was full of. Some were alone, and some were impersonally conducted in a
very loose sort of way. Wherever you wanted to go they were sure to be
ahead, and kicking up a middle-class dust that choked you. The loud
sound of their incessant _talk_ echoed from snow peak to snow peak. And
their terrible clothes, chosen evidently "not to show the dirt" (but
they did), came between your eyes and any beauty of scenery there might
be, even if you cared to see it, and I didn't. And then the droves of
rich Americans at the hotels! Where did they come from? Where did they
learn how not to dress? Where did they learn how not to behave? Those
are the questions I asked myself continually, and always gave them up!
I became so tired of hearing of Pilatus and the Rigi, I felt as if one
were at the head of my grave and the other at the foot! I had a sort of
indigestion of mountains and lakes! And there was John! rushing out
every other minute to sit and look at them (I assure you I was
threatened very much with the neuralgia from the damp of the lake
terrace). And he climbed everything that was climbable, even preferred
walking up; but when there were railways I made him take them for fear
he'd hurt himself. I believe he went to the top of every blessed thing
that had any top! I found plenty of horrid people to look down on
without going to the tops of mountains. I tried to drive, but there
wasn't a decent turnout in the place. I went out in a little steam
launch, but was frightened to death for fear I'd be run down by one of
the steamers crowded with Cooks. Oh, no! _assez_ of Switzerland for me!
I said to John--"Bring me here to bury me if you like, but don't bring
me here alive again." And finally, when he and the children couldn't
find anything more to climb, I managed to move them on to Aix, and here
I am.
And, of course, the English season has just finished, and the French
people haven't begun to come yet, and Aix is hot, and dull, and empty!
Really, isn't it trying? There are even only second-rate cocottes
about, none of the smart ones yet! I am dying of the blues. Besides I
have to take the baths, although I don't want them, because the only
way I managed to persuade John to come here was by pretending I
_needed_ them! When I think of you in Newport, in spite of the heat,
leading an absolutely ideal life with your visits, your dinners, and
your balls, I am green with envy. These are the times when life seems
really almost too complicated to worry through. Or course if I were
like John's sister Margaret, sort of half-crazy, who loves the real
country, prefers a farmhouse to a hotel, fields and woods to a casino,
I might get on well enough. But I consider that nothing short of a
morbid state of mind.
If you love me, write me soon, and cheer me up. But don't tell me of
too much going on with you, or it will be more than I can bear. If you
could honestly say that it was rather a dull season in Newport this
year, you don't know what a comfort it would be. I do hope John and the
children appreciate the sacrifice I am making for them. I'm sure I try
to have them realize it. It only shows what we mothers will do for our
children.
With love, your affectionate, but depressed,
GERALDINE.
P.S.--Of course, as you can imagine, the shops at Lucerne were filthy.
I didn't buy a thing except some presents for the servants. At Aix the
shops are better, but with so few people here, somehow one has no
inspiration. I've bought literally nothing except five hats.
The Children
Three Dialogues
I. Divorce.
II. Birth.
III. Death.
I
_Divorce._
TOM BARNES, _age ten, whose mother, Mrs. Barnes, having divorced his
father, her second husband, has since remarried, and is now Mrs.
Fenley._
CLAIRE WORTHING, _age seven, whose mother, Mrs. Worthing, having
divorced her Father to marry the divorced Mr. Barnes, is now Mrs.
Barnes._
SCENE, _a Fashionable Dancing School in New York. A quadrille has been
announced. Master Barnes goes up to Miss Claire and bowing somewhat
stiffly, mumbles some not altogether intelligible wards. Miss
Claire, sliding down from her chair, says "Thank you," with perfect
composure and a conventional smile, as, taking his arm, they choose
a position in the dance._
TOM.
Shall we stop here in this set?
CLAIRE.
No! Becky Twines' dress would ruin mine. And she made her maid give her
that one on purpose I'm sure, because she knew what I was going to
wear. But I don't care. I heard mama say, yesterday, her mother, in
spite of all her money, hadn't been able to buy her way into several
houses. I don't think she ought to have been invited to join our
dancing class at all. When people buy their way into other people's
houses like that, how do they do it do you suppose? Does the butler
sell tickets at the door, do you think?
TOM.
Perhaps so! Butlers look like that. My! I'd jolly like to be a butler!
(_They have moved on to another set._) Shall we stop here?
CLAIRE.
Oh, no, not here! Teddy Jones always mixes us up. He treads on our
toes.
TOM.
Yes, and squeezes the girls' hands, too.
CLAIRE.
Oh, that we don't mind! Would you like to sit this dance out on the
stairs? (_She would prefer it herself._)
TOM.
No, let's dance. Come on, this is a good place.
CLAIRE.
As you please. Do you like kissing games?
TOM.
(_Red in the face._) No; do you? (_He does._)
CLAIRE.
Oh, I don't mind. (_An embarrassed pause._)
TOM.
I like football and those kind of games.
CLAIRE.
They are all very well for boys. But I don't much care for games
myself, and, besides, I don't have the time.
TOM.
What do girls do with themselves all the time?
CLAIRE.
Oh! I have my lessons, and I walk out with my maid every morning, and I
dress three times a day, and then I have visits to make on other little
girls.
TOM.
You've got a new father, haven't you?
CLAIRE.
Yes, mama was married two weeks ago.
TOM.
How do you like him?
CLAIRE.
Oh, very much!
TOM.
You take my word for it, he's a brick. I know! He used to be my father
once.
[_The music starts up, and the couples bow._
II
_Birth_
ELSIE, _age 6_.
TERESA, _age 8_.
BOB, _age 7_.
(_They are sitting on the steps of the large piazza of a beautiful
country house, the two little girls affectionately close, the boy at an
awkward distance. There has been a pause in the conversation, which the
boy breaks._)
BOB.
We've got a new baby at our house!
(_Splendid effect!_)
ELSIE, TERESA.
(_Together._) Oh!
(_Their eyes are suddenly bright and their faces glow with a sort of
awed curiosity and pleasure, not unmixed with envy._)
ELSIE.
What kind?
TERESA.
(_Eagerly._) Yes; which is it?
BOB.
(_Proudly._) A boy, of course!
(_The two little girls' faces fall for a second, and they are silent,
but not for long._)
ELSIE.
Of course there have to be boys sometimes.
TERESA.
Yes, to make a change.
ELSIE.
Isn't it funny where babies come from!
BOB.
Yes, you find them in cabbages.
ELSIE.
Oh, no! They come down in rainstorms.
TERESA.
No, no! They come out of the flowers.
BOB.
Stuff!
ELSIE.
They do come from the skies, because you know the stars are little
babies waiting to be picked.
TERESA.
I thought the stars were the places where God put his fingers through.
BOB.
They aren't any such thing; they're the gold tacks that fasten on the
carpet of heaven.
ELSIE.
When I grow up I shall have eleven babies, because I have eleven
favorite names, and I shall have them all at once, so they can have
nice, happy times playing together, and there won't have to be any
horrid older brother and sister, always getting the best of everything.
TERESA.
And I'll tell you what! I'll have eleven children too, to marry yours.
BOB.
No, I'll marry one of them.
ELSIE.
No, you must marry one of us.
BOB.
Which one?
ELSIE.
Well, I think it would be best for you to marry me and be father for my
eleven children. I want them to have a father. I love my father.
TERESA.
Yes; but then who'll be a father to my children?
ELSIE.
Yours can be sort of orphans; they needn't ever have had any father.
TERESA.
(_Approaching a tearful state._) No, that's awfully sad. I want my
children to have a father, too!
BOB.
Never mind. I'll be their father besides.
ELSIE.
Let's play house.
TERESA.
Let's!
BOB.
Let's play Indians, and I'll scalp you two girls!
ELSIE.
No, that's too rough. We'll play husband and wife. Bob and I will get
married, and, Teresa, you must be the minister and a bridesmaid.
(_They retire into the house, where, with the aid of a wrapper, a
night dress, a bouquet, and a black mackintosh, the ceremony is
properly performed._)
ELSIE.
Now we'll have a little girl baby, and (_to Teresa_) you must be
it.
TERESA.
No, I want to be the wife now, and you be the baby.
ELSIE.
No, I'll be the husband, and let Bob be the baby.
BOB.
I won't be the baby!
TERESA.
Anyway, it isn't polite for a little baby to come right away like that.
They never do.
ELSIE.
That's so; you have to wait till the news that they want one gets up to
the skies.
III
_Death_
_Teddy and Elsie are in the drawing-room, which is shadowy and sad
with the drawn curtains. The children speak in half whispers, and with
an air of importance._
TEDDY.
It's going to be in here.
ELSIE.
Isn't it awful. (_Sobs._)
TEDDY.
Papa was a brick!
ELSIE.
(_Sob._) Now he's an angel.
TEDDY.
(_Thoughtfully._) Do you really think papa would like being an
angel?
ELSIE.
Everybody likes to be an angel.
TEDDY.
I don't.
ELSIE.
O Teddy!
TEDDY.
It sounds stupid to me, like Sunday all the week. Besides, papa won't
have any office there, and what'll he do without an office?
ELSIE.
Isn't it awful. (_Sob._) Poor papa!
TEDDY.
(_Swallowing a lump._) Don't cry!
[_There is a slight noise overhead._
ELSIE.
O Teddy! What was that?
TEDDY.
(_Trembling._) Don't be afraid!
(_He puts his arm comfortingly around her, and they sit in a huge
arm-chair together._)
ELSIE.
What is it like to be dead.
TEDDY.
It's like school all the time, never letting out, and no recess.
ELSIE.
(_With another sob._) Poor papa! Are you afraid of him now?
TEDDY.
No----
ELSIE.
Do you want to go up and see him?
TEDDY.
No. That isn't him anyway upstairs!
ELSIE.
Yes, it's him; only his soul isn't there.
TEDDY.
Do you believe it? Say, if that's true, how did his soul get out?
ELSIE.
I've thought of that. This is what I believe: When people die, God
kisses them, and their soul comes right out of their lips to God's.
TEDDY.
I'll never play be dead with you, anymore.
ELSIE.
No, I don't want to, either.
TEDDY.
God might think I really was dead, and I might lose my soul.
ELSIE.
You can't make believe with God.
TEDDY.
That's so; I forgot. I say, Elsie, I'm never going to be wicked again
in all my life.
ELSIE.
Nor I.
TEDDY.
Oh! girls never are wicked. I believe when we die Death comes along and
pulls us by our feet; that's why our souls go out. They're afraid of
Death.
(_Elsie shudders, and nestles closer to her brother._)
TEDDY.
Don't be afraid; I won't let him catch you.
ELSIE.
Poor mama, she cries all the time.
TEDDY.
And she won't eat.
ELSIE.
I know where there are some little cakes.
TEDDY.
(_Eagerly._) Could you get them?
ELSIE.
Not alone. I'm afraid.
TEDDY.
I'll go with you. (_They get down out of the big chair._) Do we go to
school the next day after it?
ELSIE.
Yes; and wear all black. (_Sobs._) Poor papa.
TEDDY.
(_Choking._) Don't cry.
ELSIE.
You're crying too.
TEDDY.
No, I ain't! (_Crying._)
(_She kisses him. He is comforted, but very much ashamed._)
ELSIE.
Do you think we can go to the circus next week just the same?
TEDDY.
I don't care about circuses now.
ELSIE.
Neither do I. I don't want to go anyway. Let's find the cakes.
TEDDY.
And then we'll make a coach out of the chairs, and you'll drive me four
in hand.
[_They go out of the room smiling._
Maternity
Three Letters and a Cable from Mrs. Stanton, a Widow
I
_To Robert N. Stanton, Esq., her son_ (_and only child_)
Venice, Thursday.
My Darling Boy:
Your letter reached me a few moments ago. We were just starting off to
see the Tintorettos in the Scuola, but I opened your envelope before I
stepped into the gondola, and read enough in the first few lines to let
the others go on without me.
First, let me say this; no one in all the world wishes you more joy,
more real happiness, than your mother. I wish it more than anything
else in the world, and have prayed for it for you every night of my
life since you first came into this world. And I've always counted a
wife for you as one of the chief joys of your future. I have always
wanted you to marry, only I have always said to myself--not yet; I
can't spare him yet. Mothers begin their children's lives by being the
most unselfish beings in the world; and then, as we grow older, I'm
afraid we are inclined to go to the other extreme. I won't tell a
falsehood and say I am glad you are going to be married now. Forgive
me, dear, forgive me; but in my heart there is still the same cry--"Not
yet! not yet!"
Oh, I know I'm wrong! It _is_ to be, and I accept it; but it seems so
sudden; and, after all, I was so unprepared, and you are my life,
dear--my everything. You must let me sigh just a little; I'll promise
to be all smiles at the wedding. When you first laughed in the sun, and
twinkled your baby eyes at the stars I was not a very happy woman. You
were only six months old when I divorced your father. (How much I have
regretted that step since. It would have been far better had I borne
with him. He was the only man in the world for me; and he would have
come back to me if I had only waited. Then, instead of dying wretchedly
miserable as he did, he might have been alive to-day, and we would be
companions for each other; but I was proud and wilful--however, enough
of that.) As I said: when you were a tiny baby I was an unhappy woman,
with an heart empty and bruised. How I hugged you to it! O never,
_never_ can I tell you, nor can you imagine, the comfort, the blessing
you became to me! Your butterfly-like little kisses made well all the
bruises; your little hands, with their soft, flower-like caresses,
smoothed away the troubles, and before long you seemed to have crept
in, little body, little soul, into my heart, till you filled it
completely. And now I must share--Oh, we _are_ selfish, we mothers! for
I want all--all! I used to be a little jealous, in those early days,
even of your nurse. Do you know, Rob, that I bathed my baby every
morning of your little life, so long as you took infant tubs? I
wouldn't leave it to anyone else; and for more than one year of your
life, in the middle of each night and early morning, I warmed over a
little spirit lamp (I have it yet) your preparation of milk, and fed it
to you, so that you would get your food from me in one way, if the
doctor wouldn't let me feed you as I hungered to do. How soon it was
you knew me. I could make you smile when no one else could; and what a
joy it was to see a love for me coming into your infantile existence. I
had cried a good deal before you were born, and some afterward, first
out of relief and then for pure gladness. But under your dear influence
I gradually forgot how tears came. You almost never cried; and what a
good baby you were--oh, a blessed baby!--and I tried to repay you by
not worrying you with too many kisses, with too much loving, which I'm
sure is not good for a child. Sometimes I had to clench my hands, so
strong was my desire to take you up and clasp you tight. Then how
quickly you began to grow; and before long my letters and intimate
conversation began to be filled with what "Rob said this morning;" and
you did say such delightful things! I never knew so naïvely witty a
child! And soon you reached the age when I could play the rôle of
comforter. The knocks and bruises I've healed by kissing them!--do you
remember one-third? I'm sure I don't. The many imagined slights of your
little friends, which were forgotten on my lap! The little aches and
pains that were slept away in my arms! How full my life was then! What
a blessed boy you were! And then those half-lonely years, when everyone
frightened me--by saying you would be spoiled--into sending you away to
school. I begrudge those months I spent without you yet. But how we
enjoyed the vacations! That's when we began reading together again real
stories, not those of the younger days. Do you remember your favorite
when a very small boy? We always read it when you weren't feeling very
well, or after you'd been punished for being naughty, sitting together
in the great big old rocking-chair. It was about two poor little
fatherless boys whose mother died in a garret, and they were so
terribly poor they had to beg a coffin for her, and they alone followed
it to the grave. There was a very trying and sad woodcut of the two
little orphans doing this, and we always cried together over it. It
wasn't a healthy story for a small boy, and I don't know how we got
hold of it. Oh yes, I do! It was published by the Tract Society, and
had a moral. It was your aunt sent it to you, but I have forgotten the
moral. The football period began in the school vacations, and went all
through college; but still I think you were always more fond of books
and music than athletics; and I was never good at outdoor sports; I
only managed to master tennis so as to be able to play with you.
The four years of college had some loneliness in them, too; but I
enjoyed my visits to Williamstown, and then is when I began going into
"society" a good deal again, for I said when Rob comes out he will want
to go. He will have at least three cotillon years, and I want him to go
in the best society we have. Besides, there is sure to be a wife; let
her be a girl of our own position and class. But the dearest parts of
your college life were our four trips abroad during the summer. And
then it was that I began to turn the tables, and when _I_ was tired to
lean on _you_, and when disagreeable things happened to let you take
mother in your arms and hold her there till she promised to forget
them. Then it was when your judgment began to mature, and I found it so
clear and good, and have been guided by it ever since. Oh, those
perfect years between the day you graduated and now! How proud I was of
you, too, in society. It seemed to me no one was so brilliant a talker
at a dinner table. It was all I could ever do to listen to my neighbor
instead of straining my ears across the table in your direction. And I
am sure it was not maternal prejudice that picked you out in a ball
room, for it was not I who made you leader of all the cotillons so long
as you cared to dance them. Then how more proud I was of you when you
interested yourself in politics. I love my country. Your father fought,
and bravely, in the civil war; so did my brother. And I know if such a
terrible calamity as another war should befall us, you would be ready.
The patriot fights for his country, in peace, in politics, and I am
happy to say your interest in our government is as keen and active
to-day as ever. Then there is the ever increasing success in your
profession--haven't I been through it all with you! Never, I am sure,
were a mother and son more sympathetic. The reason I came abroad this
year was because I was afraid we were getting too dependent on each
other. I realized you now preferred staying home with me evening after
evening instead of going out. I loved it, but I knew it was wrong. I
argued if I went away for a little you would go out into society again,
and to your clubs, seeking companionship. It was not good for a young
man--I said to myself--not more than thirty-three, to be spending all
of his spare time with an old woman--for practically I am that, though
you must never call me so; it would break my heart! And so, though it
was really an awful break for me to do it, I went away, and the only
thing I wanted to happen did, only more. Oh, yes! more than I
wanted--because I didn't want you to marry--not yet! And if I hadn't
gone away you would probably never have met this Miss Stone, and you
would have been just as happy. For you _were_ happy with me before you
met her; weren't you? Oh, of course, I know not _so_ happy, and not in
the same way, but later on you would have met perhaps Miss Stone, or
somebody else you would have cared for in the same way; don't you think
so? I am afraid, if I let myself, I'd be sorry I went away. And yet
no--_no_; I'm not so selfish as all that. If you really have found the
one woman in the world for you I will try to be glad. I WILL be glad. I
AM glad! There! I am. After all it is your happiness. How unhappy I
should feel if you loved her and she hadn't returned your love! Yes, it
is much better as it is--for _you_, so it must be for me, too. Allowing
even for all a lover's enthusiasm, Miss Stone must be very charming and
very lovable. I can see it in her picture, too, which I thank you for
sending. Of course, without it I should have been cruelly anxious to
see what she was like. She is very pretty--very. I am obliged to
confess that. I think I shall come to love her for her own sake, and
not only for yours. If only she will love me! You love me more than I
deserve or merit, so don't say too much about me or she will be sure to
be disappointed.
If I must be a mother-in-law (horrid name), I want to be a nice one and
be loved. I shall do my best. Only it is the giving you up. O Rob,
darling! What shall I do without you--without my blessed son? Breakfast
alone, luncheon alone, dinner alone, everything alone! Ah, I can't bear
the thought of it! No! No! I don't mean that! But of course I can't and
won't live with you--it's very kind and like you, dear, to say I must,
but I don't believe in that. You'll see enough of me, I'm sure, as it
is. And I shall have my memories. Baby and boy, you are mine alone. I
didn't have to share you then; and I won't have to share the memories
now, and no one can take them away from me. And what if you make me a
grandmother? It isn't at all sure. Everybody doesn't have babies now,
like they used to. Still, if you do! Well, I shall probably adore it.
But then I must settle down, wear caps, and perhaps revive a widow's
veil. I certainly shall have to be more dignified and not go
gallivanting about everywhere, and control some of my enthusiasms, or I
shall be a ridiculous old creature. You see, I have always kept your
age. Now I must take one awful flying leap to my own; and then go along
with myself properly. I shall have to become much more regular about
church and know all the saints' days. A good thing that will be for me,
too, I'm sure--What do you think? They've just knocked on the door and
told me it is dinner time. I've been three hours over this disgraceful
letter. I knew I'd been dreaming[1] a good deal between sentences; but
I didn't know it was so bad as all that. Well, I'm going down to tell
the others my _good_ news (you understand that _good_, don't you?), and
we'll drink to the health and happiness of you both in some crimson
Chianti. And they shall all see how happy I am over your happiness. For
I am. And you will see it, too, when I come back; which will be as soon
as I can.
[1] The words "and crying" are well scratched over, so he
couldn't possibly read them.
Good bye, my boy. Forgive your old mother if she's seemed a little
cross in this letter, because she isn't really. I shall write Miss
Stone a little letter to-night. God bless you and her (and me), and
fill your lives as full of happiness as your hearts can hold and mine
can hold for you! Good night, my comfort, you best son in the world!
Your devoted
MOTHER.
Yes, yes, I _am_ glad, dear; so glad. Don't misunderstand my letter.
Your mother is glad, honestly and with--yes, I _can_ say it now--with
_all_ her heart.
II
_A Cable to her son._ (_Sent fifteen minutes after the preceding
letter._)
Overjoyed, congratulations, love.
MOTHER.
III
_Letter to Miss Lucy Stone, Troy, N.Y._
VENICE, Thursday.
My dear Miss Stone:
So you are going to take my boy away from me? I begrudge him, just a
little, or just a good deal; but I will tell you a secret. I feel
pretty sure that when I know you, I shall be grateful to him, instead
of grudging, for giving me you for a daughter; and you must love me,
for after all if it wasn't for me you wouldn't have him, would you? He
has been a perfect son, and they make perfect husbands. And he loves
you, my dear. Oh, if you had any doubts of it--which of course you
haven't, or I shouldn't like you--but if you had, could you have read
over my shoulder his letter to me to-day telling me about it.
I am very impatient to know you, but I think we shall be great friends,
through Rob, before we even meet. Till then believe me your--dear me,
what?--your Robert's affectionate old mother.
KATHERINE MILES STANTON.
I am sending with this a little old jewel I found at an old shop the
other day; it is a love ring of the sixteenth century. Perhaps you will
find a place for it. I send it with my love.
K. M. S.
IV
_Letter to Mrs. Henry A. Austin, Troy, N.Y._
Venice, Thursday.
Dear Gertrude: