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