that the square thing?”
“Why not? It would puzzle the Devil himself to make out
what the truth is in one of our real double and twisted New
York newspaper rows. I don't pretend to do it, but I'll
show up either side or both sides if I'm paid for it. We
young men must live! If the public must have spicery we
must get it up for them. We only serve out what they
order. I tell you, now, what this great American people
wants is a semi-occasional row about something, no matter
what; a murder, or a revival, or a great preacher, or the
Black Crook; the Lord or the Devil, anything to make mat
ters lively, and break up the confounded dull times round
in the country.”
“And so you get up little personal legends, myths, about
this or that man?”
“Exactly, that's what public men are good for. They are
our drums and tamborines; we beat on 'em to amuse the
people and make a variety; nobody cares for anything
more than a day; they forget it to-morrow, and something
else turns up.”
“And you think it right,” said I, “to use up character
just as you do boot-blacking to make your boots shine?
How would you like to be treated so yourself?”
“Shouldn't mind it a bit—Bless your buttons—it don't hurt
anybody. Nobody thinks the worse of them. Why, you
could prove conclusively that any of our public men break
the whole ten commandments at a smash—break 'em for
breakfast, dinner and supper, and it wouldn't hurt 'em.
People only oh and ah and roll up their eyes and say “Terrible!”
and go out and meet him, and it's “My dear fellow
how are you? why haven't you been round to our house
lately?” By and by they say, “Look here, we're tired of
this about Brown, give us more variety.” Then Jones turns
up and off go the whole pack after Jones. That keeps
matters lively, you see.”
I laughed and Jim was perfectly satisfied. All that he
ever wanted in an argument was to raise a laugh, and he
was triumphant, and went scratching on with his work with
untiring industry. He always left me with an uneasy feeling,
that by laughing and letting him alone I was but half
doing my duty, and yet it seemed about as feasible to
present moral considerations to a bob-o-link.
“There,” he said, after half an hour of scribbling,
“there's so much for old Mam.”
“Who's old `Mam'?”
“Haven't heard! why, your mistress and mine, the old
Mammon of unrighteousness; she is mistress of all things
here below. You can't even carry on religion in this world
but through her. You must court old Mam, or your
churches, and your missions, and all the rest go under, and
Jim works hard for her, and she owes him a living.”
“There have been men in our day who prevailed in
spite of her.”
“Who, for example?”
“Garrison.”
“Well, he's top of the heap now, sure enough, but I tell
you that was a long investment. Jim has to run on ready
cash and sell what's asked for now. Istand at my counter,
“Walk up, gentlemen, what'll you take; orders taken and
executed with promptness and despatch. Religion? yes sir.
Here's the account of the work of Divine grace in Skowhegan;
fifty awakened and thirty-nine indulging in hope.
Here's criticism on Boanerges' orthodoxy, showing how he
departs from the great vital doctrines of grace, giving up
Hell and all the other consolations of our holy religion.
We'll serve you out orthodoxy red hot. Anything in this
line? Here's the latest about sweet little Dame Aux Camelias,
and lovely little Kitty Blondine,
`Oh! Kitty is my darling, my darling, my darling, etc.'
the niggers and the paddies and the women and all the
him his price.' I think of getting up a show bill with list of
prices affixed. Jim will run anybody up or run anybody
down to order.”
I put my hand over his mouth. “Come, you born magpie,'
said I, “you shan't make yourself out so much worse than
you are.”
[Eva Van Arsdel to Isabel Convers.]
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
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!
Well, like enough, that's all there is to it. Ten to one he
never will call again. Mamma invited him to be here every
Wednesday, quite urged it upon him, but he said his time
was so filled up with work. There you see is where men
have the advantage of girls! They have something definite
to fill up their time, thought and hearts; we nothing, so
we think of them from sheer idleness, and they forget us
through press of business. Ten to one he never calls here
again. Why should he? I shouldn't think he would. I
wouldn't if I were he. He isn't a dancing man, nor an idler,
but one that takes life earnestly, and after all I dare say
he thinks us fashionable girls a sad set. But I'm sure he
must admire Ida; and she was wonderfully gracious for
her, and gave him the entrée of her sanctum, where there
never are any but rational sayings and doings.
Well, we shall see.
I am provoked with what you tell me about the reports of
my engagement to Mr. Sydney, and I tell you now once
again “No, no.” I told you in my last that I was not engaged,
and I now tell you what is more that I never can, shall
or will be engaged to him; my mind is made up, but how to
get out of the net that is closing round me I don't see.
I think all these things are “perplexing and disagreeable.”
First you refuse outright, and then my lord comes as a
friend. Will you only allow him the liberty to try and
alter your feelings, and all that? You shall not be forced;
he only wants you to get more acquainted, and the result is
you go on getting webbed and meshed in day after day
more and more. You can't refuse flowers and attentions
offered by a friend; if you take them you may be quite
sure they will be made to mean more. Mamma and Aunt
Maria have a provoking way of talking about it constantly
as a settled thing, and one can't protest from morning till
night, apropos to every word. At first they urged me to
receive his attentions; now they are saying that I have accepted
so many I can't honorably withdraw. And so he
doesn't really give me an opportunity to bring the matter
to a crisis; he has a silent taking-for-granted air, that is
provoking. But the law that binds our sex is the law of
all ghosts and spirits; we can't speak till we are spoken to;
meanwhile reports spread, and people say hateful things as
if you were trying and failing. How angry that makes me!
One is almost tempted sometimes to accept just to show
that one can; but, seriously, dear Belle, this is wicked trifling.
Marriage is an awful, a tremendous thing, and we of
the church are without excuse if we go into it lightly or
unadvisedly, and I never shall marry till I see the man that
is my fate. I have what mamma calls domestic ideas, and
I'm going to have them, and when I marry it shall be for
the man alone, not a pieced up affair of carriages, horses,
diamonds, opera boxes, cashmeres with a man, but a man
for whom all the world were well lost; then I shall not be
afraid of the church service which now stands between me
and Mr. Sydney. I cannot, I dare not lie to God and swear
falsely at the altar, to gain the whole world.
I wish you could hear our new rector. He is making a
sensation among us. If the life he is calling on us all to
live is the real and true one, we shall soon have to choose
between what is called society, and the church; for if
in it without really making religion the life's business
—which, you know, we none of us do or have. Dear man,
when I see him tugging and straining to get our old, sleepy,
rich families into heavenly ways, I think of Pegasus yoked
to a stone cart. He is all life and energy and enthusiasm,
he breathes fire, and his wings are spread heavenward, but
there's the old dead, lumbering cart at his heels! Poor
man!—and poor cart too—for I am in it with the rest of the
lumber!
We are in all the usual Spring agonies now about clothes.
The house reverberates with the discussion of hats and
bonnets, and feathers and flowers, and overskirts and underskirts,
and all the paraphernalia—and what an absurd combination
it makes with the daily services in Lent. Absurd?
No—dreadful! for at church we are reading of our Saviour's
poverty and fasting and agonies—what a contrast between
his life and ours! Was it to make us such as we are that he
thus lived and died?
Cousin Sophia is happy in her duties in the sisterhood.
Her church life and daily life are all of a piece—one part is
not a mockery of the other. There's Ida too—out of the
church, making no profession of churchly religion, but living
wholly out of this bustling, worldly sphere, devoted to a
noble life purpose—fitting herself to make new and better
paths for women. Ida has none of these dress troubles;
she has cut loose from all. Her simple black dress costs
incredibly less than our outfit—it is all arranged with a purpose—yet
she always has the air of a lady, and she has besides
a real repose, which we never do. This matter of
dress has a thousand jars and worries and vexations to a fastidious
nature; one wishes one were out of it.
I have heard that nuns often say they are more blessed
than ever they were in the world, and I can conceive why,
—it is a perfect and blissful rest from all that troubles ordinary
women. In the first place, the marriage question.
They know that they are not to be married, and it is a comfort
agitations and fluctuations about that are over. In the
next place, the dress question. They have a dress provided,
put it on, and wear it without thought or inquiry;
there is no room for thought, or use for inquiry. In the
third place, the question of sphere and work is settled for
them; they know their duties exactly; and if they don't,
there is a director to tell them; they have only to obey.
This must be rest—blissful rest.
I think of it sometimes, and wonder why it is that this
dress question must smother us women and wear us out,
and take our whole life and breath as it does! In our
family it is perfectly fearful. If one had only one's self
to please, it is hard enough—what with one's own fastidious
taste, with dressmakers who never keep their word, and
push you off at the last moment with abominable things;
but when one has pleased one's self, then comes mamma,
and then all the girls, every one with an opinion; and
then when this gauntlet is run, comes Aunt Maria, more
solemn and dictatorial than the whole—so that by the time
anything gets really settled, one is so fatigued that life
doesn't seem really worth having.
I told Mr. Henderson, in our little discussion last night,
that I envied men because they had achance to live a real,
grand, heroic life, while we were smothered under trifles
and common-places, and he said, in reply, that the men had
no more chances in this way than we; that theirs was a
life of drudgeries and detail; and that the only way for
man or woman was to animate ordinary duties by a heroic
spirit. He said that woman's speciality was to idealize life
by shedding a noble spirit upon its ordinary trifles. I don't
think he is altogether right. I still think the opportunities
for a noble life are ten to one in the hands of men;
but still there is a great deal in what he says. He spoke
beautifully of the noble spirit shown by some women in
domestic life. I thought perhaps it was his mother he was
his eye kindled when he spoke about it.
How I have run on—and what a medley this letter is. I
dare not look it over, for I should be sure to toss it into
the fire. Write to me soon, dearest Bella, and tell me what
you think of matters so far.
| CHAPTER XIX.
FLIRTATION. My wife and I, or, Harry Henderson's history | |