cookin’ and washin’. I say ‘nigger,’ suh, but she wuz mighty nigh white.
She wuz Mary Ellen’s mammy, an’ Mary Ellen wuz des white ez anybody,
I don’t keer whar dey cum fum, an’ she wuz purty fum de word go. Dey
wa’n’t never no time, suh, atter Mary Ellen wuz born dat she wa’n’t de
purtiest gal in dat town. I des natchully ’spises merlatters, but dey wuz
sump’n ’bout Mary Ellen dat allers made a lump come in my goozle. I tuck
ter dat chile, suh, de minnit I laid my eyes on ’er. She made me think
’bout folks I done forgot ef I ever know’d um, an’ des de sight un ’er
made me think ’bout dem ol’ time chunes what mighty nigh break yo’ heart
when you hear um played right. Dat wuz Mary Ellen up an’ down.
“Well, suh, when Mary Ellen got so she could trot ’roun’, old Fed Tatum
sorter woke up. He stayed at home mo’, and when de sun wuz shinin’ you
might see ’im any time setting in his peazzer wid Mary Ellen playin’
roun’, er walkin’ out in de back yard wid Mary Ellen trottin’ at his
heels. I’m telling you de start-naked trufe—by de time dat chile wuz
six-year ol’ she could read; yasser! read out’n a book, an’ read good. I
seed her do it wid my own eyes, an’ heer’d ’er wid my own years. ’Tain’t
none er dish yer readin’ an’ stoppin’ like you hear de school chillun
gwine on; no, suh! ’Twuz de natchual readin’ right ’long. An’ by de time
she wuz eight, dey wa’n’t no words in no book in dat town but what she
could take an’ chaw um same as lawyers in de cote-house. Mo’ dan dat,
suh, she could take a pencil, an’ draw yo’ likeness right ’fo’ yo’ face.
“’Long ’bout dat time she struck up wid little Sally Blasengame, an’ when
dem two got tergedder dar wuz de pick er de town ez fer ez de chillun
went. I don’t say it, suh, bekaze Marse Bolivar was Marse Tumlin’s
br’er-in-law—dey married sisters—but his little gal Sally wuz ez fine
ez split silk. Mary Ellen had black hair an’ big black eyes, an’ Sally
had yaller hair an’ big blue eyes. Atter dey come ter know one an’er dey
wa’n’t a day but what dem two chillun wuz playin’ tergedder. How many an’
many is de times I seed um gwine ’long wid der arms ’roun’ one an’er!
“Well, one day atter dey been playin’ tergedder a right smart whet Marse
Bolivar ’gun ter make inquirements ’bout Mary Ellen, an’ when he foun’
out who an’ what she wuz, he went out whar dey at an’ tol’ her she better
go home. I wuz right dar in de back yard when he said de word. Mary Ellen
stood an’ looked at ’im, an’ den she picked up her bonnet an’ marched
out’n de yard holdin’ her head up; she wuz twelve year ol’ by den.
“Sally seed Mary Ellen go out, an’ she turn ’roun’ on her daddy, her
face ez white ez a sheet. Den her whole frame ’gun ter shake. She ’low,
‘I been lovin’ you all dis time, an’ I didn’t know you could be so mean
an’ low-life.’ She flung at ’im de fust words dat pop in her min’.
“Marse Bolivar say, ‘Why, honey! Why, precious!’ an’ start ter put his
arm ’roun’ ’er. She flung fum ’im, she did, an’ cry out, ‘Don’t you never
say dem words ter me no mo’ ez long ez you live, an’ don’t you never
tetch me no mo’.’ Den she seed me, an’ she come runnin’ des like she wuz
skeer’d. She holler, ‘Take me ’way! take me ’way! Don’t let ’im tetch
me!’ Talk ’bout temper—talk ’bout venom! All dem Blasengames had it, an’
when you hurt de feelin’s er dat kind er folks dey are hurted sho ’nuff.
Marse Bolivar couldn’t ’a’ looked no wuss ef somebody had ’a’ spit in
his face while his han’s tied. You talk ’bout people lovin’ der chillun,
but you dunner nothin’ ’tall ’bout it twel you see Marse Bolivar lovin’
Sally. Why, de very groun’ she walkt on wuz diffunt ter him fum any udder
groun’. He wuz ready ter die fer ’er forty times a day, an’ yit here she
wuz wid her feelin’s hurt so bad dat she won’t let ’im put his han’s on
’er. An’ he ain’t try; he had sense ’nuff fer dat. He des walk ’roun’ and
kick up de gravel wid de heel er his boots. But Sally, she had ’er face
hid in my frock, an’ she ain’t so much ez look at ’im. Bimeby he went in
de house, but he ain’t stay dar long. He come out an’ look at Sally, an’
try ter make ’er talk, but she erfuse ter say a word, an’ atter while he
went on up-town.
“Ef dey ever wuz hard-headed folks, suh, dat wuz de tribe. He went
up-town, but he ain’t stay long, an’ when he come back he foun’ Sally
in de house cryin’ an’ gwine on. She won’t tell what de matter, an’ she
won’t let nobody do nothin’ fer ’er. Now, ef she’d ’a’ been mine, suh,
I’d ’a’ frailed ’er out den an’ dar, an’ I’d ’a’ kep’ on frailin’ ’er out
twel she’d ’a’ vowed dat she never know’d no gal name Mary Ellen. Dat’s
me! But Marse Bolivar ain’t look at it dat away, an’ de man what never
knuckle ter no human bein’, rich er po’, high er low, had ter knuckle ter
dat chile, an’ she wa’n’t much bigger dan yo’ two fists.
“So bimeby he say, ‘Honey, I’m gwine atter Mary Ellen, ef dat’s her name,
an’ she can stay here all day an’ all night, too, fer what I keer.’
“Sally ’low, ‘She sha’n’t come here! she sha’n’t! I don’t want nobody ter
come here dat’s got ter git der feelin’s hurted eve’y time dey come.’
“Right dar, suh, is whar my han’ would ’a’ come down hard; but Marse
Bolivar, he knuckle. He say, ‘Well, honey, you’ll hafter fergive me dis
time. I’ll go fetch ’er ef she’ll come, an’ ef she won’t ’tain’t my
fault.’
“So out he went. I dunner how he coaxed Mary Ellen, but she say he tol’
’er dat Sally wuz feelin’ mighty bad, an’ wuz ’bleeze ter see ’er; an’
Mary Ellen, havin’ mo’ heart dan min’, come right along. An’ Marse
Bolivar wuz happy fer ter see Sally happy.
“Dis wuz long ’fo’ de battlin’, suh, but even dat fur back dey wuz
talkin’ ’bout war. Ol’ Fed Tatum wuz a mighty long-headed man, an’ he
know’d mighty well dat ef Mary Ellen stayed dar whar she wuz at, she
won’t have no mo’ show dan a chicken wid its head wrung off. So he fixed
’er up an’ packed ’er off up dar whar de Northrons is at. He’d ’a’ sont
her mammy wid ’er, but she say no; she’d be in de way; folks would
’spicion what de matter wuz; an’ so she shet her mouf an’ stayed. Ef Mary
Ellen had ’a’ been my chile, suh, I’d ’a’ gone wid ’er ef I had ter claw
my way wid my naked han’s thoo forty miles er brick wall. But her mammy
was diffunt; she stayed an’ pined.
“Now, ef anybody want pinin’ done dey’ll hafter go ter somebody else
’sides ol’ Minervy Ann Perdue. When you see me pinin’, suh, you may know
my tongue done cut out an’ my han’s pairlized. Ef Mary Ellen had ’a’ been
my chile dey’d ’a’ been murder done, suh. I’d ’a’ cotch ol’ Fed Tatum
by what little hair he had an’ I’d ’a’ ruint ’im; an’ ez ’twuz, I come
mighty nigh havin’ a fight wid ’im. An’ ef I had—_ef I had_——”
Aunt Minervy Ann was on her feet. Her right arm was raised high in the
air, and her eyes blazed with passion. It was not a glimpse of temper
she gave us, but a fleeting portrayal of mother-love at white heat. She
had been carried away by her memory, and had carried us away with her;
but she caught herself, as it were, in the act, laughed, and sat down
again by the sofa, caressing it with both arms. Presently she resumed her
narrative, addressing herself this time to the lady of the house. It was
a stroke of rare tact that had its effect.
“Wellum, Mary Ellen wa’n’t my chile, an’ ol’ Fed Tatum sont ’er off
up dar ’mongst de Northrons; an’ ’bout de time de two sides ’gun der
battlin’ he sol’ some lan’ an’ sont her ’nuff money ter las’ ’er twel she
got all de larnin’ she want. Den de war come, an’ nobody ain’t hear no
mo’ ’bout Mary Ellen. Dey fit an’ dey fout, an’ dey fout an’ dey fit, an’
den, bimeby, dey quit, an’ fer long days nobody didn’t know whedder ter
walk backerds er go forruds.
“Ol’ Fed Tatum wuz one er dem kinder folks, ma’am, what you been seein’
an’ knowin’ so long dat you kinder git de idee dey er gwine ter stay des
like dey is; but one day ol’ Fed Tatum fetch’d a grunt an’ went ter bed,
an’ de nex’ day he fetch’d a groan an’ died. He sho did. An’ den when dey
come ter look into what he had, dey foun’ dat he ain’t got nothin’ he kin
call his own but a little cabin in one een’ er town, an’ dis went ter
Mary Ellen’s mammy.
“I tell you now, ma’am, dat ’oman tried me. She wuz long an’ lank an’
slabsided, an’ she went ’bout wid ’er mouf shet, an’ ’er cloze lookin’
like somebody had flung um at ’er. I like ter hear folks talk, myself,
an’ ef dey can’t do nothin’ else I like ter see um show dey temper. But
dat ’oman, she des walk ’roun’ an’ not open her mouf fum mornin’ twel
night, less’n you ax ’er sump’n. I tried ter git her ter talk ’bout Mary
Ellen, but she ain’t know no mo’ ’bout Mary Ellen dan a rabbit.
“I dunner but what we’d ’a’ got in a fuss, ma’am, kaze dat ’oman sho
did try me, but ’long ’bout dat time Marse Bolivar’s gal tuck sick, an’
’twa’n’t long ’fo’ she died. ’Twuz a mighty pity, too, kaze dat chile
would ’a’ made a fine ’oman—none better. ’Long todes de las’ she got
ter gwine on ’bout Mary Ellen. Look like she could see Mary Ellen in de
fever-dreams, an’ she’d laugh an’ go on des like she useter when she wuz
a little bit er gal.
“Wellum, when dat chile died Marse Bolivar come mighty nigh losin’ ’is
min’. He ain’t make no fuss ’bout it, but he des fell back on hisse’f an’
walk de flo’ night atter night, an’ moan an’ groan when he think nobody
ain’t lis’nin’. An’ den, atter so long a time, here come a letter fum
Mary Ellen, an’ dat broke ’im all up. I tell you right now, ma’am, Marse
Bolivar had a hard fight wid trouble. I don’t keer what folks may say;
dey may tell you he’s a hard man, ready ter fight an’ quick ter kill.
He’s all dat, an’ maybe mo’; but I know what I know.
“Wellum, de days went an’ de days come. Bimeby I hear some er de niggers
say dat Mary Ellen done come back. I laid off ter go an’ see de chile;
but one day I wuz gwine ’long de street an’ I met a white lady. She say,
‘Ain’t dat Aunt Minervy Ann?’ I ’low, ‘Yessum, dis is de remnants.’
Wid dat, ma’am, she grab me ’roun’ de neck an’ hug me, an’ bu’st out
a-cryin’, an’ ’twa’n’t nobody in de worl’ but Mary Ellen.
“Purty! I never has foun’ out, ma’am, how any human can be ez purty ez
Mary Ellen. Her skin wuz white ez milk an’ her eyes shine like stars. I’d
’a’ never know’d her in de worl’. But dar she wuz, cryin’ one minnit an’
laughin’ de nex’. An’ she wuz in trouble too. She had a telegraph in her
han’ tellin’ ’er dat one er her ol’ schoolmates gwine on ter Flurridy
wuz gwine ter stop over one train des ter see Mary Ellen. Hit seem like
dat up dar whar she been stayin’ at she ain’t never tell nobody but what
she wuz white, an’ de human wa’n’t born dat could tell de diffunce. So
dar ’twuz. Here wuz de Northron lady comin’ fer ter see Mary Ellen, an’
what wuz Mary Ellen gwine ter do?—whar wuz she gwine ter take de Northron
lady? Dar wuz de ramshackle cabin, an’ dar wuz my kitchen. You may think
’twuz funny, ma’am——”
“But I don’t,” said the lady of the house, abruptly and unexpectedly; “I
don’t think it was funny at all.”
Aunt Minervy Ann looked at me and lifted her chin triumphantly, as she
resumed: “No’m, ’twa’n’t funny. Mary Ellen wuz proud an’ high-strung;
you could read dat in de way she walk an’ eve’y motion she make, an’ dat
ar telegraph dat de Northron lady sont ’er fum Atlanty kinder run ’er in
a corner. She dunner what ter do, ner which way ter turn. Look at it
yo’se’f, ma’am, an’ see whar she wuz.
“She laughed, ma’am, but she wuz in trouble, an’ I’m sech a big fool dat
I’m allers in trouble ’long wid dem what I like. Take de tape-line ter
der trouble an’ den ter mine, an’ you’ll fin’ dat dey medjer ’bout de
same. Mary Ellen laugh an’ say, ‘Dey’s two things I kin do; I kin leave
town, er I kin go down dar ter de cabin an’ kill myse’f.’ Oh, she wuz in
a corner, ma’am—don’t you doubt it.
“Right den an’ dar sump’n pop in my head. I ’low, ‘Is you been ter call
on Marse Bolivar Blasengame?’ She say ‘No, I ain’t, Aunt Minervy Ann. I
started ter go, but I’m afear’d ter.’ I ’low, ‘Well, I’m gwine dar right
now; come go wid me.’
“So we went dar, and I left Mary Ellen on de back porch, an’ I went in de
house. Marse Bolivar wuz settin’ down, gwine over some papers, an’ Mis’
Em’ly wuz darnin’ an’ patchin’.
“I say, ‘Marse Bolivar, dey’s a gal out here dat I thought maybe you an’
Mis’ Em’ly would be glad ter see?”
“He ’low, ‘Dang you’ hide, Minervy Ann! You like ter make me jump out’n
my skin. Who is de gal?’
“I say, ‘I wanter see ef you know ’er.’ Wid dat I went back an’ fotch
Mary Ellen in. Well, dey didn’t know ’er, ma’am, na’er one un um; an’ I
dunner how it all happened, but de fust thing I know Mary Ellen fell on
’er knees, by a lounge what sot under de place whar Miss Sally’s pictur’
wuz hangin’ at. She fell on her knees, Mary Ellen did, and ’low, ‘She’d
know who I is,’ an’ wid dat she bust aloose an’ went ter cryin’ des like
’er heart wuz done broke in two.
“Marse Bolivar stood dar an’ wait twel Mary Ellen cool off, an’ quiet
down. Mis’ Em’ly, ma’am, is one er dem ar primity, dried-up wimmen,
which, ef dey ain’t fightin’ you wid bofe han’s, er huggin’ you wid bofe
arms, ain’t sayin’ nothin’ ’tall. An’ ef Mis’ Em’ly ain’t sayin’ nothin’
you can’t put de key in de Bible an’ fin’ no tex’ dat’ll tell you what
she got in ’er min’. But she wuz darnin’, an’ I see ’er wipe one eye on
de leg er de sock, an’ den present’y she wipe t’er eye.
“Wellum, Marse Bolivar stood dar an’ look at Mary Ellen, an’ when she riz
fum her knees an’ stood dar, her head hangin’ down, still a-cryin’, but
mo’ quieter, he went close up an’ ’low, ‘I know you, Mary Ellen, an’ I’m
mighty glad ter see you. Dat ar letter what you writ me, I got it yit,
an’ I’m gwine ter keep it whiles I live.’
“He talk right husky, ma’am, an’ I ’gun ter feel husky myse’f; an’ den
I know’d dat ef I didn’t change de tune, I’d be boo-hooin’ right dar
’fo’ all un um wid needer ’casion nor ’skuce. I went up ter Mary Ellen
an’ cotch ’er by de shoulder and say, ‘Shucks, gal! Dat train’ll be here
terreckly, an’ den what you gwine ter do?’
“’Twuz a hint ez broad ez a horse-blanket, ma’am, but Mary Ellen never
tuck it. She des stood dar an’ look at me. An’ ’bout dat time Marse
Bolivar he ketch’d holt er my shoulder an’ whirlt me ’roun’, an’ ’low,
‘What de matter, Minervy Ann? Talk it right out!’
“Wellum, I let you know I tol’ ’im; I des laid it off! I tol’ des how
’twuz; how Mary Ellen been sont up dar by ol’ Fed Tatum, an’ how, on de
’count er no fault er her’n de Northron folks tuck ’er ter be a white
gal; an’ how one er de gals what went ter school wid ’er wuz gwine ter
come ter see ’er an’ stay ’twixt trains. Den I ’low, ‘Whar is Mary Ellen
gwine ter see ’er? In dat ar mud-shack whar her ma live at? In de big
road? In de woods? In de hoss-lot?”
The whole scene from beginning to end had been enacted by Aunt Minervy
Ann. In the empty spaces of the room she had placed the colonel, his
wife, and Mary Ellen, and they seemed to be before us, and not only
before us, but the passionate earnestness with which she laid the case of
Mary Ellen before the colonel made them live and move under our very eyes.
“_In de big road? In de woods? In de hoss-lot?_”
And when she paused for the reply of the colonel, the look of expectation
on her face was as keen and as eager as it could have been on the day and
the occasion when she was pleading for Mary Ellen. The spell was broken
by the lady of the house, who leaned forward eagerly as if expecting the
colonel himself to reply. Perhaps Aunt Minervy Ann misunderstood the
movement. She paused a moment as if dazed, and then sank by the sofa with
a foolish laugh.
“I know you all put me down ter be a fool,” she said, “an’ I ’speck I is.”
“Nonsense!” cried the lady of the house, sharply. “What did the colonel
reply?”
Aunt Minervy remained silent a little while, picking at one of the
fringes of the sofa. She was evidently trying to reassemble in her mind
the incidents and surroundings of her narrative. Presently she began
again, in a tone subdued and confidential:
“Marse Bolivar look at me right hard, den he look at Mary Ellen, an’ den
he pull at de tip-een’ er his year. Wellum, I fair helt my breff; I say
ter myse’f, ‘Man, whyn’t you look at poor Miss Sally’s pictur’? I wuz
feared a fly might light on ’im an’ change his min’. But, look at de
pictur’ he did, an’ dat settled it.
“He ’low, ‘Set down, Mary Ellen; you look tired. Minervy Ann, fetch ’er a
drink er water.’ Wellum, you may well b’lieve dat I flied up an’ flew’d
’roun’ an’ fotch dat water. Den he ’low, ‘Minervy Ann, go in dar an’
straighten out dat parlor; fling open de blinds an’ do ’bout in dar!’”
Again Aunt Minervy Ann arose from her reclining position by the sofa and
stood in the floor; again, by a wave of her hand, she brought the scene
before our eyes.
“I stood dar, I did, an’ look at dat man. I ’low, ‘Marse Bolivar, less’n
it’s Marse Tumlin, youer de bes’ man dat God A’mighty ever breathe de
breath er life inter!’ He rub his han’ over his face an’ say, ‘Dang yo’
ol’ hide! go on an’ hush up! Fum de time I fust know’d you, you been
gittin’ me an’ Tumlin in hot water.’
“I flung back at ’im, ‘_’Tain’t never scald you! ’Tain’t never been too
deep fer you!_’ He straighten hisse’f up an’ helt his head back an’
laugh. He ’low, ‘Dang it all, Minervy Ann! Dey er times when I want it
bofe hot an’ deep. You go an’ scuffle ’roun’ in dat parlor, an’ don’t you
let yo’ Mis’ Em’ly do a han’s-turn in dar.’
“Wellum, dat uz ’bout de upshot un it. De Northron lady wuz name Miss
Wilbur, er Willard, I disremember which, but she was a mighty nice white
gal. Marse Bolivar an’ Hamp wuz bofe at de train ter meet ’er, an’ Marse
Bolivar fotch ’er right ter de house, an’ show’d ’er in de parlor. Atter
while, Mary Ellen went in dar, an’ ’twuz a mighty meetin’ ’twix um. Dey
chattered same ez a flock er blackbirds on a windy day; an’ atter so long
a time Marse Bolivar went in dar. ’Twa’n’t long ’fo’ he got ter tellin’
tales, an’ de Northron lady laugh so she kin hardly set on de cheer. Den
he open de pianner, an’ ax de white lady ter play, but she vow she can’t
play atter he been hearin’ Mary Ellen. Den he say, ‘Won’t you play me a
chune, Mary Ellen? Sump’n ol’ timey?’
“Dat gal went ter de pianner, ma’am, an’ sot dar wid her han’s over her
face like she prayin’, an’ den she laid her han’s on de keys an’ started
a chune des like yo’ hear in yo’ dreams. It got a little louder, an’
den present’y you could hear ’er singin’. I never did know whar’bouts
her voice slipped inter dat chune; but dar ’twuz, an’ it fit in wid de
pianner des like a flute does.
“Wellum, it tuck me back, way back dar in de ol’ days, an’ den brung me
down ter later times, fer many a moonlight night did I hear Miss Sally
an’ Mary Ellen sing dat song when dey wuz chillun. Den atter dat de
Northron lady plump herse’f down at de pianner, an’ she sho did shake dat
ol’ shebang up. ’Twuz dish yer highfalutin’ music what sprung up sence de
war, an’ it sho sound like war ter me, drums a-rattlin’, guns a-shootin’,
an’ forty-levm brass horns all tootin’ a diffunt chune.
“When train-time come, ma’am, de Northron lady ax Mary Ellen ef she won’t
go ter de train wid ’er. But Marse Bolivar spoke up an’ say dat Mary
Ellen been feelin’ bad all de mornin’, an’ she hatter skuzen ’er. He went
wid de lady hisse’f, an’ when he come back Mary Ellen tol’ ’im she never
would fergit what he done fer her dat day, an’ say she gwine ter pay ’im
back some day.
“What did the neighbors say about it?” the lady of the house asked, in
her practical way.
“Dat what pestered me all de time, ma’am,” Aunt Minervy Ann replied. “I
ax Marse Bolivar, ‘What de folks gwine ter say when dey hear ’bout dis
come off?’ He stuck his thum’s in de armholes er his wescut, an’ ’low,
‘Dat what I wanter know, an’ I wanter know so bad, Minervy Ann, dat ef
you hear anybody talkin’ loose talk ’bout it, des come runnin’ ter me
while it’s hot. Now don’t you fail.’
“But Marse Bolivar ain’t wait fer me ter hear what folks say. He went
polin’ up town de nex’ day, an’ tol’ ’bout it in eve’y sto’ on de street,
an’ de las’ man in town vow’d ’twuz de ve’y thing ter do. An’ dat ain’t
all, ma’am! De folks dar raise a lot er money fer Mary Ellen, an’ de way
dat chile went on when Marse Bolivar put it in ’er han’ an’ tol’ er whar
it come fum wuz pitiful ter see.
“Dat’s de way ’tis, ma’am; ketch um in de humor an’ eve’ybody’s
good; ketch um out’n de humor an’ dey er all mean—I know dat by my
own feelin’s. Ef a fly had lit on Marse Bolivar’s face dat day, Mary
Ellen would ’a’ had ter face ’er trouble by ’er own ’lone self. Ef
some sour-minded man had gone up town an’ told how Marse Bolivar wuz
en’tainin’ nigger gals an’ a Yankee ’oman in his parlor, dey’d all been
down on ’im. An’ den——”
“What, then?” the lady of the house asked, as Aunt Minervy Ann paused.
“Dey’d ’a’ been weepin’ an’ whailin’ in de settlement sho. Ain’t it so,
suh?”
It was natural, after Aunt Minervy Ann had narrated the particulars
of this episode, that her statements should dwell in my memory, and
sally forth and engage my mind when it should have been concerned with
other duties. One of these duties was to examine each day the principal
newspapers of New England in search of topics for editorial comment.
An eye trained to this business, as any exchange editor can tell you,
will pick out at a glance a familiar name or suggestive phrase, no matter
what its surroundings nor how obscurely it may be printed. Therefore, one
day, weeks after Aunt Minervy Ann’s recital, when I opened the _Boston
Transcript_ at its editorial page, it was inevitable that the first thing
to catch my eye was the familiar name of “Mary Ellen Tatum.” It was
printed in type of the kind called nonpareil, but I would have seen it
no sooner nor more certainly if it had been printed in letters reaching
half across the page.
Mary Ellen Tatum! The name occurred in a three-line preface to the
translation of an art note from a Paris newspaper. This note described,
with genuine French enthusiasm, the deep impression that had been made on
artists and art circles in Paris by a portrait painted by a gifted young
American artist, Mlle. Marie Helen Tatum. It is needless to transcribe
the eulogy—I have it in my scrapbook. It was a glowing tribute to a piece
of work that had created a sensation, and closed with the announcement
that another genius had “arrived.”
The comments of the Boston editor, following the sketch, declared that
the friends of Miss Mary Ellen Tatum in Boston, where she spent her early
years and where she was educated, were proud of her remarkable success,
and predicted for her a glorious career as an artist.
I had no more than cut this piece from the newspaper when the door-bell
rang, and as there happened to be no one in the house to answer it at
the moment, I went to the door myself, the clipping still in my hand,
and there before my eyes was Colonel Bolivar Blasengame, his fine face
beaming with good-nature. He had come at a moment when I most desired to
see him, and I greeted him cordially.
“I see now,” said the colonel,“why it is I can never catch you in your
office in town; you do your work at home. Well, that’s lots better than
workin’ where any and everybody can come in on you. I thought I’d find
you out here enjoying your _otium cum digitalis_, as old Tuck Bonner used
to say; but instead of that you’re waist-deep in newspapers.”
I assured the colonel that there were some people in the world whom I
would be glad to see, no matter how busy I might be.
“I know the feeling,” replied Colonel Blasengame; “but you’ll be cussing
me as sure as the world, for I haven’t a grain of business to see you
about. But I hear Tumlin and old Aunt Minervy Ann talking about you so
constantly that I thought I’d come out and say howdye, if no more.”
“Well, you’ll have to say more than that this time,” I remarked; “I was
just thinking, when you rang the door-bell, that I would give something
pretty to see you.”
“Now, is that reely so?” cried the colonel. “Then I’m twice glad—once
because I took a notion to come, and once again because you’re glad. You
used to fight so shy of me when you lived among us that I was afraid I
wouldn’t get on wi’ you; but I’m sorter offish myself.”
“Colonel,” said I, “did you ever know Mary Ellen Tatum?”
He rubbed his face and forehead with his hand, and regarded me with a
slight frown, and a smile that seemed to mean anything except pleasure.
“Will you allow me to ask you why you put such a question to me?”
“Why, certainly, Colonel; read that.” I placed the clipping from the
_Transcript_ in his hand. He held it off at arm’s length and tried to
decipher it, but the print was too fine. Placing it on his knee, he
searched in his pockets until he found his spectacles, and then he read
the article through carefully—not once, but twice.
Then smoothing the clipping out on his knee, he looked at me inquiringly.
“Do you know Mary Ellen?” he asked. I did not, and said so. “Did you ever
hear of her before?”
“Why, yes,” I replied. “Aunt Minervy Ann told me some very interesting
things about her, and I wanted to ask you if they were true.”