THE NUCLEUS OF THE FLOWER BUSINESS.
It is early in Summer. Mrs. Buzzell and Susie, now her trusted and
much-loved friend, are sitting on the little vine-shaded porch of her
cottage—not really a cottage, for it is at least an ordinary-sized
country house, strong and well built; but she herself always so
designates it. The baby, Minnie, is creeping over the porch floor,
crowing with infantine glee, and now and then climbing up by the knees
of Mrs. Buzzell, or by the railing which has been constructed to keep
her within bounds. The lower leaves and buds of the roses and
morning-glories, have suffered at her little hands, but she has learned
by this time that they are not good to eat, and so pulls them off and
scatters them in pure wantonness. The two women have been discussing a
letter just received from Clara.
For a time Clara’s letters were constantly arriving, not only to Susie,
to Dr. Forest, to her mother, but alternately to the twins. These
letters breathed the happiness that surrounded Clara like an atmosphere,
and was rather implied than directly expressed, except to Susie. Mrs.
Forest rejoiced that her eldest daughter was well established, and
secretly she was greatly relieved to have Clara’s fate off her mind.
There was no knowing, in her opinion, what Clara would have come to,
with her inherited tendency to freedom, so unlike other girls, if she
had not fortunately married young. Why, she might have become a
frequenter of conventions, an agitator of woman’s rights—that was indeed
what Mrs. Forest feared most—but, thanks to Providence, she had made an
excellent match, and the mother’s soul was at rest, or free to plan and
scheme for the respectable establishment of her two remaining daughters.
On this summer day, in the little shaded porch, Susie had read to her
friend, some portions of Clara’s last letter. Mrs. Buzzell sighed, and
said, “It is too exalted for this commonplace world. It will not last.”
“Oh, do not say that!” exclaimed Susie.
“I know it sounds like croaking, Susie, but you will see I am right. It
is always so. Clara worships that man, and we should worship nothing but
the Creator. When we do, we lose it. When mothers make idols of their
children, as her mother did of Dan, they die, or turn out like him. I am
glad you do not love yours unreasonably. It is auntie who is in danger
here,” said the good old lady, taking up the child and caressing it
fondly.
“I cannot believe it a crime to love—even to love inordinately, as Clara
does,” said Susie. “Her nature is peculiarly fervent. She told me once
that the look, the touch of Albert’s hand, made her tremulous with
emotion. If he should fail her, she would suffer more than most of us
could, I think.”
“Of course he will fail her,” said Mrs. Buzzell, with unusual feeling.
“Men never meet the demands of a nature like that. They think it
adorable at first, and then they grow indifferent. It is much better to
love in a calm way, and, like Mrs. Kendrick, to show their husbands that
heaven is not wholly confined to their smiles, nor hell to their
frowns.”
Susie was astonished at the fervency displayed by Mrs. Buzzell. “Could
this faded, gray old lady, have had her romance also?” Susie’s
reflections were interrupted by the doctor’s gig, which came almost
noiselessly around the corner, over the smooth, sandy road. He sprang
upon the porch with the supple nerve of a boy, and astonished Mrs.
Buzzell by kissing her right in the face of the village. “You two women
are as grave as owls,” he said. “What have you been talking about? Out
with it, Susie!”
“We were talking of love,” Susie answered, not intending to be specially
definite.
“Do ever two women talk of anything else, I wonder? Abusing us dogs of
men, I suppose. Can’t you furnish me with a cup of water and a little
piece of soap?” he asked, addressing Mrs. Buzzell. “I want to amuse the
baby.”
“We were regretting,” continued Susie, “that we are not able to love
sensibly and moderately. When we love with all our hearts, are we ever
fully met?—after the first, I mean.”
“With that first, you are satisfied, then,” said the doctor, taking a
piece of India-rubber tubing from his pocket, and blowing his first
bubble. For a time, all the attention was concentrated on the doctor’s
bubbles, some of which, by certain movements of his hands, he managed to
keep in the air a long time, while the baby crowed with mad delight. For
days after, the little thing amused everybody by her attempts to blow
bubbles with every stick or pencil she could get, and even labored very
hard to accomplish the feat with her teaspoon. When the doctor grew
tired of blowing, he resumed the conversation; but Minnie was
insatiable: no sooner was one bubble burst, than she cried for another,
but was finally pacified by having the tube and cup all to herself.
After sucking some of the soapy water into her mouth, and making a very
wry face, she succeeded in blowing some little ones on the top of the
water, and got very angry after the twentieth attempt to pick them out
with her fingers. Susie was scarcely less excited than the baby, over
the exquisite beauty of the soap-bubbles, and listened eagerly to the
doctor’s explanation of their colors and construction.
Seeing Susie so interested, he said, “It is a pity your studying was
interrupted. You have the spirit of the scientific investigator. I
wonder if I can’t manage to take Clara’s place?” he said, after a pause.
“Oh, your time is too precious, doctor,” said Susie.
“I couldn’t be regular, but I tell you what I’ll do. If you’ll have some
recitation ready whenever I come, I’ll give you a few minutes.” That was
enough for Susie, and from that time the doctor became her tutor, taking
up, first, chemistry and natural philosophy, and then other branches.
But this is wandering from the subject of conversation interrupted by
the blowing of bubbles.
“The truth is,” said the doctor, “women, in their love, do not fully
meet men. According to my experience, few women ever comprehend the
ardor with which men are capable of loving them. Now, the question is,
is it when they do, or do not, so respond perfectly, that women meet the
fate of Semele?”
“The fate of Semele?” queried Mrs. Buzzell.
“Yes; she loved Jove, and was utterly consumed for her daring.”
“I remember now,” said Mrs. Buzzell, smiling. “Why, her fate was not so
bad, for her suffering was but momentary. Her lover was a god. That must
be quite an advantage; and then he loved perfectly, and she also, I
suppose.” Mrs. Buzzell was in a complaisant mood, or she would not have
treated any heathen mythology so considerately. “I never thought of it
before in that light,” replied the doctor. “She must have been the only
woman whom any lover ever satisfied. Your sex is very exacting. You
expect men to keep up to concert-pitch all the time; but, you see, we
have to go out into the world and purvey for bread-and-butter. _Sine
Cerere et Baccho friget Venus_, you know.”
“_Sine Cerere_,” repeated Susie, laboring with the Latin, of which she
knew a little.
“‘Without corn and wine love freezes’ will do,” said the doctor.
“True,” said Mrs. Buzzell; “but it is just where corn and wine are
abundant, that you feed us on dry husks—not to mention that you seek
pastures new, for yourselves.”
“I see I must defend my sex,” said the doctor, with mock gravity. “Now
we do not feed you on dry husks, but we assume to know what is best for
you. Are we not your heaven-appointed keepers? You would live forever on
ambrosia, and that is not good for the constitution as a regular diet;
besides the supply is limited, I am sorry to say. The truth is, dear
ladies—I am serious now—you women have not yet found the secret of your
power. What we call the material forces, in the beginning rule the
world. Man gains his freedom first, then women, then children. Women are
not free yet. They should be independent, should travel, mix with the
world, conduct enterprises, and never be forced to marry from any
pecuniary motives. That is the way the ‘statelier Eden’ is coming back
to man. Man cannot be happy, and morally strong, until women have worked
out their social salvation. No one should stake everything on the throw
of a die. Women do that, and are taught that it is wise. They keep their
interests narrowed to a point, and what with petty household cares and
‘tying baby sashes,’ as Mrs. Browning says, they cease to grow, except
in one direction. They live as though they had but one organ, and that
the heart; figuratively speaking, I mean,” added the anatomist. “This is
their fate when they are sensitive and emotional. When they are colder
in temperament, they gangrene with social ambition; spend their lives in
scheming to out-do their neighbors in fashion and display. This would
not be possible if they had other resources, but they have not; because
at the start, they have no education to speak of, and few are interested
in any literature but that of novels and romances, which they waste time
over without much discrimination. Good Lord! what an amount of trash
they wade through! But then, very few people have the culture implied in
the art of getting the nuts out of a book without swallowing husk and
all. It is one of the last things learned by the student, and women are
rarely students.”
“So, in the end,” said Mrs. Buzzell, “man, mixing with the world and
interesting his mind with politics and science, finds his intellectual
needs supplied outside of home. Well, he has _other_ needs.”
“Yes, certainly. Home is the nucleus of all his affections; and because
it is the nucleus or centre, it should include the possibilities of
answering to the greater part of his needs. The woman who responds most
fully to a man’s various attractions, will keep his love fresh the
longest; but when she can respond to little else except his desire to be
petted and caressed, she is in danger of responding too fully to that,
and so clogs his appetite with her very sweetness.”
“Women learn this,” said Susie, “and that is why so many become
heartless flirts. Who can wonder?”
“That is true of some very lovely women; but not of the finest, Susie.
It would not be possible to you, nor to Clara.”
To be compared in any way to the superb Clara, was a compliment that
Susie was keenly sensitive to; and her love and gratitude grew with the
self-respect and womanly dignity that the nobler course of her few
friends, insensibly and continually stimulated into action.
When the doctor rose to go, Mrs. Buzzell detained him to look at her
flowers—“or rather Susie’s,” she said. The large table by the south
window was full of plants and flowers in flourishing condition. Two
orange shrubs, about three feet high, were loaded with young fruit; and
in another room, less warm, by an east window, were boxes of violets and
mignonette.
“I never saw any one succeed, as she does, with flowers. I never could
get violets or mignonette to blossom in winter. I see now, I kept them
too warm. Last winter, Susie sent bouquets of these to the new hotel,
and sold them at high prices.” “She must apply what she has learned of
botany,” said the doctor. “I see here, the result of what can be nothing
else than a scientific method.”
“And yet I confess my patience used to be tried a little last summer and
fall, over her persistence in dissecting plants and poring over books
about them. I think I was foolish, and am anxious to do a little
penance. I’ve been thinking seriously of building a conservatory on this
south side; using the window as a door. The village has grown so, there
must be quite a demand for flowers and plants in pots, and we are only a
few miles from the city, you know.”
“It is the best impulse you ever had, Mrs. Buzzell,” the doctor said,
very earnestly. “Susie has practical ideas, and this is the door to her
independence. Go ahead without any delay. I will put in some money with
pleasure, if you need it, besides giving twenty-five dollars out and
out. It is June now. By next winter she could have plenty of violets,
and that alone would pay well. I see she has a bed of them outside.
Where does she get her stock? I never knew violets so fragrant as these
are. The _Marie Louise_ violet, I see.”
“Oh, a root, a slip here and there. Everything she touches succeeds. She
is constantly bringing leaf mold from the woods. That is one of her
secrets. Her fragrant violets she ordered in January from Anderson. They
came in square pieces of turf.”
The doctor encouraged Mrs. Buzzell to such good effect, that in two days
the carpenters were at work, and in less than a month a nice
flower-room, twenty feet by twelve, heated by a little furnace in the
cellar, was in working order; only the furnace, of course, was not yet
needed. Susie had written to one of the great florists near the city,
and ordered some stock; and somehow her letter had elicited an offer of
any advice she might need. Besides this, the florist sent her a manual
on hot-house culture. This manual was a godsend to Susie. She wrote back
her thanks, and, probably, recognizing a soul in the business man, she
told him of herself and her hopes. After this there ensued quite a
correspondence. In November Susie’s violets were ready in masses, and
she sent him specimens, packed nicely in moss. To this he replied:
“Your success greatly surprises me, but your bouquets are awkwardly put
up—that is, wastefully, for ten violets are a generous number for a
small winter bouquet. You need a few lessons, and if you desire them
enough to come here, you can receive them in my establishment gratis. I
will admit frankly that your white Neapolitans are better than mine.
This is very remarkable, for it is a shy bloomer. I will sell all your
violets for you this winter, if you wish it.”
Susie’s heart leaped at the offer of instruction; and packing up all her
violets and many other flowers, that the florist might see them, she set
out on her journey, leaving many and oft-repeated directions about the
care of the conservatory, and very few about the baby; for Mrs. Buzzell
was not likely to neglect Minnie, as Susie well knew.
Arrived at the florist’s, Susie set herself at work as if her life
depended upon it. The florist was unusually interested in Susie, who
talked with him freely and with confidence. He gave her numerous
suggestions about her flower culture, and took her home with him to his
family, instead of letting her go to a hotel, as she intended, for she
had determined to stay a week. In the florist’s family Susie made more
friends; but there was a kind of incubus upon her all the while. How
could she know if they would be as kind to her as they were, if they
knew her history? At the end of the week, however, she felt that she had
made good use of her time. She had not contented herself with learning
the theories of flower culture, but had put her own hands to everything,
and familiarized them with operations destined to be of great service to
her. The florist had noticed that there was something peculiar about
this young woman, and shrewdly guessed that there was some secret
trouble in her life; but her earnestness and gentleness of demeanor were
greatly in her favor, and he was not sorry for the offer he had made
her, to dispose of all the violets she should produce the ensuing
winter, though that act would be of little service to him. It was, in
fact, a generous impulse to help the praiseworthy ambition of the young
florist, and Susie felt, rather than knew, this to be the fact, and
acknowledged it indirectly. When she shook hands with the florist on
leaving, she looked searchingly into his eyes and said, “I shall not
forget your goodness to me, an utter stranger to you. Your help means
more than you know.”
If we could read Susie’s busy thoughts, as she rode home communing with
her own soul, to use a trite expression, we should find them running
something in this wise: “This visit is a great step gained. I find I
need not be modest. I know a thousand times more of flowers than does
this great florist who has built up an immense and successful business;
and what he knows of practical details more than I do, I can learn
without the hard experience he has had. If I am prudent, I need not make
any ruinous failures. Oh, to be rich! To own my own house, my own
fortune, and never more be a dependent even upon the dearest and noblest
people in the world! I may; I _must_ accomplish this. I must! I must!
Minnie is bright and pretty. Better that she died than grow up poor and
ignorant, to do the bidding of others. I wonder if she will be really
intellectual—capable of being highly educated, capable of lofty
sentiments and principles. Ah! I am not proud that one like Dan is her
father, but not in all the world could she have better blood than that
of Dr. Forest. Great, noble, generous man! He knows I am grateful, but
he does not know I could kiss his feet, and not then express how I adore
his character. In his eyes, I am just as good, just as virtuous, as if
baby had never been born. In Mrs. Buzzell’s I am very dear, I know, but
still a Magdalen. She would stand by me during good behavior; he would
follow me with tender, helpful sympathy, if I should suffer any
degradation. He would never lose hope that I could rise and atone for
every folly. What a power there is in such trust. It must give the
basest nature a very passion to justify it. So will I justify it, or I
will die in the attempt. I could die any death much easier than I could
take any course that would make him feel he had been mistaken in me. Yet
they say he is not a Christian. He is irreverent. Mrs. Buzzell asked him
if he had never suffered gloomy, despairing moods, and he assured her he
had; but to her question, had he not, under such circumstances, felt the
instinct to pray to God, he looked her calmly, seriously in the face,
and said he should as soon think of finding relief in turning
double-back somersaults. That was just what he said, and she knew he was
perfectly truthful. He said, however, it was wise to pray, or go through
any innocent manœuvre that would insure relief; and then he showed how
the real method was distraction, as he called it—calling into action new
faculties of the mind, and thus resting the overwrought ones. I don’t
find it much use to pray. Praying cannot remove disgrace, and shame, and
suffering; but I trust in the unknown power that underlies all things.
That power must be God. Obeying our highest impulses is the only thing
we are sure is right. My highest impulse is to work for baby—to make her
life all that life can be to her. Yet I have one awful fear, whenever I
think of the future. When she goes out among children, in the streets or
at school, they will no doubt tell her she is a bastard! She may come to
me crying, and ask me what it means. Sometimes I think I would rather
she should die than grow up to find her mother—— Oh! no, no! That is
cowardly. I will make her respect me. I can read and study and educate
myself, so that she will be forced to respect me, whatever others say.
If I can only make money enough, I will take her abroad and educate her
there; but I will tell her all, just as soon as she can reason, and if
she inherits any of the soul of Dr. Forest, all will be well; but if she
should not be like him! If she should be like Mrs. Forest, or coarse in
soul like Dan——”
Thus thinking and foreshadowing, Susie reached home.