MAKING THE BEST OF IT.
“O, blest with temper whose unclouded ray
Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day!”—_Pope._
A sound of the prompter’s whistle, sharp and stridulous.
The scenes move,—they dispart. The Crescent City, with its squares and
gardens filled with verdure, its stately steeples, and its streets lying
lower than the river, and protected only by the great Levee from being
converted into a bed for fishes,—the Crescent City, under the swift
touch of our fairy scene-shifters, divides, slides, and disappears.
A new scene simultaneously takes its place. It represents a street in
New York. Not one of the clean, broad, well-kept avenues, lined on
either side with mansions, beautiful and spacious. It is a trans-Bowery
Street, narrow and noisome, dirty and dismal. There the market-man stops
his cart and haggles for the price of a cabbage with the care-worn
housewife, who has a baby in her arms and a two-year-old child tugging
at her gown. Poor woman! She tries to cover her bosom as the wayfarer,
redolent of bad tobacco, passes by with a grin at her shyness. There the
milkman rouses you at daylight by his fiendish yell, nuisance not yet
abated in the more barbarous parts of the city. There the soap-man and
the fish-man and the rag-man stop their carts, presenting in their
visits the chief incidents that vary the monotony of life in Lavinia
Street, if we except an occasional dog-fight.
One of the tenements is a small, two-story brick house, with a basement
beneath the street-level, and a dormer window in the attic. A family
moved in only the day before yesterday. They have hardly yet got
settled. Nevertheless, let us avail ourselves of the author’s privilege
(universal “dead-head” that he is!) and enter.
We stand in a little hall, the customary flight of stairs being in
front, while a door leads into the front sitting-room or parlor on the
left. Entering this room, the first figure we notice is an apparently
young man, rather stout, with black whiskers and hair, and dressed in a
loose sack and pantaloons, in the size and cut of which the liberal
fashion of the day is somewhat exaggerated. He stands in low-cut shoes
and flesh-colored silk stockings. About his neck he wears a choker of
the most advanced style, and tied with a narrow lustring ribbon, gay
with red and purple. As his back is partly turned to us, we cannot yet
see who he is.
A woman, in age perhaps not far from fifty, with a pleasant,
well-rounded face, and attired in a white cambric wrapper, richly
embroidered, her hair prudently hidden under a brown chenille net,
stands holding a framed picture, waiting for it to be hung. It is
Marshall’s new engraving of Washington. The lady is Mrs. Pompilard,
_born_ Aylesford; and the youth on the chair is her husband, the old,
yet vernal, the venerable yet blooming, Albert himself. It is more than
ten years since he celebrated his seventieth birthday.
Having hung the picture, Pompilard stepped down, and said: “There! Show
me the place in the whole city where that picture would show to more
advantage than just there in that one spot. The color of the wall, the
light from the window are just what they ought to be to bring out all
the beauties. Let us not envy Belmont and Roberts and Stewart and
Aspinwall their picture-galleries,—let us be guilty of no such folly,
Mrs. Pompilard,—while we can show an effect like that!”
“Who spoke of envying them, Albert? Not I, I’m sure! The house will do
famously for our temporary use. Yet it puzzles me a little to know where
I am to stow these two children of Melissa’s.”
“Pooh! That can be easily managed. Leonora can have a mattress put down
for her in the upper entry; and as for the five-year-old, Albert, my
namesake, he can throw himself down anywhere,—in the wood-shed, if need
be. Indeed, his mother tells me she found him, the other night, sleeping
on the boards of the piazza, in order, as he said, to harden himself to
be a soldier. How is poor Purling this morning?”
“His wound seems to be healing, but he’s deplorably low-spirited; so
Melissa tells me.”
“Low-spirited? But we mustn’t allow it! The man who could fight as he
did at Fair Oaks ought to be jolly for the rest of his life, even though
he had to leave an arm behind him on the battle-field.”
“It isn’t his wound, I suspect, that troubles him, but the state of his
affairs. The truth is, Purling is fearfully poor, and he’s too honest to
run in debt. His castles in the air have all tumbled in ruins. Nobody
will buy his books, and his publishers have all failed.”
“But he can’t help that. The poor fellow has done his best, and I
maintain that he has talents of a certain sort.”
“Perhaps so, but his forte is not imaginative writing.”
“Then let him try history.”
“But I repeat it, my dear Albert, imaginative writing is not his forte.”
“Ah! true. You are getting satirical, Mrs. Pompilard. Our historians,
you think, are prone to exercise the novelist’s privilege. Let us go up
and see the Major.”
They mounted one flight of stairs to the door of the front chamber, and
knocked. It was opened by Mrs. Purling, once the sentimental Melissa,
now a very matronly figure, but still training a few flaxen, maiden-like
curls over her temples, and shedding an air of youth and summer from her
sky-blue calico robe, with its straw-colored facings. She inherited much
of the paternal temperament; and, were it not that her husband’s
desponding state of mind had clouded her spirits, she would have shown
her customary aspect of cheerful serenity.
“Is the Major awake?”
“O yes! Walk in.”
“Ah! Cecil, my hearty,” exclaimed Pompilard, “how are you getting on?”
“Pretty well, sir. The wound’s healing, I believe. I’m afraid we’re
inconveniencing you shockingly, coming here, all of us, bag and
baggage.”
“Don’t speak of it, Major. Even if we _are_ inconvenienced (which I
deny), what then? Oughtn’t _we_, too, to do something for our country?
If _you_ can afford to contribute an arm, oughtn’t we to contribute a
few trifling conveniences? For my part, I never see a maimed or crippled
soldier in the street, that I don’t take off my hat to him; and if he is
poor, I give him what I can afford. Was he not wounded fighting for the
great idea of national honor, integrity, freedom,—fighting for me and my
children? The cold-blooded indifference with which people who stay
snugly and safely at home pass by these noble relics from the
battle-field, and pursue their selfish amusements and occupations while
thousands of their countrymen are periling life and health in their
behalf, is to me inexplicable. If we can’t give anything else, let us at
least give our sympathy and respect, our little word of cheer and of
honor, to those who have sacrificed so much in order that we might be
undisturbed in our comforts!”
“I’m afraid, sir,” continued the Major, “that your good feelings blind
you to the gravity, in a domestic point of view, of this incursion into
your household of the whole Purling race. But the truth is, I expected a
remittance, about this time, from my Philadelphia publisher. It doesn’t
come. I wonder what can be the matter?”
Yes! The insatiable Purling, having exhausted New York, had gone to
Philadelphia with his literary wares, and had found another victim whose
organ of marvellousness was larger than his bump of caution.
“Don’t bother yourself about remittances, Major,” said Pompilard. “Don’t
be under any concern. You mustn’t suppose that because, in an eccentric
freak, Mrs. Pompilard has chosen to occupy this little out-of-the-way
establishment, the exchequer is therefore exhausted. Some persons might
complain of the air of this neighborhood. True, the piny odors of the
forest are more agreeable than the exhalations one gets from the
desiccating gutters under our noses. True, the song of the thrush is
more entrancing than the barbaric yell of that lazy milkman who sits in
his cart and shrieks till some one shall come with a pitcher. But in all
probability we sha’n’ occupy these quarters longer than the summer
months. Why it was that Mrs. Pompilard should select them, more
especially for the _summer_ months, has mystified me a little; but the
ladies know best. Am sorry we couldn’t welcome you at Redcliff or
Thrushwood, or some other of our old country-seats; but—the fact is,
we’ve disposed of them all. To what we have, my dear Cecil, consider
yourself as welcome as votes to a candidate or a contract to an
alderman. So don’t let me hear you utter the word _remittances_ again.”
“Ah! my dear father, we men can make light of these household
inconveniences, but they fall heavy on the women.”
“Not on my wife, bless her silly heart! Why, she’ll be going round
bragging that she has a wounded Major in her house. She’s proud of you,
my hero of ten battles! Didn’t I hear her just now boasting to the
water-rate collector, that she had a son in the house who had lost an
arm at Fair Oaks? A son, Major! Ha, ha, ha! Wasn’t it laughable? She’s
trying to make people think you’re her _son_! I tell you, Cecil, while
Albert Pompilard has a crust to eat or a kennel to creep into, the brave
volunteer, wounded in his country’s cause, shall not want for food or
shelter.”
The Major looked wistfully at Mrs. Pompilard, and said: “He doesn’t make
allowance for a housekeeper’s troubles,—does he, mother? So long as the
burden doesn’t fall on _him_, he doesn’t realize what a bore it is to
have an extra family on one’s hands when one barely has accommodations
for one’s own.”
“What _he_ says, _I_ say, Cecil!” replied Madame, kissing the invalid’s
pale forehead. “You’re a thousand times welcome, my dear boy,—you and
Melissa and the children; and where will you find two better children,
or who give less trouble? No fear but we can accommodate you all. And if
you’ve any wounded companion who wants to be taken care of, just send
him on. For your sake, Cecil, and for the sake of the old flag, we’ll
take him in, and do our best by him.”
“Hear her! Hear the darling little woman!” exclaimed Pompilard, lifting
her in his arms, and kissing her with a genuine admiration. “Bravo,
wife! Give me the woman whose house is like a Bowery omnibus, always
ready for one more. While this war lasts, every true lady in the land
ought to be willing to give up her best room, if wanted, for a
hospital.”
The hero of Fair Oaks was suddenly found to be snivelling. He made a
movement with his right shoulder as if to get a handkerchief, but
remembering that his arm was gone, he used his left hand to wipe away
his tears. “You’re responsible, between you, for this break-down,” said
the lachrymose Major. “I’m sure I thank you. You’ve given me two good
starts in life already, father, and both times I’ve gone under. With
such advantages as I’ve had, I ought to be a rich man, and here I am a
pauper. Poor Melissa and the children are bound to be dependent on their
friends. I’m afraid I’m an incompetent, a ne’er-do-well.”
Pompilard flourished a large white silk handkerchief, and, blowing his
nose sonorously, replied: “Bah! ’T was no fault of yours, Cecil, that
your operations out West proved a failure. ’T was the fortune of war. I
despise the man who never made a blunder. How the deuce could you know
that a great financial revulsion was coming on, just after you had
bought? Let the spilt milk sink into the sand. Don’t fret about it.
We’ll have you hearty as a buck in a week or two. You shall rejoin your
regiment in time for the next great fight.”
The Major smiled faintly, and, shaking his head incredulously, replied:
“The fact is, what makes me so low is, that, at the time I went into
that last fight, I was just recovering from a fever got in the swamps of
the Chickahominy.”
“I know all about it, my brave boy! I’ve just got a letter, Mrs.
Pompilard, from his surgeon. He writes me, he forbade Cecil’s moving
from his bed; told him ’ would be at the risk of his life. Like a
gallant soldier, Cecil rose up, pale and wasted as he was, and went into
the thick of the frolic. A Minie bullet in the right arm at last checked
his activity. Faint from exhaustion and loss of blood, he sank
insensible on the damp field, and there lay twenty-four hours without
succor, without food, the cold night-dews aggravating his disease.”
“Well, father,” said the Major, “between you and me, superadded to the
fever I got a rheumatic affection, which I’m afraid will prevent my
doing service very soon again in the field.”
“So much the better!” returned Pompilard. “Then, my boy, we can keep you
at home,—have you with us all the time. You can sit in your library and
write books, while Molasses sits by and works slippers for _old
blow-hard_, as the boys here in Lavinia Street have begun to call me.”
“My books don’t sell, sir,” sighed the ex-author, with another
incredulous shake of the head. “Either there’s a conspiracy among the
critics to keep me down, or else I’m grossly mistaken in my vocation.
Besides, I’ve lost my right arm, and can’t write. Do you know,” he
continued, wiping away a tear,—“do you know what one of the newspapers
said on receiving the news of my wound? Well, it said, ‘This will be a
happy dispensation for publishers and the public, if it shall have the
effect of keeping the Major from again using the pen!’”
“The unclean reptile!” exclaimed Pompilard, grinding his heel on the
floor as if he would crush something. “Don’t mind such ribaldry, Major.”
“I wouldn’t, if I weren’t afraid there’s some truth in it,” sighed the
unsuccessful author.
“It’s an entire lie!” exclaimed Pompilard; “your books are good
books,—excellent books,—and people will find it out some of these days.
You shall write another. You don’t need an arm, do you, to help you do
brain-work? Didn’t Sir Walter employ an amanuensis? Why can’t Major
Purling do the same? Why can’t he dictate his _magnum opus_,—the
crowning achievement of his literary life,—his history of the Great
Rebellion,—why can’t he dictate it as well without as with an arm?”
The Major’s lips began to work and his eyes to brighten. Ominous of
disaster to the race of publishers, the old spirit began to be roused in
him, bringing animation and high resolve. The passion of authorship,
long repressed, was threatening to rekindle in that bosom. He tried to
rub his forehead with his right hand, but finding it gone, he resorted
to his left. His hair (just beginning to get crisp and grayish over his
ears) he pushed carelessly away from his brow. He jerked himself up from
his pillow, and exclaimed: “Upon my word, father-in-law, that’s not a
bad idea of yours,—that idea of tackling myself to a history of the war.
Let me see. How large a work ought it to be? Could it be compressed into
six volumes of the size of Irving’s Washington? I think it might. At any
rate, I could try. ‘A History of the Great Rebellion: its Rise and Fall.
By Cecil Purling, late Major of Volunteers.’ Motto: ‘All which I saw and
part of which I was.’ Come, now! That wouldn’t sound badly.”
“It would be a trump card for any publisher,” said Pompilard, growing to
be sincerely sanguine. “Get up the right kind of a Prospectus, and
publish the work by subscription. I could procure a thousand subscribers
myself. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t get twenty thousand. We might
all make our fortunes by it.”
“So we might!” exclaimed the excited Major, forgetting that there were
ladies present, and that he had on only his drawers, and leaping out of
bed, then suddenly leaping back again, and begging everybody’s pardon.
“It can be easily calculated,” continued he. “Just hand me a slip of
paper and a pencil, Melissa. Thank you. Look now, father-in-law; twenty
thousand copies at two dollars a volume for six volumes would give a
hundred and forty thousand dollars clear. Throw off fifty per cent of
that for expenses, commissions, printing, binding, et cetera, and we
have left for our profit _seventy thousand dollars_!”
“Nothing can be plainer,” said Pompilard.
“But the publisher would want the lion’s share of that,” interposed
Melissa.
“Pooh! What do _you_ know about it?” retorted Pompilard. “If we get up
the work by subscription, we can take an office and do our own
publishing.”
“To be sure we can!” exclaimed the Major, reassured.
Here Pompilard’s eldest daughter, Angelica Ireton, long a widow, and old
enough to be a grandmother, entered the room with a newspaper.
“What is it, Jelly?” asked the paternal voice.
“News of the surrender of Memphis! And, only think of it! Frederick is
highly complimented in the despatch.”
“Good for Fred!” said Pompilard. “Make a note of it, Major, for the new
history.”
A knock at the door now introduced the once elfish and imitative Netty,
or Antoinette, grown up into a dignified young lady of striking
appearance, who, if not handsome, had a face beaming with intelligence
and the cheerfulness of an earnest purpose. She wore, not a Bloomer, but
a sort of blouse, which looked well on her erect and slender figure; and
her hair, as if to be put out of harm’s way in working hours, was combed
back into a careless though graceful knot.
“Walk in, Netty!” said the wounded man.
“Here’s our great _artiste_,—our American Rosa Bonheur!” cried
Pompilard, patting her on the head.
“Why, father, I never painted a horse or a cow in my life,” expostulated
Netty. “Remember, I’m a marine painter. I deal in ships, shipwrecks,
calms, squalls, and sea-washed rocks; not in cattle.”
“Yes, Cecil, she’s engaged on a bit of beach scenery, which will make a
sensation when ’t is hung in the Academy. Better sea-water hasn’t been
painted since Vernet; and she beats Vernet in rigging her ships.”
“Hear him,” said the artistic Netty. “All his geese are swans. What a
ridiculous papa it is!”
“Go back to your easel, girl,” exclaimed Pompilard. “Cecil and I are
talking business.”
“And that reminds me,” said Netty, “I came to say that Mr. Maloney is in
the parlor, and wants to see you.”
“Has the rascal found me out so soon?” muttered Pompilard. “I supposed I
had dodged him.”
“Dodged Mr. Maloney, dear? What harm has he ever committed?” asked Mrs.
Pompilard, in surprise.
“No harm, perhaps; but he’s the most persistent of duns.”
“Is he dunning you now, my love?”
“Yes, all the time.”
“Do you owe him much?”
“Not a cent, confound him!”
“Then what is he dunning you for?”
“O, he’s dunning me to get me to borrow money of him, and I know he
can’t afford to lend it.”
“Go and see him, my dear, and treat him civilly at least.”
Pompilard turned to the Major, who was now deep in his Prospectus, and
fired with the thought of a grand success that should make amends for
all his past failures in authorship. Seeing that the invalid was
thoroughly cured of his attack of the blues, Pompilard remarked, “Strike
while the iron’s hot, Major,” and passed out to meet the visitor who was
waiting for him below.
Pat Maloney was pacing the parlor in a great rage; and he exploded in
these words, as Pompilard presented himself: “Arn’t ye ashamed to look
an honest man in the face, yer desateful ould sinner?”
“What’s the bother now, Pat? Whose mare’s dead?” said Pompilard.
“Whose mare’s dead, yer wicked ould man? Is that the kind o’ triflin’ ye
think is goin’ down wid Pat Maloney? Look at that wall.”
“Well, what of it?”
“What of it? See the cracks of it, bedad, and the dirt of it, and the
damp of it, and hearken to the rats of it, yer wicked ould man! What of
it? See that baste of a cockroach comin’ out as confidint as ye plaze,
and straddlin’ across the floor. Smell that smell up there in the
corner. Dead rats, by jabbers! And this is the entertainment, is it, ye
bring a dacent family to, that wasn’t born to stenches and filthiness!
Typhus and small-pox in every plank under the feet of ye! And a sick
sodger ye’ve got in the house too; and because he wasn’t quite kilt down
in them swamps on the Chickahominy, ye think ye’ll stink him to death in
this hole of all the nastiness!”
“Mr. Maloney, this is my house, sir, such as it is, and I must request
you either to walk out of it or to keep a civil tongue in your head.”
“Hoo! Ye think to come the dignified over me, do ye, yer silly ould man!
I’m not to be scaret by any such airs. I tell ye it’s bastely to bring
dacent women and children inter sich a cesspool as this. By jabbers, I
shall have to stop at Barker’s, as I go back, and take a bath.”
“Maloney, leave the house.”
“Lave the house, is it? Not till I’m ready, will I lave the house on the
biddin’ of the likes of a man who hasn’t more regard for the mother that
bore him nor to do what you’ve been doin’, yer ould barbarryan.”
“Quit the house, I say! If you think I’m going to borrow money of a
beggarly Irish tailor, you’ll find yourself mistaken, Mr. Pat Maloney!”
“O, it’s that game yez thinkin’ to come on me, is it? Ha! By jabbers,
I’m ready for yer there too. He’s a beggarly Irish tailor, is he? Then
why did ye have the likes o’ him at all yer grand parties at Redcliff?
Why did ye have him and his at all yer little family hops? Why couldn’t
ye git through a forenoon, yer ould hyppercrit, widout the beggarly
Irish tailor, to play billiards wid yer, or go a fishin’ wid yer, or a
sailin’ wid yer?”
“I don’t choose to keep up the acquaintance, Mr. Maloney, now that you
are poor.”
“That’s the biggest lie ye iver tould in yer life, yer ould chate!”
“Do you tell me I lie? Out of my house! Pay your own debts, you
blackguard Paddy, before you come playing flush of your money to a
gentleman like me.”
“A jintleman! Ye call yerself a jintleman, do ye,—ye onnateral ould
simpleton? Ye bring born ladies inter a foul, unreputable house like
this is, in a foul, unreputable street, wid a house of ill-fame on both
sides of yer, and another oppersit, and then ye call yerself a
jintleman. A jintleman, bedad! Ha, ha!”
“You lie, Pat Maloney. My next-door neighbors are decent folks,—much
decenter than you are, you foul-mouthed Paddy.”
“And thin ye tell me to pay my debts, do yer? Find the debt of Pat
Maloney’s that’s unpaid, and he’ll pay it double, yer unprincipled ould
calumniator. If ’ warrent for yer eighty yares, I’d larrup yer on the
spot.”
“I claim no privilege of age, you cowardly tailor. That’s a dodge of
yours that won’t serve. Come on, you ninth part of a man, if you have
even that much of a man left in you. Come on, or I’ll pound your head
against the wall.”
“Ye’d knock the house down, bedad, if ye tried it. I’d like no better
sport nor to polish ye off wid these two fists of mine, yer aggrawatin’
superannuated ould haythen.”
“You shall find what my eighty years can do, you ranting Paddy. Since
you won’t go quietly out of the house, I’ll put you out.”
And Pompilard began pulling up his sleeves, as if for action. Maloney
was not behind him in his pugilistic demonstrations.
“If ye want to have the wind knocked out of yer,” said he, “jist try it,
yer quarrelsome ould bully,—gittin’ up a disturbance like this at your
time of life!”
Here Angelica, who had been listening at the door, burst into the room,
and interposed between the disputants. By the aid of some mysterious
signs and winks addressed to Maloney, she succeeded in pacifying him so
far that he took up his hat, and shaking his head indignantly at
Pompilard, followed her out of the room. The front door was heard to
open and close. Then there was a slight creaking on the basement stairs,
followed by a coughing from Angelica, and a minute afterwards she
re-entered the parlor.
She found her father with his fists doubled, and his breast thrown back,
knocking down an imaginary Irishman in dumb show.
“Has that brute left the house?” he asked.
“Yes, father. What did he want?”
“He has been dunning me to borrow a couple of thousand dollars of
him,—the improvident old fool. He needs every cent of his money in his
business. He knows it. He merely wants to put me under an obligation,
knowing I may never pay him back. He can’t dupe me.”
“If ’ would gratify poor Maloney, why not humor him?” said Angelica. “He
feels eternally grateful to you for having made a man of him. You helped
him to a fortune. He has often said he owed it to you that he wasn’t a
sot about the streets.”
“If I helped him to a fortune, I showed him how to lose it, Jelly. So
there we’re just even. I tell you I won’t get in debt again, if I can
help it. You, Jelly, are the only one I’ve borrowed from since the last
great crash.”
“And in borrowing from me, you merely take back your own,” interposed
Angelica.
“I’ve paid everything in the way of a debt, principal and interest,”
said Pompilard. “And I don’t want to break the charm again at my time of
life. Debt is the Devil’s own snare. I know it from sad experience. I’ve
two good schemes on foot for retrieving my affairs, without having to
risk much money in the operation. If you can let me have five hundred
dollars, I think ’ will be the only nest-egg I shall need.”
“Certainly, father,” said Angelica; and going down-stairs into the
basement, she found the persevering Maloney waiting her coming.
“Mr. Maloney,” said she, “let me propose a compromise. My father wants
five hundred dollars of me. I haven’t it to give him. But if you’ll lend
it on my receipt, I’ll take it and be very thankful.”
“Make it a thousand, and I’ll say yes,” said Pat.
“Well, I’ll not haggle with you, Mr. Maloney,” replied Angelica.
Maloney handed her the money, and, refusing to take a receipt, seized
his hat, and quitted the house by the back area, looking round
suspiciously, and snuffing contemptuously at the surroundings, as he
emerged into the alley-way which conducted him to one of the streets
leading into the Bowery.
Angelica put five hundred dollars in her port-monnaie, and handed the
like amount to her sire. He thrust it into his vest-pocket, brushed his
hat, and arranged his choker. Mrs. Pompilard came down with the
Prospectus that was to be the etymon of a new fortune. He took it,
kissed wife and daughter, and issued from the house.
As he passed up Lavinia Street, many a curious eye from behind curtains
and blinds looked out admiringly on the imposing figure. One boy on the
sidewalk remarked to another: “I say, Ike, who is that old swell as has
come into our street? I’ve a mind to shy this dead kitten at him.”
“Don’t do it, Peter Craig!” exclaimed Ike; “father says that man’s a
detective,—a feller as sees you when you think he ain’t looking. We’d
better mind how we call arter him again, ‘Old blow-hard!’”