"Where are you going, St. Elmo? I know it is one of your amiable
decrees that your movements are not to be questioned, but I dare to
brave your ire."
"I am going to that blessed retreat familiarly known as 'Murray's den,'
where, secure from feminine intrusion, as if in the cool cloisters of
Coutloumoussi, I surrender my happy soul to science and cigars, and
revel in complete forgetfulness of that awful curse which Jove hurled
against all mankind, because of Prometheus's robbery."
"There are asylums for lunatics and inebriates, and I wonder it has
never occurred to some benevolent millionaire to found one for such
abominable cynics as you, my most angelic cousin! where the snarling
brutes can only snap at and worry one another."
"An admirable idea, Estelle, which I fondly imagined I had successfully
carried out when I built those rooms of mine."
"You are as hateful as Momus, MINUS his wit! He was kicked out of
heaven for grumbling, and you richly deserve his fate."
"I have a vague recollection that the Goddess Discord shared the fate
of the celestial growler. I certainly plead guilty to an earnest
sympathy with Momus's dissatisfaction with the house that Minerva
built, and only wish that mine was movable, as he recommended, in order
to escape bad neighborhoods and tiresome companions."
"Hospitable, upon my word! You spin some spiteful idea out of every
sentence I utter and are not even entitled to the compliment which
Chesterfield paid to old Samuel Johnson, 'The utmost I can do for him
is to consider him a respectable Hottentot.' If I did not know that
instead of proving a punishment it would gratify you beyond measure, I
would take a vow not to speak to you again for a month; but the
consciousness of the happiness I should thereby bestow upon you, vetoes
the resolution. Do you know that even a Comanche chief, or a Bechuana
of the desert, shames your inhospitality? I assure you I am the victim
of hopeless ennui, am driven to the verge of desperation; for Mr.
Allston will probably not return until to-morrow, and it is raining so
hard that I can not wander out of doors. Here I am shut up in this
dreary house, which reminds me of the descriptions of that doleful
retreat for sinners in Normandy, where the inmates pray eleven hours a
day, dig their own graves every evening, and if they chance to meet one
another, salute each other with 'Memento mori!' Ugh! if there remains
one latent spark of chivalry in your soul, I beseech you be merciful!
Do not go off to your den, but stay here and entertain me. It is said
that you read bewitchingly, and with unrivalled effect; pray favor me
this morning. I will promise to lay my hand on my lips; it is not white
enough for a flag of truce? I will be meek, amiable, docile, absolutely
silent."
Estelle swept aside a mass of papers from the corner of the sofa, and,
taking Mr. Murray's hand, drew him to a seat beside her.
"Your 'amiable silence,' my fair cousin, is but a cunningly fashioned
wooden horse. Timco Danaos et dona ferentes! I am to understand that
you actually offer me your hand as a flag of truce? It is wonderfully
white and pretty; but excuse me, C'est une main de fer, gantee de
velours! Your countenance, so serenely radiant, reminds me of what
Madame Noblet said of M. de Vitri, 'His face looked just like a
stratagem!' Reading aloud is a practice in which I never indulge,
simply because I cordially detest it, and knowing this fact, it is a
truly feminine refinement of cruelty on your part to select this mode
of penance. Nevertheless, your appeal to my chivalry, which always
springs up, armed cap-a-pie 'to do or die'; and since read I must, I
only stipulate that I may be allowed to select my book. Just now I am
profoundly interested in a French work on infusoria, by Dujardin; and
as you have probably not studied it, I will select those portions which
treat of the animalcula that inhabit grains of sugar and salt and drops
of water; so that by the time lunch is ready, your appetite will be
whetted by a knowledge of the nature of your repast. According to
Leeuwenhoek, Muller, Gleichen, and others, the campaigns of
Zenzis-Khan, Alexander, Attila, were not half so murderous as a single
fashionable dinner; and the battle of Marengo was a farce in comparison
with the swallowing of a cup of tea, which contains--"
"For shame, you tormentor! when you know that I love tea as well as did
your model of politeness, Dr. Johnson! Not one line of all that
nauseating scientific stuff shall you read to me. Here is a volume of
poems of the 'Female Poets'; do be agreeable for once in your life, and
select me some sweet little rhythmic gem of Mrs. Browning, or Mrs.
Norton, or L. E. L."
"Estelle, did you ever hear of the Peishwah of the Mahrattas?"
"I most assuredly never had even a hint of a syllable on the subject.
What of him, or her, or it?"
"Enough, that though you are evidently ambitious of playing his
despotic role at Le Bocage, you will never succeed in reducing me to
that condition of abject subjugation necessary to make me endure the
perusal of 'female poetry.' I have always desired an opportunity of
voting my cordial thanks to the wit who expressed so felicitously my
own thorough conviction, that Pegasus had an unconquerable repugnance,
hatred, to side-saddles. You vow you will not listen to science; and I
swear I won't read poetry! Suppose we compromise on this new number of
the--Magazine? It is the ablest periodical published in this country.
Let me see the contents of this number."
It was a dark, rainy morning in July. Mrs. Murray was winding a
quantity of zephyr wool, of various bright colors, which she had
requested Edna to hold on her wrists; and at the mention of the
magazine the latter looked up suddenly at the master of the house.
Holding his cigar between his thumb and third finger, his eye ran over
the table of contents.
"'Who smote the Marble Gods of Greece?' Humph! rather a difficult
question to answer after the lapse of twenty-two centuries. But
doubtless our archaeologists are so much wiser than the Athenian Senate
of Five Hundred, who investigated the affair the day after it happened,
that a perusal will be exceedingly edifying. Now, then, for a solution
of this classic mystery of the nocturnal iconoclasm; which, in my
humble opinion, only the brazen lips of Minerva Promachus could
satisfactorily explain."
Turning to the article he read it aloud, without pausing to comment,
while Edna's heart bounded so rapidly that she could scarcely conceal
her agitation. It was, indeed, a treat to listen to him; and as his
musical voice filled the room, she thought of Jean Paul Richter's
description of Goethe's reading: "There is nothing comparable to it. It
is like deep-toned thunder blended with whispering rain-drops."
But the orphan's pleasure was of short duration, and as Mr. Murray
concluded the perusal, he tossed the magazine contemptuously across the
room, and exclaimed:
"Pretentious and shallow! A tissue of pedantry and error from beginning
to end--written, I will wager my head, by some scribbler who never saw
Athens! Moreover, the whole article is based upon a glaring blunder;
for, according to Plutarch and Diodorus, on the memorable night in
question there was a new moon. Pshaw! it is a tasteless, insipid
plagiarism from Grote; and if I am to be bored with such insufferable
twaddle, I will stop my subscription. For some time I have noticed
symptoms of deterioration, but this is altogether intolerable; and I
shall write to Manning that, if he cannot do better, it would be
advisable for him to suspend at once before his magazine loses its
reputation. If I were not aware that his low estimate of female
intellect coincides fully with my own, I should be tempted to suppose
that some silly but ambitious woman wrote that stuff, which sounds
learned and is simply stupid."
He did not even glance toward Edna, but the peculiar emphasis of his
words left no doubt in her mind that he suspected, nay, felt assured,
that she was the luckless author. Raising her head which had been
drooped over the woolen skeins, she said, firmly, yet very quietly:
"If you will permit me to differ with you, Mr. Murray, I will say that
it seems to me all the testimony is in favor of the full-moon theory.
Beside, Grote is the latest and best authority; he has carefully
collected and sifted the evidence, and certainly sanctions the position
taken by the author of the article which you condemn."
"Ah! how long since you investigated the matter? The affair is so
essentially Paganish that I should imagine that it possessed no charm
for so orthodox a Christian as yourself. Estelle, what say you
concerning this historic sphinx?"
"That I am blissfully ignorant of the whole question, and have a vague
impression that it is not worth the paper it is written on, much less a
quarrel with you, Monsieur 'Le Hutin'; that it is the merest matter of
moonshine--new moon versus full moon, and must have been written by a
lunatic. But, my Chevalier Bayard, one thing I do intend to say most
decidedly, and that is, that your lunge at female intellect was as
unnecessary and ill-timed and ill-bred as it was ill-natured. The
mental equality of the sexes is now as unquestioned, as universally
admitted, as any other well-established fact in science or history; and
the sooner you men gracefully concede us our rights, the sooner we
shall cease wrangling, and settle back into our traditional amiability."
"The universality of the admission I should certainly deny, were the
subject of sufficient importance to justify a discussion. However, I
have been absent so long from America, that I confess my ignorance of
the last social advance in the striding enlightenment of this most
progressive people. According to Moleschott's celebrated
dictum--'Without phosphorus no thought,' and if there be any truth in
physiology and phrenology, you women have been stinted by nature in the
supply of phosphorus. Peacock's measurements prove that in the average
weight of male and female brains, you fall below our standard by not
less than six ounces. I should conjecture that in the scales of
equality six ounces of ideas would turn the balance in favor of our
superiority."
"If you reduce it to a mere question of avoirdupois, please be so good
as to remember that even greater differences exist among men. For
instance, your brain (which is certainly not considered over average)
weighs from three to three and a half pounds, while Cuvier's brain
weighed over four pounds, giving him the advantage of more than eight
ounces over our household oracle! Accidental difference in brain weight
proves nothing; for you will not admit your mental inferiority to any
man, simply because his head requires a larger hat than yours."
"Pardon me, I always bow before facts, no matter how unflattering, and
I consider one of Cuvier's ideas worthy of just exactly eight degrees
more of reverence than any phosphorescent sparkle which I might choose
to hold up for public acceptance and guidance. Without doubt, the most
thoroughly ludicrous scene I ever witnessed was furnished by a 'woman's
rights' meeting,' which I looked in upon one night in New York, as I
returned from Europe. The speaker was a raw-boned, wiry, angular,
short-haired, lemon-visaged female of very certain age; with a hand
like a bronze gauntlet, and a voice as distracting as the shrill squeak
of a cracked cornet-a-piston. Over the wrongs and grievances of her
down-trodden, writhing sisterhood she ranted and raved and howled,
gesticulating the while with a marvelous grace, which I can compare
only to the antics of those inspired goats who strayed too near the
Pythian cave, and were thrown into convulsions. Though I pulled my hat
over my eyes and clapped both hands to my ears, as I rushed out of the
hall after a stay of five minutes, the vision of horror followed me,
and for the first and only time in my life, I had such a hideous
nightmare that night, that the man who slept in the next room broke
open my door to ascertain who was strangling me. Of all my pet
aversions my most supreme abhorrence is of what are denominated 'gifted
women'; strong-minded (that is, weak-brained but loud-tongued),
would-be literary females, who, puffed up with insufferable conceit,
imagine they rise to the dignity and height of man's intellect,
proclaim that their 'mission' is to write or lecture, and set
themselves up as shining female lights, each aspiring to the rank of
protomartyr of reform. Heaven grant us a Bellerophon to relieve the age
of these noisy Amazons! I should really enjoy seeing them tied down to
their spinning-wheels, and gagged with their own books, magazines, and
lectures! When I was abroad and contrasted the land of my birth with
those I visited, the only thing for which, as an American, I felt
myself called on to blush, was my country-women. An insolent young
count who had traveled through the Eastern and Northern States of
America, asked me one day in Berlin, if it were really true that the
male editors, lawyers, doctors and lecturers in the United States were
contemplating a hegira, in consequence of the rough elbowing by the
women, and if I could inform him at what age the New England girls
generally commenced writing learned articles, and affixing LL.D.,
F.E.S., F.S.A., and M.M.S.S. to their signature?"
"'Lay on, Macduff!' I wish you distinctly to understand that my toes
are not bruised in the slightest degree; for I am entirely innocent of
any attempt at erudition or authorship, and the sole literary dream of
my life is to improve the present popular recipe for biscuit glace. But
mark you, 'Sir Oracle,' I must 'ope my lips' and bark a little under my
breath at your inconsistencies. Now, if there are two living men whom,
above all others, you swear by, they are John Stuart Mill and John
Ruskin. Well do I recollect your eulogy of both, on that ever-memorable
day in Paris, when we dined with that French encyclopaedia, Count W--,
and the leading lettered men of the day were discussed. I was
frightened out of my wits, and dared not raise my eyes higher than the
top of my wineglass, lest I should be asked my opinion of some book or
subject of which I had never even heard, and in trying to appear
well-educated, make as horrible a blunder as poor Madame Talleyrand
committed, when she talked to Denon about his man Friday, believing
that he wrote 'Robinson Crusoe.' At that time I had never read either
Mill or Ruskin; but my profound reverence for the wisdom of your
opinions taught me how shamefully ignorant I was, and thus, to fit
myself for your companionship, I immediately bought their books. Lo, to
my indescribable amazement, I found that Mill claimed for women what I
never once dreamed we were worthy of--not only equality, but the right
of suffrage. He, the foremost dialectician of England and the most
learned of political economists, demands that, for the sake of equity
and 'social improvement,' we women (minus the required six ounces of
brains) should be allowed to vote. Behold the Corypheus of the 'woman's
rights' school! Were I to follow his teachings, I should certainly
begin to clamor for my right of suffrage--for the lady-like privilege
of elbowing you away from the ballot-box at the next election.
"I am quite as far from admitting the infallibility of man as the
equality of the sexes. The clearest thinkers of the world have had soft
spots in their brains; for instance, the daemon belief of Socrates and
the ludicrous superstitions of Pythagoras; and you have laid your
finger on the softened spot in Mill's skull, 'suffrage.' That is a
jaded, spavined hobby of his, and he is too shrewd a logician to
involve himself in the inconsistency of 'extended suffrage' which
excludes women. When I read his 'Representative Government' I saw that
his reason had dragged anchor, the prestige of his great name vanished,
and I threw the book into the fire and eschewed him henceforth. Sic
transit."
Here Mrs. Murray looked up and said:
"John Stuart Mill--let me see--Edna, is he not the man who wrote that
touching dedication of one of his books to his wife's memory? You
quoted it for me a few days ago, and said that you had committed it to
memory because it was such a glowing tribute to the intellectual
capacity of woman. My dear, I wish you would repeat it now! I should
like to hear it again."
With her fingers full of purple woolen skeins, and her eyes bent down,
Edna recited, in a low, sweet voice the most eloquent panegyric which
man's heart ever pronounced on woman's intellect:
"To the beloved and deplored memory of her who was the inspirer, and in
part, the author, of all that is best in my writings, the friend and
wife whose exalted sense of truth and right was my strongest
incitement, and whose approbation was my chief reward, I dedicate this
volume. Like all that I have written for many years, it belongs as much
to her as to me; but the work as it stands has had, in a very
insufficient degree, the inestimable advantage of her revision; some of
the most important portions having been reserved for a more careful
re-examination, which they are now never destined to receive. Were I
but capable of interpreting to the world one half the great thoughts
and noble feelings which are buried in her grave, I should be the
medium of a greater benefit to it than is ever likely to arise from
anything that I can write unprompted and unassisted by her all but
unrivalled wisdom."
"Where did you find that dedication?" asked Mr. Murray.
"In Mill's book on liberty."
"It is not in my library."
"I borrowed it from Mr. Hammond."
"Strange that a plant so noxious should be permitted in such a
sanctified atmosphere! Do you happen to recollect the following
sentences? 'I regard utility as the ultimate appeal on all ethical
questions!' 'There is a Greek ideal of self-development which the
Platonic and Christian ideal of self-government blends with but does
not supersede. It may be better to be a John Knox than an Alcibiades,
but it is better to be a Pericles than either.'"
"Yes, sir. They occur in the same book; but, Mr. Murray, I have been
advised by my teacher to bear always in mind that noble maxim, 'I can
tolerate every thing else but every other man's intolerance'; and it is
with his consent and by his instructions that I go like Ruth, gleaning
in the great fields of literature." "Take care you don't find Boaz
instead of barley. After all, the universal mania for match-making
schemes and manoeuvers which continually stir society from its dregs to
the painted foam-bubble dancing on its crested wave, is peculiar to no
age or condition, but is an immemorial and hereditary female
proclivity; for I defy Paris or London to furnish a more perfectly
developed specimen of a 'manoeuvring mamma' than was crafty Naomi, when
she sent that pretty little Moabitish widow out husband-hunting."
"I heartily wish she was only here to outwit you!" laughed his cousin,
nestling her head against his arm as they sat together on the sofa.
"Who? The widow or the match-maker?"
"Oh! the match-maker, of course. There is more than one Ruth already in
the field."
The last clause was whispered so low that only St. Elmo heard it, and
any other woman but Estelle Harding would have shrunk away in utter
humiliation from the eye and the voice that answered:
"Yourself and Mrs. Powell! Eat Boaz's barley as long as you like--nay,
divide Boaz's broad fields between you; and you love your lives, keep
out of Boaz's way."
"You ought both to be ashamed of yourselves. I am surprised at you,
Estelle, to encourage St. Elmo's irreverence," said Mrs. Murray,
severely.
"I am sure, Aunt Ellen, I am just as much shocked as you are; but when
he does not respect even your opinions, how dare I presume to hope he
will show any deference to mine? St. Elmo, what think you of the last
Sibylline leaves of your favorite Ruskin? In looking over his new book,
I was surprised to find this strong assertion ... Here is the volume
now--listen to this, will you?"
"'Shakespeare has no heroes; he has only heroines. In his labored and
perfect plays you find no hero, but almost always a perfect woman;
steadfast in grave hope and errorless purpose. The catastrophe of every
play is caused always by the folly or fault of a man; the redemption,
if there be any, is by the wisdom and virtue of a woman, and failing
that, there is none!'"
"For instance, Lady Macbeth, Ophelia, Regan, Goneril, and last, but not
least, Petruchio's sweet and gentle Kate! De gustibus!" answered Mr.
Murray.
"Those are the exceptions, and of course you pounce upon them. Ruskin
continues: 'In all cases with Scott, as with Shakespeare, it is the
woman who watches over, teaches and guides the youth; it is never by
any chance the man who watches over or educates her; and thus--'"
"Meg Merrilies, Madge Wildfire, Mause Headrigg, Effie Deans, and Rob
Roy's freckle-faced, red-haired, angelic Helen!" interrupted her cousin.
"Don't be rude, St. Elmo. You fly in my face like an exasperated wasp.
I resume: 'Dante's great poem is a song of praise for Beatrice's watch
over his soul; she saves him from hell, and leads him star by star up
into heaven--'"
"Permit me to suggest that conjugal devotion should have led him to
apostrophize the superlative charms of his own wife, Gemma, from whom
he was forced to separate; and that his vision of hell was a faint
reflex of his domestic felicity."
"Mask your battery, sir, till I finish this page, which I am resolved
you shall hear: 'Greek literature proves the same thing, as witness the
devoted tenderness of Andromache, the wisdom of Cassandra, the domestic
excellence of Penelope, the love of Antigone, the resignation of
Iphigenia, the faithfulness of--'"
"Allow me to assist him in completing the list: the world-renowned
constancy of Helen to Menelaus, the devotion of Clytemnestra to her
Agamemnon, the sublime filial affection of Medea, and the bewitching--"
"Hush, sir! Aunt Ellen, do call him to order! I will have a hearing,
and I close the argument by the unanswerable assertion of Ruskin: 'That
the Egyptians and Greeks (the most civilized of the ancients) both gave
to their spirit of wisdom the form of a woman, and for symbols, the
weaver's shuttle and the olive!"
"An inevitable consequence of the fact, that they considered wisdom as
synonymous with sleepless and unscrupulous cunning! Schiller declares
that 'man depicts himself in his gods'; and even a cursory inspection
of the classics proves that all the abhorred and hideous ideas of the
ancients were personified by woman. Pluto was affable, and beneficent,
and gentlemanly, in comparison with Brimo; ditto might be said of Loke
and Hela, and the most appalling idea that ever attacked the brain of
mankind, found incarnation in the Fates and Furies, who are always
women. Unfortunately the mythologies of the world crystallized before
the age of chivalry, and a little research will establish the
unflattering fact that human sins and woes are traced primarily to
female agency; while it is patent that all the rows and squabbles that
disgraced Olympus were stirred up by scheming goddesses!"
"Thank heaven! here comes Mr. Allston; I can smooth the ruffled plumes
of my self-love in his sunny smiles, and forget your growls. Good
morning, Mr. Allston; what happy accident brought you again so soon to
Le Bocage and its disconsolate inmates?"
Edna picked up the magazine which lay in one corner, and made her
escape.
The gratification arising from the acceptance and prompt publication of
her essay, was marred by Mr. Murray's sneering comments; but still her
heart was happier than it had been for many weeks, and as she turned to
the Editor's Table and read a few lines complimenting "the article of a
new contributor," and promising another from the same pen for the
ensuing month, her face flushed joyfully.
While she felt it difficult to realize that her writings had found
favor in Mr. Manning's critical eyes, she thanked God that she was
considered worthy of communicating; with her race through the medium of
a magazine so influential and celebrated. She thought it probable that
Mr. Manning had written her a few lines, and wondered whether at that
moment a letter was not hidden in St. Elmo's pocket.
Taking the magazine, she went into Mrs. Murray's room, and found her
resting on a lounge. Her face wore a troubled expression, and Edna saw
traces of tears on the pillow.
"Come in, child; I was just thinking of you."
She put out her hand, drew the girl to a seat near the lounge, and
sighed heavily.
"Dear Mrs. Murray, I am very, very happy, and I have come to make a
confession and ask your congratulations."
She knelt down beside her, and, taking the white fingers of her
benefactress, pressed her forehead against them.
"A confession, Edna! What have you done?"
Mrs. Murray started up and lifted the blushing face.
"Some time ago you questioned me concerning some letters which excited
your suspicion, and which I promised to explain at some future day. I
dare say you will think me very presumptuous when I tell you that I
have been aspiring to authorship; that I was corresponding with Mr.
Manning on the subject of a MS. which I had sent for his examination,
and now I have come to show you what I have been doing. You heard Mr.
Murray read an essay this morning from the--Magazine, which he
ridiculed very bitterly, but which Mr. Manning at least thought worthy
of a place in his pages. Mrs. Murray, I wrote that article."
"Is it possible? Who assisted you--who revised it, Mr. Hammond? I did
not suppose that you, my child, could ever write so elegantly, so
gracefully."
"No one saw the MS. until Mr. Manning gave it to the printers. I wished
to surprise Mr. Hammond, and therefore told him nothing of my ambitious
scheme. I was very apprehensive that I should fail, and for that reason
was unwilling to acquaint you with the precise subject of the
correspondence until I was sure of success. Oh, Mrs. Murray! I have no
mother, and feeling that I owe everything to you--that without your
generous aid and protection I should never have been able to accomplish
this one hope of my life, I come to you to share my triumph, for I know
you will fully sympathize with me. Here is the magazine containing Mr.
Manning's praise of my work, and here are the letters which I was once
so reluctant to put into your hands. When I asked you to trust me, you
did so nobly and freely; and thanking you more than my feeble words can
express, I want to show you that I was not unworthy of your confidence."
She laid magazine and letters on Mrs. Murray's lap, and in silence the
proud, reserved woman wound her arms tightly around the orphan,
pressing the bright young face against her shoulder, and resting her
own cheek on the girl's fair forehead.
The door was partly ajar, and at that instant St. Elmo entered.
He stopped, looked at the kneeling figure locked so closely in his
mother's arms, and over his stern face broke a light that transformed
it into such beauty as Lucifer's might have worn before his sin and
banishment, when God--
"'Lucifer'--kindly said as 'Gabriel,'
'Lucifer'--soft as 'Michael'; while serene
He, standing in the glory of the lamps,
Answered, 'My Father,' innocent of shame
And of the sense of thunder!"
Yearningly he extended his arms toward the two, who, absorbed in their
low talk, were unconscious of his presence; then the hands fell heavily
to his side, the brief smile was swallowed up by scowling shadows, and
he turned silently away and went to his own gloomy rooms.