PHILOSOPHY VANQUISHED.
One night, some months before Clara’s final return from Stonybrook, the
doctor returned home weary and “cross,” as he said. To the twins this
used to mean that he was not in the humor to enjoy their clambering over
him; but they felt themselves young ladies now, and “cross” meant that
the doctor hoped they had done their piano practising during the day.
Their torturing the piano was something endless and excruciating, but
the doctor bore all domestic annoyances with the kind, long-suffering
spirit that characterized the good family man—the great man, indeed—that
he really was.
Women are beginning to see the folly of allowing their “lords” to write
the biographies of great men, and are gradually taking the task upon
themselves. When they do their full share of this work, there will be
found in history many pigmies that would have swelled to colossi under
the pens of their own sex; for their claims to the honor of greatness as
moral forces will be judged by the way they treat women, specially and
generally. A man may be great in a particular sense, if he is nothing
but a military or political leader, or profound as a scientist; but he
can never be great integrally as a man, if he lacks tenderness, justice,
or faith in humanity. Men who are very tender as lovers, and deeply
sensitive to the influence of women, usually have the reputation among
brutal men of being “hen-pecked”—a word never found in the vocabulary of
refined people.
On this occasion, as the doctor’s family sat down to tea, Mrs. Forest
enquired after the health of Mrs. Buzzell, whom the doctor had been
visiting regularly for many days. She was more comfortable, the doctor
said.
“I don’t think,” remarked Mrs. Forest, “that her illness would endure so
long if Dr. Delano attended her.”
“Oh, ho! A reflection upon my professional skill,” said the doctor,
wiping the creamy tea from his grizzly moustache; but he added,
laughing, “If there is anything Mrs. Buzzell enjoys, it is a good long
serious illness.”
“That is because you pet her so. I think she is a ridiculous old thing.”
“That is not kind, Fannie. I don’t see how you can speak so of a good
old friend like that. We ought never to forget that she is somewhat
enfeebled by age, and really has no one to care for her.”
“I don’t see that that is any reason why you should make a martyr of
yourself.”
“Oh, I do not. It is pleasant to me to see her faded eyes light up when
I enter the room. I know I am the medium of a great consolation to her;
and giving happiness should make us happy always.”
“Really! You are quite tender to your interesting patient.”
“Fannie, you disgust me,” he said, setting his cup down emphatically.
“If this infernal world chooses to be cruel and mean, to laugh at those
who are pining for sympathy and love—_you_ ought to be capable of better
sentiments.” The doctor added a more vehement word.
“What! profanity? You do pain me so by your violent way of speaking,”
complained the doctor’s wife.
“There!” said Leila, “papa is really getting cross;” and lancing a
confident saucy look at her father, whose crossness had no terrors for
her, she seized her gentler-willed sister and waltzed her out of the
room to the accompaniment of “Good riddance, you sauce-box,” from the
doctor, and a stately rebuke from Mrs. Forest. When they were alone,
Mrs. Forest repeated in other words her last remark to the doctor, who
answered—
“Yes, I know I am always giving you pain when I remind you of your want
of sympathy except for those who are a part of you. One’s children are
not all the world, and to love only them is narrow and selfish.
Suffering, wherever we find it, has claims upon us.”
“Charity begins at home,” said Mrs. Forest, sententiously.
“Yes; _begins_, but it should not end there. I have been wondering every
day why you do not go and see Mrs. Buzzell, knowing how lonely she is,
with no society but that of her old servant.” Now Mrs. Forest was indeed
intending to go and sit awhile with her old friend, and carry her some
dainties; but she did not feel in a gracious mood, and would not confess
it. She said rather, “She has too much of your society to miss mine, I
think.”
This was exasperating. The doctor rose, and Mrs. Forest touched the
spring of the table-bell. “Somehow you will forever dance in a pint-pot;
you cannot see anything in a broad light,” he said, “and Leila is going
to be just like you. She requires nice dresses, a little music, a little
flattery, a good deal of sentimental, unchristlike piety, and her cup
runneth over. A grand life, a grand emotion, will never come to her. It
would burst her like a soap-bubble, as it would you, to do anything not
set down as proper by your set.”
“I should like to know some of your women who see things in a broad
light. Who are they?”
“Well,” said the doctor, after a pause, “it is no use to cite examples.
Most of them have someway outraged Mrs. Grundy, and you would not
believe in them.”
“Yes; I suppose, in order to see things in a broad light,” said Mrs.
Forest, contemptuously pronouncing the words, “one must become
disreputable. Thank you; I prefer a good reputation, and what you are
pleased to call a pint-pot dance.”
“By ——,” exclaimed the doctor, excitedly, “I do believe the first
condition for the development of broad sympathies for humanity in a
woman’s heart is the loss of respectability as defined by hypocrites and
prudes.” Mrs. Forest looked horrified; but the entrance of Susie to
remove the tea-things in answer to the bell, prevented her reply. As
Susie went on with her work noiselessly, avoiding the slightest clatter
of cups and spoons, the doctor continued, watching her movements as he
spoke: “We should cultivate a feeling of unity with all nature, of which
we are a part. That will force us out of our narrow lives, and make
happiness possible to us only when all around us are happy. The
inculcation of this sentiment of unity is so important, that we cannot
overestimate it, for it will lead to grand association schemes for the
amelioration of mankind. There are people in this town to-day, who labor
hard from year to year, and yet want the conditions for a decent life;
children who never have the chance of seeing a fine picture, or wearing
a pretty suit of clothes.”
“I know that is very sad, but your free-thinkers do nothing for them. It
is the ladies of our church who carry food and clothing to the children
of the poor.” Mrs. Forest, as she said this, noticed something in her
husband’s face which made her add, “You know, my dear, I always except
you.”
“Why,” said the doctor, “here are the Unitarians, all free-thinkers,
according to your creed, for they do not accept your orthodox scheme of
salvation; but you can’t deny they do more for the poor than all the
orthodox in the country. Take the firm of Ely & Gerrish, one a Unitarian
and the other a Deist, as they call him; they have built a magnificent
home for their workmen, whereby they are provided with many of the
luxuries of wealth, and at about the cost of ordinary lodgings. How much
nobler it is to help people to independence than to inculcate the spirit
of begging, by your small charities!”
“We can’t all build workingmen’s homes, like Ely & Gerrish,” said Mrs.
Forest, “but that should not hinder us from doing what we can.”
“I admit the worthiness of your motives, and the temporary good you do;
but it is none the less true that it degrades the being to be the
recipient of charity. No; charity don’t work, as a social system. The
poor-house don’t work. The orphan asylum don’t work. Now, to one who has
the scientific method in his examination of social problems, the moment
a system don’t work, he knows it is wrong. Then the first duty is to
discover why it don’t, and substitute a better.”
“All of which is very easy—in words,” said Mrs. Forest.
“In words!” echoed the doctor. “Why, we are doing it literally every
day. Take the steam-engine and the telegraph. When the necessity arose
for more rapid transportation, we tried awhile to breed faster and
stronger horses, make better wagons and roads, but we found that did not
work, and so we substituted the steam-car and the railroad; so with the
postal system, the telegraph and the steam printing-press.”
Mrs. Forest saw that the doctor held a strong position logically, so she
waived the question by giving some final orders to Susie about work for
the next morning, and then dismissed her summarily. When she was gone
the doctor said, “Do you think you are as kind to that poor child as you
ought to be?”
“Dear me! what next?” answered Mrs. Forest, with a sigh. “Yes, I think I
am. I give her time to sew for herself, and she has a good home. I must
say she behaves remarkably well, considering her bringing up.”
“I am greatly interested in her,” the doctor said. “I wish Clara was
here. That’s a girl after my own heart, you know. Clara has the true
democratic—that is, the true human spirit. She would pity this lonely
Susie, and help her to have some object in life.”
“Object in life! Why, what better object can she have than to behave
herself, and be happy by doing her duty?” Mrs. Forest, with her “little
hoard of maxims,” was armed at all points. It was as hard to grapple
with her as with a porcupine. She was so utterly different from the
doctor in her way of looking at things, that it is hard to do her
justice. The doctor’s radical ideas had always alarmed her, and it had
troubled her exceedingly to find that Clara delighted in just those
radical notions that were her horror. It was clear, too, that Clara
wrote her mother from duty—short, dutiful, correct, and very commonplace
notes. To her father she scrawled long, rapid, charmingly frank and
interesting letters, signing herself always “_Papa’s Own Girl_.” To her
mother she invariably subscribed herself, “Your affectionate daughter,”
which indeed Mrs. Forest considered in rather more ladylike taste, but
she was a little jealous all the same.
When Mrs. Forest gave her opinion, in such a decided manner, about
Susie’s duty, the doctor paused awhile and filled his pipe in an absent
kind of way, holding his box of tobacco with some difficulty, so as to
not disturb “Hommie,” the cat, who would jump upon his knee whenever he
sat down. Mrs. Forest was never troubled with such familiarity on the
part of Hommie, so named by the twins in honor of his perilous adventure
in the hominy pot when a kitten. “Doing one’s duty,” the doctor said,
“is not all there is of life. This Susie must feel the need of friends
sadly. I wish you would take more interest in her, Fannie—talk to her
and gain her sympathy.”
“I don’t care to talk to her much, and she don’t care to hear me.”
“That is because you talk to her about saving her soul—a subject about
which she knows just as much as you do. Of course, it must bore her.
Talk to her of herself; get her to read, and to take interest in some
subject.”
“She’s not very intellectual,” replied Mrs. Forest, laconically.
“What!” said the doctor. “Why, she’s as bright as a dollar. See what a
fine head she has!”
“Very likely. I don’t believe in heads, as you do. Some of the most
stupid people I know are all head.”
“Ah! quality as well as quantity must be considered. In this case the
quality is good.”
“I have not much hope for her. To be sure she goes to church, but I
think it may be from the fear of displeasing me if she stays at home.”
“I am sorry she goes at all from that motive,” said the doctor.
“When Dan is here, she stays at home evenings, and I notice how she
looks at him. When he is not here she often goes out in the evening. I’m
sure I don’t know where she goes nor what she does.”
“Well, don’t be meanly suspicious. I know the girl’s heart is right.
What can you expect? You treat her like a menial, and she feels it. She
does your bidding because it means her daily bread, and because she has
lost her heart to Dan. Poor little thing! That’s the saddest of all.
She’s happy if she can only look at him; but otherwise finding no
companions, no sympathy here, of course she seeks the few acquaintances
she has outside, in the hope of answering this need—a need as imperative
as that for food or air. You will some time find that it is a misfortune
that you cannot take her into your heart and help her more. Let her
think that Dan is the only creature that cares for her, and she will
come to depend too much upon his regard, which I doubt not is already on
the wane.”
“Yes; I think he would like to erase that abominable tattooing. Silly
boy!”
“I’m not sure but that is the evidence of the best impulse that ever
swayed him.”
“Mercy! doctor, how can you talk so? How would you like your only son to
marry such a person?”
“He might do worse,” answered the doctor, decidedly.
This was too much for Mrs. Forest’s patience—too much for adequate
expression in decorous words; so she folded her sewing, and left the
doctor to the cat and his pipe.