As Chairman of the Memorial Committee it is my privilege to add my
memories of Mrs. Croly to those which have preceded. Mine are not of
her club interests, nor of her identification with the woman's club
movement. So much has been written, and so well, regarding these
public phases of her life that it would seem almost officious for me
to add a stone to the already piled up cairn; I write rather of my
friend as my family knew her in her home, surrounded by husband and
children.
It was in 1880 that we first knew Mr. and Mrs. Croly, and the
acquaintance soon became an intimacy that lasted for twenty-three
years. They were living in their own house in Seventy-first street, an
artistically furnished house, an ideal home full of a sweet
domesticity.
Intimate as we were it was frequently our privilege to gather with the
family at their Sunday evening supper, when Mrs. Croly was as
completely the "house-mother" fulfilling the homely duties of the
table, as, an hour later, she was the gracious, though more formal
hostess receiving in her drawing-room the usual Sunday night throng of
old friends and the strangers of distinction who, chancing to be in
town, were fortunate enough to have letters of introduction to her. I
see her slight figure moving from group to group, and the low English
voice and sweet smile with which she encouraged her visitors to speak
of themselves, and, if they were foreigners, of their missions to this
country. A characteristic act of hers was to carry around a little
silver tray on which there might be several glasses of a dainty punch,
the base of which was a light, non-alcoholic wine. This she offered to
friends whom she desired particularly to honor, and the act had all
the significance of the Russian custom of breaking bread and eating
salt with the host. These Sunday evenings at home, which were a
feature of the society in which she moved, were continued until a
short time before her death, or until she was incapacitated by
illness.
My friend had none of the usual failings of the traditionary
"emancipated woman"; she would sit down to her basket on an afternoon
and take up a bit of household sewing with the same spirit and
aptitude that had guided her in the forenoon in the writing of an
editorial article or the preparation of a paper to be read before a
club.
I recall with especial joy the long walks we used to take together.
After a day of wearisome work, it was one of her great delights to
leave the piled-up desk and find herself in the street, her arm linked
in mine. At such times much of her talk was ravishing speculation upon
things seen and unseen. It was as if, released for the moment from
the pressure of work, her mind sprang into a world removed from the
practical and immediate, to revel in contemplation of the divine. Yet
she was no visionary, and the world of sight held her cheerful
allegiance. Hers was never "the dyer's hand subdued to what it works
in," and this is the more remarkable since she never relinquished
work, even for our beloved walks, without a mild protest at laying
aside her pen. One afternoon I called, intending to take her out for
one of our "play-hours," but I failed to find her in her apartment.
Next morning the post brought me this note:
"MY DEAR FRIEND:
"I was so glad to get your card, and so sorry to miss you.
It was just that hour out-of-doors with you that I was
longing for. I have been so long away, and since my return
have been so busy with much detail of correspondence that in
quantity is always more or less depressing, that I needed a
sight of you to tone me up and restore my standard. I have
also taken advantage of enforced quiet to brace up for an
heroic two weeks of dentistry, and have therefore been in
absolute retirement and upon baby diet of the most innocuous
description...
"I am afraid this recapitulation will take away all desire
to repeat your effort in my direction. But I trust that
this may find you in a missionary humor, and that you will
see that I need 'looking after'--a far stronger motive with
most women than friendship, isn't it? Anyway, come again
soon, won't you? Afternoon is our gadding time, you know.
"Really and lovingly your friend.
"P.S.--This note will show that I truly have not command of
all my faculties and need a human tonic."
All out-of-doors was dear to her. Trees were to her as men--rooted,
and she often naively talked to them as if to friends while we
strolled in the twilight. Her love of nature even seemed to affect her
choice of diet, for she preferred simply prepared dishes and the
natural foods. This was doubtless due in part to her unmixed Old World
nationality and to her early surroundings in rural England: as she was
in girlhood, so, in spite of the complex life of this distracting New
World, she remained to the last.
My friend dwelt lovingly upon anniversaries; the true spirit of
Christmas entered her heart at every Yuletide season, and her gifts
showed generous care in selection and in the dainty wrappings in which
they were sent to us. She delighted in the Christmas and Thanksgiving
dinners, but St. Valentine's was the dearest, as it was the
anniversary of her marriage. This the Woman's Press Club of New York
has always observed as the date of its annual dinner.
She had a keen sense of humor, yet never did she forget herself either
in posing or pranks, for hers was the unerring sense of the fitness of
things. An instance of her ready wit comes to me: Soon after her
return from her last visit to England she came to us to stay for a few
days. It was in September, three months before her death. On Sunday
evening several friends dropped in, and from general conversation we
drifted into singing some of the old songs. Now and then she would add
her own low tones to our untrained vocalizing, crooning or
cantillating the tune as if she were musing aloud. We had been singing
for a full hour, she, with crutch near at hand, sitting apart from us
at the open window. We had just sung one of her favorites, the old
ballad "Far Away," and were beginning another with all the energy of
amateurs when it occurred to me that Mrs. Croly might be tired and
ready to go to her room for the night. Bending over I whispered,
"Come, dear, you must be weary of all this." She turned slowly in her
chair, and looking up into my face, smiling whimsically, said: "Oh,
no, not yet! I am enjoying the music just as if it were good!"
I have already intimated that the home life of the family was happy.
There existed between husband and wife a genuine congeniality in
tastes and pursuits; yet between any two minds when both are strong
and original there will generally be a divergence; and it has always
seemed to me that the origin of Sorosis might be traced by the
psychological analyst to some such divergence between Mrs. Croly's
lines of intellectual development and those of her equally gifted
husband, David G. Croly. The power of initiative was strong in each of
these two, and in each it produced excellent though differing results.
It is cause for regret that Mrs. Croly did not write more in her
latter years, when her native wisdom had ripened in the soil of a rich
experience.
Her philosophy was the fruit of a rightly-lived, useful life, and even
after the distressing accident which lamed her, her enthusiasm never
waned, but rather seemed intensified and glorified. Seldom do the
heart and brain work together as did hers. She will ever stand to
those who knew her as a fine specimen of a rare type. She had
convictions, and she had the courage to uphold them. She hated shams
and hypocrisy with the vigor of Carlyle. The bravery of her public
life was matched by the beauty of her private life. Good and Truth
were her watchwords. "Good has faculty," says Swedenborg, "but not
determinate except by truth. Determinate faculty is actual power." In
the dear friend whom we here commemorate, faculty was determinate.
Brave and honest pleader for woman; true, tender, sincere friend, you
fought the good fight well; the world is better for your work, and
among your saddest survivors are those whom you smote with a deserved
pen-stroke, or with spoken words, who have long since given you
grateful thanks.