when you brought him _chez moi_ to see it hanging on the wall. Give it to
me;" and she held out her hand with a charming gesture.
"No, no, my dear: you may come and see it here whenever you like, but here
it must remain."
I turned and hung it on its accustomed nail: when I looked again she was
gone. Not even the sound of her foot on the stairs nor a moving shadow on
the steps when I looked over the balustrade.
"Either the world is going mad, or I am," I exclaimed.
"You need not be in doubt which."
"Any one would think it odd. Could she be the forlorn widow in search of
the portrait of the husband of her youth?"
"No."
"Does old Sticks look as if he could play a practical joke?"
"No."
"Or my concierge?"
"No."
"Or my washerwoman?"
"No."
"And this radiant little bubble of soapsuds who was just here, what do you
think of her?"
But my other self, having nothing more to say, was sensible enough to keep
silent, and we slept.
In dreams the pretty washerwoman and the portrait became mixed
inextricably. I believed she looked like the portrait--that she was the
portrait; and when I awoke in the morning and saw the melancholy eyes
hanging opposite my bed, I could not help exclaiming, "Pardi! she does look
like him! It is true her eyes are brighter and her dimpled chin rounder;
otherwise the faces are the same. And did she not invite me to the house
from which the portrait had been brought? I must see her again--the sooner
the better." With this I arose and hurriedly dressed, my other self
protesting against my resolution the while; but as the physical power is
all on my side, he was obliged to accompany me.
We went to No. 42 Notre Dame de Lorette, and were met by the same
disagreeable concierge that we had seen before. To my questions he answered
that no washerwoman lived in the house, and when I insisted he exclaimed
pathetically, "For Heaven's sake go away! I have a wife and six children."
I was so impressed by this startling information that I ejaculated, "What a
philanthropist!" whilst my inner self, who luckily has not the gift of
speech, said, "What a fool!" Then I remembered that asking after a
washerwoman in Paris without knowing her name was rather quixotic, and I
went my way.
During the day I still had the disagreeable sensation of being watched. Men
appeared to be noticing me from alleys, street-corners and windows, and
once I made a sale to an individual who I was sure observed me more than
the lace he was purchasing. When I passed the shop in the evening, Sticks
neither looked at me nor returned my salutation, and when I half stopped to
examine a new piece of dilapidation on the sidewalk he whispered abruptly,
"Move on, I beg of you: _your_ custom is not wanted here."
Was it strange that a series of the wildest conjectures should fill my
mind? It was just before the Franco-German war, when the whole of Paris was
in a fever of excitement and every event seemed to predict a political
crisis. But in what manner could I, a simple lace-selling clerk, be
connected with it? This last reflection of course emanated from my
plain-talking self, who would rather believe the whole world mad than that
anything important should happen to me. I was "not made of the stuff that
distinction loves," he said, and begged me not to think that the eyes of
the Empire were upon me.
As I entered the house I tried to question my concierge about the pretty
girl who had brought home my clothes, but found my efforts useless. The
woman said she knew nothing of my washerwoman, not even her name. I tried
by describing the girl to get a more definite answer. She intimated that
she would have little to do if she looked at every one going up or down the
stairs; then burst into tears, and begged me to leave her--that she was
dependent on her place for support; that her reputation was all she had;
and more to the same effect, which I avoided by making a precipitate
retreat.
I rushed to my room and to my glass, eagerly scanning the reflection
therein to see if any change in my appearance within the last few days
could cause people thus to avoid me, suspect me, and treat me as if
contaminated. It was the same insignificant face I had known from
childhood, with what my other self called a "stupidly innocent expression."
I next thought of examining the portrait, taking it from the wall for this
purpose. It was certainly modern: the slightest acquaintance with art
settled this beyond doubt. (I must here acknowledge that my second self is
rather a cultivated man; his discrimination has often been praised by the
members of our firm; and it is owing to his delicate taste that I have been
sent several times to Belgium to make large purchases of lace for our
house; therefore I could rely on his judgment in this matter.) But might it
not conceal another? I held it between me and the light, and could see
through it, not only where there were holes, but everywhere between the
interstices of the thinly-painted, badly-made canvas. I turned the back:
there was nothing but the name of the seller stamped upon it: it was not
likely he would remember who had bought this particular article. There was
no frame, and I detached the cloth from the stretcher, that nothing might
escape me. Not the slightest clew--no bit of paper, message or token. I put
back the tacks, and was hanging my unsolved puzzle on the wall when I heard
a knock at the door.
This time it was my _bona-fide_ washerwoman, who came for the soiled
clothes the other in her hasty retreat had forgotten, and as she gathered
them together I carelessly asked after the fair unknown.
"She is my niece," was the reply.
"Does she live with you?"
"No: she lives in the country."
"Where?"
"I don't know."
"What is her name?"
"I don't know."
By this time the dame ended her task by tying the clothes in a bundle, and
seemed in haste to be off.
"Is it not rather strange that you should know neither your niece's name
nor where she lives?"
"I don't care," she said, defiantly resting a hand on either hip: "I will
have nothing more to do with it." Here the bundle at her feet received a
kick which sent it spinning over the floor, and she would have left the
room had I not stood in her way.
"Why did you begin it?" I asked quickly, seeing here a chance of solving
the mystery.
"She would take no refusal; and besides, she gave me twenty francs."
"What for?"
"Merely to allow her to carry home your wash. I hope you found nothing
missing?"
"Nothing. But listen: I will give you another twenty francs if you tell me
all you know about her."
"Make it thirty," she said eagerly.
"It shall be thirty."
"The young girl--"
"The brown-eyed one who brought my wash?"
"Yes. She came to my house on Friday last. Madame Trois, your concierge,
had given her my address. The girl said she must see you in your room, and
must have an excuse for going there--all for a bit of fun. But Madame Trois
told me to-day that it was a picture she wanted, for she gave her fifty
francs the day before for trying to get it, and promised her as much more
as it might cost if you should consent to sell it. When Madame Trois
failed, the girl asked what other woman went to your room, and she sent her
to me."
"Then she is no niece of yours?"
"If I had a niece she would not be running about alone in that way; but the
girl said if you should question me I must tell you she is my niece, and
give her any name I pleased. As if I did not have enough trouble naming my
own children without puzzling over one for her! especially when she gave me
but twenty francs, and Madame Trois throwing it in my teeth that she got
fifty! I am even with her now;" and she held out her hand for the money
with the pose of a malignant Victory.
"Is that all?"
"All about her, but Madame Trois says there is something wrong, for the
house is watched by the police."
"Police!"
"Yes. Madame Trois is up to their tricks. Her husband that is dead was a
policeman, and she says those that don't dress in uniform are the worst."
"Madame Trois says a great deal; for instance, she told me she knew nothing
about the girl, nor of you either, not even your name," I remarked.
"_She_ was paid enough not to tell; besides, she is dreadfully afraid of
the police; and no wonder. Such a dance as her husband led her! though I
must say she deserved it. We have been friends for years."
I saw there was nothing more to gain, so I paid the woman and dismissed
her, while my two selves both talked at once, making a distracting duet
that nearly set me wild.
Here was confirmation of my worst fears. I was under suspicion, for what
cause I knew not, but the picture must be in some way connected with it.
Had the portrait been stolen, and did its possession implicate me in the
theft? Yet who would care to recover so worthless a thing? Should I destroy
it and thus end the ravel? No, if innocent why should I fear? and was not
this the only connecting link between me and the brown-eyed girl who
strangely resembled it?
"Come what will, the picture shall be preserved," I exclaimed finally.
Nevertheless, my night was restless, and the day following it more so. I
went about my business distraught, mixing the distinctions between Alencon
and Chantilly, and not having even the poor satisfaction of quarrelling
with my confidant, who now kept up a moody silence. I was glad when evening
came that I might be free to think, but evening brought a new complication.
On entering the Rue St. Lazare, I saw a person who in the shadow of a
porte-cochere appeared to await me. As I passed him he leaned forward and
placed in my hand a packet wrapped and rewrapped with twine, whispering,
"For the cause." Then I recognized the shock-headed boy from the
furniture-shop. I was too much surprised at this to notice, as I should
otherwise have done, two men who at this moment seemed to start from the
darkness and keep near me until I reached my door. There they seized me by
the arms, and before I could think of resistance had placed me in a cab
standing in readiness.
We drove very quietly along the street until we stopped at what I found to
be the police head-quarters. I omitted to say that one of my captors had
grasped my hand holding the packet when he first seized me. This man never
relaxed his grasp during our ride, nor while descending from the cab, nor
while we threaded a long corridor leading to an antechamber; and when we
finally stood before a person who appeared to be high in authority he still
retained my hand. Thus I had no chance of getting rid of what I feared
might be my ruin.
"Confront the prisoner," ordered the high personage briefly.
"I am here," replied one of my captors, whom I now recognized as the same
individual to whom I had sold lace two days before.
"What is your charge?"
"This man is suspected of being connected with a secret society the
principles of which are inimical to the Empire."
"Have you any proofs?"
"I saw him receive a secret communication to-night: it is here." With this
he raised my hand.
"Stand forward."
I moved toward the light, while the officer unclosed my fingers, to which I
offered no resistance. There lay the packet enclosed with its many cords.
"What does it contain?" asked the great man.
"I have not ventured to touch it," answered he at my right obsequiously.
"Cut the cords."
This was done amid profound silence: my anxiety may be imagined as I
awaited the result. There was as much wrapping-paper as string, and when
the last fold had been carefully undone it revealed--two large sous. I
breathed more freely.
There was a pause of blank amazement on the part of the officials, a
whispered conference, and the paper was held to the light, heated by the
fire, and examined with a glass, without result. The sous were handled in
the same manner, and finally their date and description were written in a
book; after which came an order in the same quiet tone that had been used
before: "Search the prisoner."
In five minutes more all the clothing upon me had been cut into shreds and
minutely examined: even my hat did not escape, and my watch was opened. Of
course nothing was found, but that did not alter the fact that my best suit
of clothes was a heap of ruins. My pocket-book was turned inside out, and
my passport, that I always carry with me, it being often necessary to start
on my employers' business at a moment's notice, received a great deal of
attention. At last other clothes nearly identical with those I had lost
were handed me, and when I donned them I was given a hat; my pocket-book,
passport and watch were returned; and the conductor of ceremonies begged my
pardon for the slight (he called it _slight_) trouble he had occasioned me,
said he found the suspicions of my accuser unfounded, and ordered him to
"conduct the gentleman to his residence;" which was accordingly done.
When there, I could neither read nor sleep, and to escape the tormenting
round of questions and answers that brought no solution to the mystery
surrounding me, I resolved to spend the evening at the theatre. I went to
the Francais. It was useless: the dialogue unremittingly kept up between my
two selves prevented my hearing that on the stage.
My eyes were wandering in dreamy abstraction over the mass of faces partly
turned toward me during the entr'acte, when I was suddenly roused to full
consciousness by recognizing in one of them the features of my portrait.
The man was regarding me as if waiting to catch my eye: when he saw by my
start of surprise that he had succeeded, he made a movement with his lips
and turned away. In a moment he was lost in the crowd.
My inner self, who always doubts the evidence of the senses, suggested that
it was a mistake. "Would this person, even were he the original of the
portrait, know you or make you a sign?" said he, adding thereto other
arguments, which, though I emphatically disbelieved, I was too agitated to
contradict.
I tried to remain during the second act, hoping to verify my first
impression, but after twisting my neck in order to look behind, and
straining my eyes in front, receiving angry glances and "'Sh! 'sh!" from my
neighbors, annoyed by these movements, I concluded to leave.
Close to the Fountain Moliere I thought I heard footsteps following me:
there was one pair besides my own in the street. I listened to them for
some time, and finally they seemed to regulate themselves with mine.
"'Tis the police!" I confided to my other self.
"Always fearful," was his reply.
"You can be very cool: _you_ have no neck in danger."
"I am happy to say _my_ ideas need not be influenced by such paltry
considerations. In fact, you are a coward!"
"You are a fool!" I returned.
At this desperate juncture the quarrel fortunately ended by its object
coming nearer and in a deep musical voice saying, "Good-evening, friend."
"Good-evening," I answered gruffly.
"You don't appear to know me."
He took a shabby cap from his head and turned his face: a chill ran through
me when in the dim street-light I recognized my portrait, moving, speaking,
living. A black patch above the brow made me wonder if the wound it
concealed passed through the head, as did that in the picture, and his eyes
were more brilliant and eager than the painted ones, with their pathetic
look changed to one of defiance, as if a devil had taken possession of
those beautiful features. For a moment superstition kept me silent, then I
said briefly, "I don't know you."
"Allow me to introduce myself--Favart the International. You are delighted
to make my acquaintance, no doubt. Calm your transports: time does not
admit of them. We start for Belgium to-night."
"Who start?" I asked, now thinking the man a maniac.
"I, you, all of us."
"I am none of you."
"But you are suspected of being, which is worse, much worse. Hold! I will
sketch your position accurately. Let us enter this cabaret: it is kept by
one of us." I followed him mechanically, and when we were seated in a dark
corner, with some wine he called for before us, he continued: "I divide the
sketch into three heads, historical, personal and political. There is a
theory called Socialism--a people called Socialists, or Chartists, or
Communists: they have different names in different countries. You may have
heard of them in the past: you shall hear more of them in the future. They
have a good organization and magnificent sympathies."
"But you called yourself an International."
"Just so. Socialism is the idea, Internationalism is its result. And now
the historic is mingled with the personal. This society was lately
meditating a _coup:_ it was necessary to have meetings, and we had to
devise a signal for rallying. I submitted one to the committee, which was
unanimously adopted as simple yet efficient. My portrait--I was not then
sufficiently known to make it suspicious--was to stand outside the door of
the shop where you found it on the days when a meeting would be held. The
old furniture-dealer is one of us: so is the concierge of No. 42 Notre Dame
de Lorette. About a week ago the former came to me in distress, saying the
portrait had been sold in his absence: he did not even know to whom. I told
him it must be recovered at all hazards, as it would cause great
inconvenience and loss of time to fix on another signal. The next day you
were supposed to have it through the inquiries you made at No. 42, where
you frightened the concierge nearly out of his wits, he taking you for a
spy. He immediately informed his friend the furniture-dealer that the
police were on our track, and when told of the sale of the picture said you
must have it. However, they did not dare bring mere conjectures to me: they
watched and waited. On the third day after you passed the shop: the dealer
knew you through the concierge's description, inveigled you in, and easily
obtained the information he wanted about the picture, but failed to gain
possession of it. Then Sidonia took the matter in hand--Sidonia always
helps us out of a difficulty--but her attempts also failed, though she
discovered not only that you were no spy, but that you were yourself under
suspicion. The police were following us closely: they had found out the use
we made of the portrait, which rendered its recovery profitless to us. I
resolved to drop both you and it. Shortly after I perceived that it would
be necessary for us to leave the city, and you being implicated, Sidonia
insisted on my warning you before we went, though, as you do not belong to
us, I could see no use in it."
"So, then, it was not the dealer's boy who informed on me?"
"No: he gave a description calculated to mislead. I believe he has by
listening gained some half truths, and thinks _you_ are an International:
it was for that cause he gave you the packet which brought you into trouble
this evening. Ha! ha! ha!"
"How do you know I have been in trouble?"
"Through one of our spies in the police service: he was present at your
examination, and was detailed to watch you to-night. He told me of your
being at the theatre; hence my opportunity of speaking to you. I can say no
more: the political part of my sketch you have had a specimen of at the
police-station to-night; if you stay you are likely to see more. Believe
me, they only liberated you so politely in order, by watching you, to find
your companions. To-morrow, after we are gone, there will be discoveries
made through this same agent of ours in their employ. As they are already
on our track, we take this method to gain their confidence for our man. If
you fancy another examination by the police, remain."
"But I am innocent!"
"Unfortunately, you are. You know absolutely nothing with which to buy your
liberty. What I have told you will be of no service: it will be already
theirs. If you wish to go to Belgium ask at No. 33 Rue Lafitte for a
travelling suit: you will receive one like mine."
He looked down at his heavy shoes, soiled overalls and tattered blouse,
then touching the latter with his fingers, continued: "I use it now for a
disguise, but the day will come when this blouse will be our standard--the
laborer shall possess the earth. He who works shall live, and idleness,
with the riches that foster it, will end. Necessities shall be plenty and
luxuries unattainable. Palaces shall fall to give material for poor men's
dwellings; monuments that glorify one man at the expense of his brothers
must disappear; and churches, promises of another world, can no longer
trick us out of our share, our birthright, in this. Paris will arise a new
and better Sparta. Sparta, great mother of communes! I salute you!
Leonidas! Favart aspires to eclipse your glory! Not for one nation does he
labor, but for humanity--for the workers of the world, whose rightful dues
are filched from them by the drones. Nature resents this wrong: the drones
must die."
He had risen as he pronounced these words, low but rapidly: a moment he
stood before me, his face glowing, his hand clenched, then his expression
rapidly changed, and he said briefly, "It is a time for action, not for
words. Good-night!"
A conflagration, an electric spark, was this shabby man, and I could easily
believe what I afterward heard of his influence with the people.
He left me with my mind more perplexed than ever. What had been the _coup_
these people were meditating, in which I, in the eyes of the police, was
implicated? Murder? Treason? Arson? Nothing was beyond them with their
magnificent sympathies. Perhaps this might be my only chance of escape;
yet in doing so did I not cast my lot with theirs? should I not make myself
doubly suspected? Embarrassing questions, to which neither self was ready
with an answer. There was the prospect, too, of losing my situation if I
remained long away, but in opposition to this practical consideration was
the remembrance of my air-bath and the doubt about my future if I remained.
In this chaos of thought can you guess what decided me? It was Favart's
words: "We are all going." Did not _we_ include her whom he called Sidonia,
who had visited my room and had insisted I should be warned? Yes.
Not in disguise: I was in no humor to complicate the situation. Having my
passport in my pocket, and knowing the policeman who was watching me would
not prevent my flight, I simply walked to the station and took a
first-class ticket to Brussels. First class, for I knew the man in the
blouse must travel third, and I was anxious to be as far from him as
possible.
I reached the frontier in safety. My examination ended, the officer turned
to my only travelling companion, a lady who up to this time appeared to
have been sleeping. As he threw the light of his lantern into her face I
also looked at her. Good Heavens! could I be mistaken? The hair, it is
true, was blond, and the dress a robe of deep mourning, but the eyes were
the eyes of my portrait, the eyes of Favart, the eyes of my pretty
washerwoman--Sidonia! The ordeal passed, the door shut, the train moved on.
"Have I your permission to speak, mademoiselle?" I asked in an agitated
voice.
"If you wish, monsieur." She turned toward me a sad, tear-stained face that
well suited her mourning.
"You are suffering: you have been weeping. Has anything occurred? Why this
dress?"
"Nothing has occurred _yet_," she answered, trying to smile. "The danger
for my brother is over once more. This dress is simply a disguise. God
grant I may not soon be wearing it in token of sorrow!"
"Is Favart your brother?" I asked eagerly.
"Yes, my only one. I cannot bear to lose him. And you too have become
implicated: it seemed as if Fate led you on."
I did not dare tell her how I felt that any fate was blessed that brought
me to know her, to see her again. The thrill I experienced at this
unexpected meeting revealed to me the strength of my feelings.
"In a few days I think matters will be arranged so that you can return to
Paris," she went on, "but I thought it best for you to be absent at first.
I hope it will not put you to inconvenience. What do you do?"
I told her my employment, not without wishing it was higher, but she said
sweetly, "I am glad you are a working-man: your hands are so white I feared
you were an idler."
"You endorse your brother's principles, mademoiselle? You too are a
Socialist?"
"I honor labor--any and all kinds of labor. They say they admire it, but do
they work? Ah no! Once my Charles was different. We come of laboring
people. Our father owned a few fields, which we cultivated ourselves. I
kept the dairy and assisted in harvest and at the vintage. Those were happy
days. The good cure taught us to read and write, and lent my brother books,
but Charles has forgotten his kindness. He was discontented even then, and
would throw stones at the park-wall that surrounded the chateau near our
property, and scowl at the little marquises as they passed us on horseback
when we were afoot."
"How did you come to Paris?" I asked, seeing that in her present state of
excitement speaking relieved her.
"Our parents died: my brother had a taste for painting, and wished to go to
Paris and study. Monsieur le cure had given him some lessons and was proud
of his talent: he counselled me to accompany Charles, and came with us to
get me a place in a shop and recommend Charles to an artist of his
acquaintance; and yet Charles says the cures are not our friends! The rent
of our fields, with what I received, supported us. We had two little rooms
and lived together, Charles and I. He made such rapid progress! The
portrait you bought he painted at my request in the evening, while I sewed
beside him. We were so happy. O mon Dieu! why could it not have lasted?"
She covered her face with her hands and burst into tears, but only for a
moment: before I could think what to say to comfort her she was again
speaking: "I do not often weep, but this dress depresses me: it is
ill-omened."
"Do not think so: you are tired, over-wrought, to-night. The danger is
past, and maybe you can persuade your brother to return to his art, and
happier days will come."
"Impossible! When he first joined the society I tried in vain. Now he
belongs to it heart and soul. He has set an example of communism by selling
our land and giving the proceeds to the cause, and he now lives on
contributions, which he is not ashamed to take, because he believes that
what the earth produces is common to all, and he only receives his rightful
share."
"But you also belong--is it not so?"
"When I found he would not return I followed: we could not be separated."
"And you share all his danger?"
"All," she answered firmly. "Danger shared is lessened, you know. Where he
is, I am. But I wished to speak of your affairs. I forgot myself: sorrow is
selfish. You must write to your employers and give some explanation of your
absence: in a week at furthest I trust you will be able to return without
annoyance. I will see that information which will exculpate you is given to
the authorities. And, as far as my brother and myself are concerned, I know
from your face I can trust you."
I would sooner have had my homely features at that moment than those of
Apollo. When I arrived in Brussels I wrote to my employers, as she
requested, but after excusing my sudden departure I begged them to
recommend me to some firm in that city, for I resolved not to leave until I
had offered Sidonia the protection of a husband. The answer to my letter
was most favorable. I had the pleasure of showing it to Sidonia and telling
her my plans, from which she tried to dissuade me with all the eloquence in
her power.
"We are dangerous acquaintance, dangerous friends and dangerous enemies.
The sooner we fade from your life the better," she said; but I would not
listen.
The happiest month of my life I spent in Brussels. I found employment: I
saw Sidonia every day, and if possible admired her hourly more. She had a
quick judgment, born of the experience she had gained through the part she
took in her brother's affairs. She knew whom to trust, and I am happy to
say she trusted me; but, though frank, I never again saw the manner she had
adopted when she came to my room: inclining naturally to be gay, she was
always dignified. Once I ventured to apologize for the way I had spoken to
her during that visit.
"My behavior gave rise to it," she answered. "I was obliged to act a part.
But you gentlemen should have more respect for those poor girls whose daily
wants often expose them to insult."
"After a man loves one good woman he learns to respect all women for her
sake. You have taught me that lesson."
She taught me much more, my wise, my sensible Sidonia. With the example of
her busy hands and the advocacy of her sweet lips my second self was
brought to recognize the beauty and nobility of honest toil. Favart's life
afforded an illustration of how the most exalted opinions can lead a man
astray; and he humbly confessed that had my course been modelled according
to his views, I should not now be able to offer Sidonia a home, which he
heartily approved of my doing. I in turn acknowledged that I owed much in
the estimation of my darling to his cultivation. I saw that she respected
his acquirements, and that his longest conversations were agreeable to her;
while had I been left with only the merits of lace to expatiate upon I
should have failed to please.
But with my love my fears for her increased. Favart was seldom at home--now
in England, now in Germany, now in Italy. What new scheme was he
meditating? what new danger was he recklessly preparing for his sister?
Tormented by misgivings, I resolved to make an effort to turn him from his
course, and, failing in that, to gain his consent to a speedy marriage
between me and Sidonia. Knowing his egotism, I approached him with a
compliment: "Sidonia tells me you are the painter of the portrait that
brought me into trouble: from its merit I should venture to predict great
things of your future."
"Your prediction is likely to be fulfilled, but my fame will rest on
something more profitable to humanity than painting."
"Do you never intend to paint again?" I ventured.
"Never: my time is employed in nobler work."
"Do you ever think of the danger you incur? do you ever count the suffering
to others you may cause in attaining your object?"
"I think of success!" As he said these words the devil in his eyes flashed
a triumphant glance, and I noticed for the first time the change for the
worse that a few weeks had made in him. His face was haggard, his movements
were restless: a life of constant excitement was telling on mind and body.
"And your sister?"
"She is worthy of me. With a mind fertile in resources she has an undaunted
courage: we could not do without her. Twice she has saved my life, and once
her address turned away the police from a meeting where there would have
been at least twenty of our leading men arrested had they found us."
"And you never think of the danger she is exposed to? You never realize
what an improper, what a cruel position it is in which to place a young and
beautiful girl--you who are her natural protector? Listen to me, I beseech
you: leave this life before it is too late; spare yourself, spare her;
return to the ambition that made you happy before this frenzy seized you.
I know now of some lace designs you could get to make: it would be a
beginning, and--"
"Lace designs!" he interrupted, contemptuously. "He seeks to bind a man's
ambition with _lace_! he would stifle the breath of purpose with _lace_! he
would swaddle a sublime project in _lace_, until it is as weak as his own
courage, as petty as his own soul! The noble idea!"
"I suppose it is nobler to live on contributions," I answered hotly.
"I take but my own. Nature provides enough for all if we behave as children
of one parent and divide her bounty."
"Live as you please, run what risks you like, but spare your sister."
"That is, give her to you," he sneered.
"Yes, give her to me. I love her: _my_ ambition will be to protect her. I
ask for none better. And surely if you are not utterly selfish, when in
peril you will be glad to know of her safety. Give her to me."
"Never! never! never! I waste time in talking to you. Your understanding is
less even than I thought, but if Sidonia likes to have a tame cat about to
amuse her leisure, I have no objections. As for a marriage with you,
neither she nor I would think of it." So saying, with his usual abrupt
manner he left me.
I made a passionate appeal to Sidonia. "Be my wife and leave the
Internationals," I said. "What is the use of your sacrificing yourself for
principles in which you do not believe? It is true, I can only offer you
safety and love."
"Safety?" she repeated sadly. "Could it include my brother I would ask
Heaven for no other blessing."
I begged, I pleaded, I argued, but to all she answered, "Who will save him
if I am absent?"
I was obliged to wait and hope.
Now came the war, when disaster followed disaster until the Germans had
completed the investment of Paris: then she begged me to go.
"Your country needs you: join the army of the Loire and do what you can to
help it. You have been with us too long: already it would be difficult to
make people believe that you do not belong to us. But if you serve
suspicion will be averted. For my sake, go!"
"For your sake I stay."
"You are mistaken: if I need your protection you will be in a better
position to give it by going than by staying."
"If you need my protection, will you let me give it?"
"I will."
"The protection of my name, the protection of a husband?"
"Yes, the protection of a husband."
It was an invention of her goodness, my darling! Knowing the monstrous plot
the Socialists were meditating, she wished me to be absent. And I went,
regretting only our present separation and fearing nothing for the future.
I was defeated with Motterouge, and afterward fought with D'Aurelle and
Chanzy until hostilities ceased. On the third of March Paris was evacuated
by the Germans, and fifteen days after followed the revolt of the Commune.
Heaven only knows how I suffered during that time. I would have given my
life to know she was safe: I would have risked it by deserting could I have
hoped to find and protect her. But had she not said, "Where he is, I am"?
and would not Favart be in the thickest of the fight? Oh cruel necessity!
My best chance of meeting her was at the point of the bayonet with the
troops.
Fort Valerien was taken: we entered Paris, and like a living web encircled
the insurgents. Step by step they retreated, step by step we followed: we
could not miss the way; ruin and blood marked their path.
On the twenty-sixth of May but one barricade remained standing. I was in
the front rank when the order was given to charge on it, and amid smoke and
noise and the glare of burning buildings we obeyed. There I saw Favart:
almost face to face we met. His eyes the color of blood and starting from
his head, his nostrils distended, his face livid, his hair and moustache
bristling with rage, his hoarse voice shouting commands, he stood
indifferent to danger, fighting like a wild beast, furious as a madman. A
moment, and then, a bullet entering his forehead, he fell, and a woman's
shriek rang on the air.
Oh for the strength of a thousand men! oh for wings! oh for power! Might my
whole life be contained in that moment could I but save her! Suddenly the
street, the barricade, the houses on either side, trembled, heaved and
leapt into the air. A tremendous explosion, with flame and debris, forced
what remained of us to retreat--forced also the poor remnant of our enemy
to surrender. A cordon was formed around the quarter, so that none escaped.
Wounded, blackened, bleeding, torn, they crawled by, and she was among
them, my darling, my angel--among those shameless women, those hardened
men!
I could not save her, tried, convicted and sentenced at Versailles, my
beautiful, innocent Sidonia. I wrote letters; my perseverance gained me
admission to the highest authorities; I prayed, I wept, I pleaded, but the
name of Favart closed every avenue to pity. The most active, the most
cruel, the most merciless in the Commune, foremost in destruction,
indefatigable in barbarity, her brother, the shadow of her life, was the
cause of her death.
I heard the sentence pronounced, "Transportation for life:" it did not seem
to move her. Wan, her once neat dress in disorder, a shadow of her former
self, she sat immovable. Once I met her eye, but she did not recognize me:
only when the wind accidentally blew back the torn sleeve from her white
arm I saw a moment's consciousness, and she blushed as she replaced it.
Haply, she was deaf to the cries of "Petroleuse!" and shouts of imprecation
that met her as she was taken through the crowd; but what fearful suffering
must that sensitive mind have endured before its faculties were thus
benumbed!
I gained one slight concession: I was permitted to write one letter to her
before she was sent away. I begged her not to lose hope that after the
first excitement was over I might gain for her a commutation of the
sentence--to have courage and trust me. I received no answer. I do not even
know if her condition permitted her to receive one ray of comfort from my
love: I only know she died. She never reached Cayenne. The transport-ship
was her deathbed, and the ocean my martyr's grave.
But I cannot die. Memory, the portrait, and I live together--the portrait
at once recalling the angel, the devil, the joy, the sorrow of my life. Yet
let me not curse him: he was her brother, and she loved him. I would not
vex my Sidonia in heaven.
ITA ANIOL PROKOP.
"GOD'S POOR."
Who are "God's poor"?
Not they alone who stand
With empty, pleading hand
At Dives' door
(Thou mayst be sure
Such only are _man's_ poor);
But they who therein stay,
And every soul deny
That lifts its needy cry.
"God's poor"--ay, _poorest_ they!
E. R. CHAMPLIN
DAYS OF MY YOUTH.
The life depicted in the Waverley novels seems to me scarcely more remote
than that in Virginia before the war. As is well known, the land, the
wealth, the influence, the education were possessed by comparatively few
families; and I think there has never been so much happiness enjoyed by any
other community or class of people in this country as those families
enjoyed for generations. Whatever may be said of their social system--and I
am aware that it was not the best--it was perfect of its kind. From their
point of view, everything was as it should be, always excepting the acts of
one or the other party in politics. Life was made easy, and such exacting
cares and responsibilities as could not be honorably evaded were met
without friction, without struggle, without question. Beyond the observance
of a few perfectly-defined habits and customs we did not feel it necessary
to wander in search of social law. What a vast amount of the worry that
perplexes too many other people we escaped! What does the world think? what
will people say? whom shall we recognize? how do we appear?--such
questions, that bring so many of my sex to premature gray hairs, disturbed
us not. If one's standing was what it should be, all Virginia knew it; and
that was the end of it. If one's standing was not what it should be, all
Virginia knew that; and there, again, was the end of it. It is not easy for
ladies reared under less settled conditions to realize how much this
heritage meant to us. We loved our time-honored pleasures; we loved our
friends; we loved the old homes and old ways in which our ancestors,
undisturbed by the restlessness of the North and West, had lived and died
before us; we loved our State.
To voluntarily put all this behind me after the meridian of life was
passed; to take poverty for my companion and go forth into a world I had
never seen; to send an only son to fight against the traditions, the
kindred, the State that were so dear,--what this cost may Heaven spare the
women of the North from ever knowing! _They_ could hope and pray for the
preservation of what they cherished and for the destruction of what they
condemned. But the Southern woman who was loyal, view it as she would,
could but hope and pray for the destruction of what she loved. Looking back
now on those dreadful days, sorrowing for the sad necessities of the case,
I can but thank God for the fortitude and insight with which He then
endowed me, for the result that at length justified my trust, and put away
all other recollections of the later time as something too painful to dwell
upon even in thought. The Virginia that shall live in my memory is one that
is gone for ever.
Living as we did on a spur of the Blue Ridge, in the most salubrious part
of the State, one would have thought there was no necessity for going
elsewhere during the hot months. But my mother, near half a century ago,
thought differently. About the first of July we always started on what I
used to call, when a girl, our "pilgrimage." In an old-fashioned coach,
round as an apple and lifted high in the air--which in my childish fancy
was ever associated with the one the fairy made from Cinderella's
pumpkin--with a fat old coachman, and horses as fat and lazy as he, we
would make the distance of twenty miles a day. We accomplished about half
this in the cool morning, stopping at some country tavern during the heat
of the day, and driving another ten miles amid the shades of evening.
Behind us, at a respectful distance, trundled our baggage-wagon. We had
relations in every county, as all true Virginians were bound to have; and
we would tarry for days with them on our journeys, with as little regard to
reaching a definite place at a definite time as if a thousand years
remained to us.
One of these summer jaunts, when I was a girl, on which I first saw Mr.
Madison, is particularly impressed on my memory. We sojourned several days
at his lovely seat, Montpelier, Mrs. Madison being an old friend of my
mother's. The venerable ex-President was then much emaciated, and I thought
was failing rapidly. He lay most of the time on a couch in the middle of
the room adjoining the dining-room, wrapped in a black silk dressing-gown
elaborately quilted, and did not look larger than a boy of thirteen. At
dinner the first day I was attacked by ague, and Mrs. Madison, leading me
into the next room, placed me on his couch. I awoke an hour or two after in
a high fever, and the look of his face which has outlived all others in my
recollection is that of amusement which lighted the wan features on
beholding the expression of bewilderment and confusion which overspread
mine as I opened my eyes, half delirious, and found him lying beside me.
In her long talks with us on this occasion Mrs. Madison told many incidents
of her life in Philadelphia and Washington. The two following are in her
own words, as nearly as I can repeat them: "One day in Philadelphia," she
said, "I was sitting in my parlor with a very dear friend, Mrs. R. B. Lee,
when in walked Payne Todd [her son] dressed in my calico bed-gown. While we
were laughing at the figure he cut, the servant threw open the door and
announced General and Mrs. Washington. What to do with that dreadful boy I
didn't know. He could not face the President in that garb. Neither could he
leave the room without meeting them, for the door they were entering was
the only one. I made him crawl quickly under a low, broad settee on which I
was sitting. I had just time to arrange the drapery when the Washingtons
entered. After the courtly greeting and the usual compliments of the
season, there came from under the settee a heavy sigh, which evidently
attracted the general's notice. However, I only talked and laughed a little
louder, hoping to divert his attention, when--oh me!--there came an outcry
and a kick that could not be ignored. So I stooped down and dragged Payne
out by the leg. General Washington's dignity left him for once. Laugh? why
he fairly roared! He nearly went into convulsions. The sight of that boy in
that gown, all so unexpected, coming wrong end first from under my
seat,--it was too much."
Mr. and Mrs. Madison would in private sometimes romp and tease each other
like two children, and engage in antics that would astonish the muse of
History. Mrs. Madison was stronger as well as larger than he. She
could--and did--seize his hands, draw him upon her back and go round the
room with him whenever she particularly wished to impress him with a due
sense of man's inferiority. Speaking of their flight from Washington on the
24th of August, 1814, she said: "After Mr. Madison had left the White House
for Fairfax, I busied myself in gathering up the little things I prized and
packing them in the carriage, which stood ready at the door. I had placed a
servant at the gate to warn me of the approach of the English troops. I had
just left the sitting-room with a cup and saucer which had belonged to
Marie Antoinette when in rushed my sentinel. After securing the portrait of
Washington, and getting that into the carriage, I jumped in myself, and
away we went for the Chain Bridge. I was dreadfully frightened, and
expected to be pursued. We drove as fast as we could without breaking the
carriage to pieces. I looked out of the back window, thinking I might see
what was going on in Washington; and, sure enough, to my horror there was a
British officer galloping after us at full speed, followed by some
soldiers. I was so alarmed that I opened the door and sprang into the road.
I had no bonnet--only a purple turban--on my head, and my face, I knew, was
red as a poppy. In my excitement I thought I could run faster than the
carriage. The officer passed me, wheeled suddenly, bowed low, and asked me
if he saw Mrs. Madison, the President's lady, at the same time placing his
hand in the bosom of his coat. I inclined my head, expecting that he would
draw forth nothing less than a pistol. But it was a package instead of a
pistol that he offered, saying, 'I was requested to place this in your
hands by Lady ---- of England, and finding you had just left your
residence, I questioned your servants and took the liberty of following
you.' He turned with a low bow, and was gone, leaving me overwhelmed with
mortification."
The seat that inspired _Swallow Barn_ was the home of my aunt. John P.
Kennedy was her nephew and my cousin. In its main features the book is
singularly true, as an artist would say, in its effects. The prominent
character of Mr. Tracy is almost a literal portrait. To me, so familiar
with the real scenes, there seemed an appearance of rather too much
restraint, as if the conscientious author felt too constantly the fear that
his hand, gentle as it was, might transgress the laws of hospitality and
decorum. This feeling on my part arose, no doubt, from the single fact that
I did know the reality, and thus knew many episodes that would have made
the sketches richer to us giddy young people of that jolly household, but
which did not commend themselves to the practised writer. He took pains to
place Swallow Barn on the lower James. But it was west of the Blue Ridge,
in Jefferson county. The mother of Kennedy was a very beautiful and highly
accomplished woman. She was known among her friends as "Kennedy's angel."
She excelled particularly in music, always tuning her piano herself, and
giving her preference to the works of Mozart. Here at her sister's, Mrs.
Dandridge's--at "Swallow Barn," as we may now call it--she and Kennedy's
father passed their later years, and here many of Cousin John's happiest
days were spent. He always retained his boyish love of fun. He and
Washington Irving would come up to the old place together, and then beware!
No one escaped their mischief. They spared neither age, sex nor previous
condition. Such pranks, such absurdities, such good-natured deviltry, as
reigned supreme till they were gone! During harvest they would take their
seats under the trees with the hands at the long dinner-tables, and
assiduously bottle up quaint sayings and odd doings for future use.
One adventure in particular, which I think is not alluded to in _Swallow
Barn_, should have formed a chapter there. Kennedy himself was the
ringleader, and his wife's father the victim. The old gentleman was
expected to arrive on a certain day, as a visitor, from Baltimore. It was
not long after Nat Turner's insurrection, and he had conceived an
exaggerated idea of the affair. He was a little timid, in consequence,
about travelling into Virginia alone at that particular time. John knew
that his father-in-law was decidedly "nervous" on the subject. So he, with
what we used to call "the clan," the endless line or circle of
cousins--Dandridges, Kennedys, Pendletons--blacked their faces, clothed
themselves like plantation hands, carrying old muskets, spades and forks,
with cocks' feathers in the hats of the leaders, and marched to meet their
prey. When "attacked" by the gang, the old gentleman gave himself up for
lost. They surrounded his carriage, but before dragging him forth to his
doom they began delivering to him the most preposterous harangue; which,
notwithstanding his fright, led him to detect a son-in-law under the
disguise of the principal desperado. Anger was useless with such a party,
and by the time he reached the house his prayers for mercy had changed to
laughter. Prominent in "the clan" and its diversions in those days was
Colonel Strother, subsequently "Porte Crayon:" "Cousin Dave" was his title
then.
When Hon. Charles J. Faulkner was married he was keeping bachelor's hall,
and it was proposed that he should give his bride a breakfast the next
morning. Kennedy was the master spirit in the arrangements. The table was
covered with a cloth that was far from immaculate, and set with broken,
cracked and odd pieces of china. The viands were bacon, corn-bread, etc.,
arranged in the most grotesque manner possible. When the bridal-party were
ushered in, profoundly ignorant of the joke, they stood horror-stricken.
Kennedy, solemn as an owl, clad as a butler and with white apron, advanced
and presented to the bride about a peck of great rusty keys strung on a
chain that might have drawn a plough, the whole so heavy she could not lift
them. And the speech in which he presented them! Any attempt to repeat or
describe its drollery would only spoil it. I believe he never wrote
anything so witty, so inimitably funny. He wound up by saying that he
resigned, with tears in his eyes--which were tears of laughter--all
authority and control over the establishment. When the farce was played out
there was another announcement, and then a breakfast fit for the gods was
served in earnest.
John P. Kennedy had no children, but was passionately fond of the children
of his relations, especially those of his brothers, who in turn almost
worshipped him. Making all allowances, of course, for the differences in
their surroundings, the geographical difference in their homes, it always
seemed to me that there was an interesting resemblance between him and
Irving in many little things that the world could scarcely know. In what
they have written the similarity of their humor and style must be apparent
to every one, and Kennedy's literary character was fashioned very much, I
think, by the influence of his more famous friend's. When quite a young man
Kennedy edited, with some kindred spirits, a kind of Salmagundi paper in
Baltimore, ridiculing most effectively a certain class of people whose
pretensions so far exceeded their social worth as to make them legitimate
game for his shafts. It was called _The Red Letter_. Many suspected, but
none of the victims knew, who were the writers. Some amusing incidents grew
out of it, the aforesaid victims being afraid to invite the aforesaid
kindred spirits to their parties, but still more afraid not to invite them.
Lest some reader should have a doubt about the attitude of this genial,
gentle and true man on one important public question, let me add that one
of the last things I knew of his doing was to induce Sheridan to send an
escort of cavalry through to Martinsburg to bring out a young girl whose
parents were Unionists and were then cut off by Southern troops, taking her
to his house and educating her as if she had been his daughter. The last
time I saw his friend Irving was when Kennedy was retiring from the
Secretaryship of the Navy. The new administration had come in, and the
members of the old cabinet were very busy in closing up and turning over
their portfolios and arranging their personal affairs for departure. The
domestic concerns of the retiring Secretary, whose guest Irving had been
during the winter, were therefore in the same state of upheaval as were
affairs at the department. I called to take leave of the family, but not a
soul was in the house except Irving. I inquired lightly how he would
dispose of himself in the general break-up, "Well," answered the quizzical
old bachelor with mock plaintiveness, "I suppose Mrs. Kennedy will pack me
up with the rest of the old crockery."
American country-life can hardly again be so picturesque as it was on some
of the plantations of Virginia in my young days. The cavalcades of huntsmen
returning with a fox-brush in the cap of the foremost rider, or counting
their partridges on the porch before the ladies--partridges being the birds
known as quails in the North; the riding in the great carriage to church,
surrounded by a retinue on horseback; the coming and going of company to
spend the day, which meant from noon till twilight; the gathering of the
rose-leaves to be dried and sprinkled over the table- and bed-linen for the
odor they imparted;--an atmosphere whose charm cannot be reproduced
envelopes these scenes of the far-away past.
The chief agricultural event of the year in the region where I lived was
the harvesting of the grain. All the laboring white men who could be of
service were employed with the slaves at such times. Their dinners were
eaten at long tables under the trees, with a tub of iced toddy or
mint-julep in the shade near by. Supper, when the day's work was done,
brought hot coffee, rolls and biscuits, and a dance on the grass to the
music of fiddle and banjo closed the scene at bedtime. The long lines of
"cradlers," following their leader and laying the golden swaths smoothly
across hill and valley, were a sight which was lost with keen regret by me.
I shall never forget when the first reaping-machine came clattering into
the wheat-fields, sounding the knell of all that was most pleasing in the
harvest-time. What a commotion that first reaper made! A certain
distinguished Senator of the United States--I think he was then Speaker of
the House--came from afar to witness its operations and to consider its
introduction on his own rather unproductive plantation. After silently
taking in its movements, his hands meditatively in his pockets and his chin
buried solemnly in his neckcloth, he turned away in disgust, with a comment
that was brief and to the point: "Wouldn't have such a d----d _fast_ thing
on my place!" Much of the distrust, however, with which improved utensils
were regarded had a better reason. Complicated and delicate machines in the
hands of plantation negroes were too much like "all the modern
improvements" in the terrible hands of Biddy.
I saw personally but little of the darker side of slavery. The worst
pictures I could draw from my own personal knowledge would not be
sufficiently hideous to be interesting. The fairest I could draw would be
of my old black "mammy." From my infancy she was the comforter, counsellor
and guide whose sympathy and assistance never failed me. As dignified as a
duchess; as neat in her striped, home-made dress, kerchief and turban as it
was possible for mortal to be; jealous of the honor of the family; serene,
affectionate, proud of her usefulness,--she is among the first from whom I
expect a loving welcome in heaven. My father gave her free papers after she
had nursed a sick member of the family with especial faithfulness on one
occasion. She locked them up in her trunk, and that was the end of them,
except when she took them out to show to her friends. I think it gratified
her to receive them, however. I recollect the incredulity of a good lady
from Boston, who asked her if she would not like to live there, where there
were no masters and mistresses. "No indeed, honey!" was the reply.
When a girl I passed a winter in the White House. It was during the last
term of General Jackson. That high white head; the perpendicular hair; the
clear blue eyes--one moment melting with a woman's tenderness, the next
blazing like an angry lion's--peering earnestly from under the great shaggy
eyebrows and over the top of the silver spectacles; the furrowed, pained
face, worn with suffering and perpetual warfare, but occasionally lighted
by a sudden gleam of the old fire, which nothing but death could quench,
when his cane would come down with a thump and "By the Eternal!" would
break forth--the nearest approach to profanity ever heard from his lips by
me, or by anybody, I think, at that period of his life,--how vividly all
these come back! I saw him at his best. The storms of life had wellnigh
passed. His beloved wife was beckoning him to a world of rest and peace. He
was the idol of a majority of his countrymen. He occupied a second time, in
obedience to their voices, what he regarded as the most honorable position
that any man could hold on earth--the Presidency of the United States. In
pursuing what he took to be right he had conquered everybody and everything
that opposed him. He had ever been the incarnation of chivalry toward
women. It is natural, therefore, that under all these circumstances, in
those last days of his and first days of mine, he should have appeared to
me a higher type of man than many people would judge him to be from a
strictly dispassionate consideration of his whole life. I was never given
to hero-worship, but at that time I did come near worshipping this old
hero. I am not here questioning the justice of his latest and completest
biography--Mr. Parton's--but would simply remark how difficult it is for
me, seeing him as I did, and only so, to realize that he was the same being
who enlivens some of the earlier scenes of that book. Toward the women he
respected--and there hardly seemed to be one whom he did not respect--he
had a courtliness of bearing, a considerateness, a gentleness, a
nobility--in short, a charm of manner--which made him, as a mere "carpet
knight," the most winning old _gentleman_ I ever knew.
In speaking of the superstitions of the Scotch-Irish, Mr. Parton says:
"General Jackson himself, to the end of his life, never liked to begin
anything of consequence on Friday, and would not if it could be avoided
without serious injury to some important interest." So far from abstaining
from any undertaking on Friday, the general has told me himself that he
made it a point to start on a journey and begin such things on that day;
and he laughed at the superstition. Nevertheless, I am inclined to suspect
that this very fact should be taken as evidence that the superstition did
exist in him; that he was conscious of it; that his judgment told him it
was an unworthy weakness; and that he was determined to conquer it. He
acknowledged its influence by the care he took to defy it.
In those days visitors to the White House knocked or rang as they would at
the mansion-door of any private gentleman. One rainy day a visitor thus
announced himself, but for some reason no servant appeared immediately to
admit him. The family heard it, and so did the general in his office, where
he was writing. It did not occur to me or any one else that interference
with the servants' duties was necessary. Suddenly there was a rustle of
papers and an apparition. "What!" thundered the President. "A citizen of
the United States stands knocking at my door in the rain, and it isn't
opened!" The door was opened soon after that remark.
One day the general received a letter of four or five pages of foolscap
from Ireland--I do not know whether it came from Carrickfergus or not--in
which the writer said that he was a cousin of the President's, and that he
recollected perfectly when the general was born, and gave the exact
locality and all the attendant circumstances. He closed by saying he would
like to come over. Jackson laughed over the letter, and expressed his
surprise that he should have been born in Ireland and in Carolina too.
It was his custom, when he had no one dining with him besides the family,
to say, as he raised his single glass of wine, "Here's to absent friends!"
Then, glancing toward me, he would add in a low tone, "And sweethearts,
too,----."
On one occasion, when I was ill, the general called in Dr. Hunt, his family
physician. The doctor was a tall, lank, ugly man--"as good as gold," but
with none of the graces that are supposed to win young ladies; yet he was
married to one of the loveliest young creatures I ever knew. General
Jackson accompanied him to my room, and after my pulse had been duly felt
and my tongue duly inspected, they drew their chairs to the fire and began
to talk.
"Hunt," suddenly exclaimed the President, "how came you to get such a young
and pretty wife?"
"Well, I'll tell you," replied the doctor. "I was called to attend a young
lady at the convent in Georgetown. Her eyes were bad: she had to keep them
bandaged. I cured her without her ever having had a distinct view of me.
She left the institution, and a year afterward she appeared here in
society, a belle and a beauty. At a ball I introduced myself, without the
slightest ulterior design, as the physician who had restored her sight,
although I supposed she had never really seen me. She instantly expressed
the most heartfelt gratitude. It seemed so deep and genuine that I was
touched. That very evening she informed me that she had a severe cold, and
that I must again prescribe for her. Well! it don't look reasonable, but I
did it. I wrote my name on a bit of paper, folded it and handed it to her,
telling her she must take that prescription. She read it and laughed. 'It's
a bitter pill,' she said, 'and must be well gilded if ever I take it.' But
whether it was bitter or whether it was gilded, we were married."
The hospitality of the White House at that time, like that of the
Hermitage, has become proverbial. Very few brought letters of introduction
who were not invited to dinner. Consequently, the table was almost always
full. It seemed to me that Jackson never heard of a wrong to any human
being, or what he conceived to be such, without trying to right it.
When Aaron Burr was at the Hermitage in 1805 he wrote in his diary, for the
entertainment of Theodosia: "The general has no children, but two lovely
nieces made a visit of some days, contributed greatly to my amusement, and
have cured me of all the evils of my wilderness jaunt. If I had time I
would describe to you these two girls, for they deserve it." The temptation
is strong to give the descriptions omitted by Mr. Burr, but it would lead
me too far. They were nieces of Mrs. Jackson rather than the general's. One
of them, whom he had adopted as his daughter, married her cousin, A. J.
Donelson--her own maiden name being also Donelson--who was secretary to the
President when I knew them, afterward minister to Austria, and candidate
for Vice-President in 1856 on the ticket with Mr. Fillmore.
One Sunday evening, after dinner, Mrs. Donelson, Mrs. Jackson and I, with
several other ladies, were gossiping in the Blue Room. This Mrs. Jackson,
who had been a pretty Philadelphia girl, was the wife of another cousin and
nephew who was born a Donelson, but who was adopted by the general, took
the name of Jackson and inherited the Hermitage. Mr. Van Buren, then
Secretary of State, had what is now known as "the inside track" for the
succession. He, was the friend and choice of Jackson; and that settled it
in the minds of those who knew both men. Mrs. Jackson--the lady mentioned
above, of course, for the General's wife did not live to see the White
House--disliked Van Buren for some reason. Mrs. Donelson, turning to me
with affected gravity, said, "When you are Mrs. President Van Buren, I want
you to send my husband to England as minister." I solemnly assured her she
should have whatever she wished. Then Mrs. Barker appealed to me in behalf
of her husband as collector at Philadelphia. Turning to Mrs. Jackson, I
asked what she would like. "Nothing at Mr. Van Buren's hands," was the
sudden reply. At that instant I heard a rustle behind me. There stood Mr.
Van Buren! He was smiling, and evidently amused. We were so completely
caught that there was no resource but the suppressed giggling little scream
that never fails a true woman when no other strategy is possible. He gave
no intimation of having heard a word. Indeed, I never saw Mr. Van Buren's
perfect self-possession fail him but once: that was when he fell off his
horse for me on Pennsylvania Avenue. And with this ridiculous performance
these rambling reminiscences must end.
One fine spring morning the President insisted that we should invite the
Cass girls, the Forsyths and some others, make a riding-party, and return
with them all to the White House for lunch. He sent to Mr. Blair for the
white horse he had ridden in a grand procession at New York, which Blair
had bought. This fiery charger, very appropriate for such a horseman as
General Jackson on a state occasion, was so spirited and appeared so
unmanageable that I was afraid to touch him. But the general had made up
his mind that I should ride that horse on that occasion, and I knew what it
meant when his mind was made up. He put me on himself, saying, "Why, child,
if you can't ride him, you couldn't ride a sheep." We reached the avenue
very well, when the horse seemed to remember New York and General Jackson.
He reared, plunged and dashed off. Mr. Van Buren, in trying to seize the
reins, was drawn from his own saddle and dragged some distance. His
position for a few moments was rather undignified, but he came up smiling
and unhurt, and made as creditable an appearance as could be expected. We
had a happy day in spite of the mishap, but not even the will of General
Jackson ever got me on that horse again.
M. T.
A LAW UNTO HERSELF.