LAST YEARS
If this were a record of a life, and not a study of character, with the
side-lights bearing upon its development and idiosyncrasies, there
would remain much to write of Eugene Field after his return from
abroad. Much came to him in fame, in fortune, in his friendships, and
in his home. Two more children were born to brighten his hearthstone
and refresh his memories of childhood and the enchanting ways of
children. The elder of these two, a son, was named Roswell Francis, a
combination of the names of Field's father and mother, with the change
of a vowel to suit his sex; the younger, his second daughter, was
christened Ruth, after Mrs. Gray, in whose home Field had found, more
than a score of years before, the disinterested affection of a mother,
"a refuge from temptation, care, and vexation."
Although immediately upon getting back Field resumed his daily grind of
"Sharps and Flats" for the Chicago Record, his paragraphs showed more
and more the effects of his reading and his withdrawal from the
activities and associations of men. Mankind continued to interest him
as much as ever, but books wearied him less, and in his home were more
easily within reach. This home was now at 420 Fullerton Avenue, an
old-fashioned house on the northern limit of old Chicago, rather off
the beaten track. It was the fifth place the Field household had set up
its lares and penates since coming to Chicago. In consequence of his
collecting mania, his impedimenta had become a puzzle to house and a
domestic cataclysm to move.
By 1891 Field realized, as none of his family or friends did, that his
health would never be better, and that it behooved him to put his house
in order and make the most of the strength remaining. If he needed the
words of a mentor to warn him, he could have found them in the brief
memoir his uncle, Charles Kellogg, had written of his father. In that I
find this remarkable anticipation of what befell his son, written of
Roswell M. Field--who, be it remembered, started in life with a healthy
and vigorous body, whereas uncertain health and a rebellious stomach
were Eugene Field's portion all the days of his life.
He [Field's father] made the perusal of the Greek and Latin classics
his most delightful pastime. In fact, he resorted to this scientific
research, particularly in the department of mathematics, for his
chief mental recreation. It is greatly to be regretted that he
neglected to combine, with his cessation from professional labor,
some employment which would have revived and strengthened his
physical frame. He was averse to active exercise, and for some years
before his death he lived a life of studious seclusion which would
have been philosophical had he not violated, in the little care he
took of his health, one of the most important lessons which
philosophy teaches. At a comparatively early age he died of physical
exhaustion, a deterioration of the bodily organs, and an incapacity,
on their part, to discharge the vital functions--a wearing out of
the machine before the end of the term for which its duration was
designed. He was eminently qualified to serve, as well as to adorn,
society, and in all likelihood he would have found in a greater
variety of occupation some relief from the monotonous strain under
which his energies prematurely gave way.
But the conditions that confronted Eugene Field at the age of forty-one
were very different from those under which his father succumbed
prematurely at sixty-one. He had made a name and fame for himself, but
had not stored any of the harvest his writings were beginning to yield.
He could write, as he did, that he expected to do his best literary
work when a grandfather, but he had no belief that he would live to
enjoy that happy Indian summer of paternity. He was tired of being
moved from rented flat to rented house with his accumulated belongings,
and he yearned with the "sot" New England yearning for a permanent
home, a roof-tree that he could call his own, a patch of earth in which
he could "slosh around," with no landlord to importune for grudging
repairs.
And so Field's life during his last years has to be considered as a
struggle with physical exhaustion, fighting off the inevitable
reckoning until he could provide himself and his family with a home
and leave to his dear ones the means of retaining it, with the
opportunities of education for the juniors. And bravely and cheerily he
faced the situation. Neither in his social relations nor in his daily
task was there observable any trace of the tax he was putting upon his
over-strained energy. He could not afford to make the study of classics
a delightful pastime, as his father did, but he made it contribute a
constant and delightful fund of reference and allusion in his column.
His first books were selling steadily, and he worked assiduously to
make hay while the sun was still above the horizon. In quick
succession, "Echoes from the Sabine Farm," "With Trumpet and Drum," the
"Second Book of Verse," "The Holy Cross and Other Tales," and "Love
Songs of Childhood," with few exceptions, collected from his daily
contributions to the Chicago Record, were issued from the press in both
limited and popular editions.
On the top of his regular work, which in collected form began to be
productive beyond his fondest expectations, Field allowed himself to be
over-persuaded into entering the platform field. The managers of
reading-bureaus had been after him for years; but he had resisted their
alluring offers, because he would not make a show of himself, and the
exertion fagged him. But in the later years of his life they came at
him again, with the promise of more pay per night than he could get by
writing in a week, and he reluctantly made occasional engagements,
which were a drain on his vitality as well as an offence to his
peculiar notions of personal dignity. After each of these excursions
into the platform field, either in the triple alliance with "Bill" Nye
and James Whitcomb Riley, or with George W. Cable, in a most effective
combination, Field returned to his home in Chicago richer in pocket and
interesting experiences, but distinctly poorer in the vital reserve
necessary to prolong the battle with that rebellious stomach.
The presidential campaign of 1892 quite revived his interest in
politics and politicians, and drew him away from the association with
books at home and with the Saints and Sinners at McClurg's. For a time
it looked as if he had been weaned from the circle of collectors, and
never had his column held up to ridicule so fiercely the humbug and
hypocricy of political methods as during that summer. One day after the
nomination of Harrison and Reid, at Minneapolis, his column contained
no fewer than forty-one political paragraphs, each one "ringing the
bell" of mirth or scorn, as the subject warranted.
In the following winter there came the first hiatus in his regular
contributions to the Record. But he resumed work in May, his return
being heralded by a paragraph beginning, "This is a beautiful world,
and life herein is very sweet," a note theretofore seldom heard in his
paragraphs, though often struck in his "Profitable Tales"; and
thenceforward in his daily work his thoughts recur to the beauty of the
world and his gladness to be in it. Thus in the following July he
wrote:
What beautiful weather this is! How full of ozone the atmosphere is;
how bright the sunshine is, and how blue this noble lake of ours
lies under the cloudless sky! It is simply ideal weather. Who does
not rejoice in the change from the oppressive heat of last week?
Vigor is restored to all. Commerce revives, and humanity is hopeful
and cheering again.
And what lovely nights we are having! The moonlight was never more
glorious. Unhappy is that man, old or young, who hath not a
sweetheart to share with him the poetic grace of our satellite! And
such nights for sleep! Morning comes before it is welcome.
Yes, this world of ours is very beautiful, and we are glad that we
are in and of it.
The summer of 1893, with the crowds and various excitements of the
World's Fair, was very exhausting to Field, albeit he enjoyed the
wonder and beauty of the Columbian Exposition with all the intent
eagerness of a twelve-year-old lad at a country circus. Everything that
happened down at Jackson Park that memorable season, especially the
social rivalries of the different managing bodies, was fair game for
his roguish wit. The liberties which he took with the names and
reputations of public men showed that the old spirit of waggery was
not dead within him. This is illustrated in such verses as these:
_The shades of night were falling fast
As through the world's fair portal passed
A certain Adlai Stevenson,
Whose bead-like eyes were fixed upon
The Midway.
He was the very favorite son
Of proud, immortal Bloomington:
And, hankering for forbidden joys,
He pined to whoop up with the boys
The Midway
"Try not those fakes," a stranger said,
"Unless you're hankering to be bled!"
Alas, these words were all for naught--
With still more fervor Adlai sought
The Midway.
"Beware the divers games of chance,
Beware that Street in Cairo dance!"
All, all in vain, the warning cry--
Adlai whooped, as he sailed by:
"The Midway!"
But why pursue this harrowing tale?
Far better we should drop the veil
Of secrecy before begin
His exploits in that Vale of Sin,
The Midway._
In the spring of 1892 Field was fortunate enough to find a house in
Buena Park, a northern suburb of Chicago, which, besides having the
convenience of a trolley connection with the centre of the city, had
the incalculable advantage of overlooking the extensive and beautiful
private grounds justly celebrated in "The Delectable Ballad of the
Waller Lot":
_Up yonder in Buena Park
There is a famous spot,
In legend and in history
Yclept the Waller Lot.
There children play in daytime
And lovers stroll by dark,
For 'tis the goodliest trysting place
In all Buena Park._
Next to owning a homestead, with rolling lawns and groves of old trees
and family associations, Field enjoyed having someone else bear the
burden of their maintenance for his immediate personal delectation, and
the Waller homestead, with its park effects, afforded him that
inexpensive pleasure. His windows looked out upon a truly sylvan scene,
the gates to which were always invitingly open, southern fashion, to
congenial wayfarers. The more Field saw of the Waller lot, the more
completely did the old New England hankering after a homestead, with
acres instead of square feet of lawn and trees, take possession of him;
and the spectre of ten years' rent for inconvenient flats and houses
rose in his memory and urged him to buy land and build for himself.
This finally resulted in the following letter to the old friend to whom
he always went in any financial emergency, and from whom he never came
empty handed away:
DEAR MR. GRAY: An experience of a good many years has convinced me
that the best way to deal with one's fellow-creatures, and
particularly with one's friends, is directly and candidly. This is
one of the several considerations which lead me to write to you now
asking you whether it be within your power (and also whether it be
your willingness) to help me buy a home in Chicago. Julia has been
at me for a year to ask this of you. I have hesitated to do so in
the fear that the application might seem to be an attempt to take
advantage of your friendship for me--a friendship manifested in many
ways and covering a period of many years. Perhaps, however, we can
now look at the matter more as a business proposition than would
have been possible a year or two ago, for I am at last in a position
to pay interest promptly on a considerable amount of money. To be
more explicit, the sum of One Hundred and Fifty Dollars ($150) is
set aside monthly by the Record toward what Mr. Lawson calls my
"building fund," which sum the Record is prepared to guarantee and
pay to anybody making me the loan of money necessary to secure the
home I want.
I am very anxious for a habitation of my own. The desire is one that
gives me no peace, and I see no other way to its fulfilment than
through the liberality of any friend, or friends, with money to
lend. Before setting my heart upon any locality, or upon any
particular spot, it is wise that I should know whether and where the
assistance I need can be had. My first application is to you, and I
make it timidly, for, as I have said, it is very distasteful to me
to do that which may look like imposing upon friendship. In case you
found it possible and feasible to aid me, I should want you to come
to Chicago and take a look over the field with Julia and me.
We are fairly well. With every cordial regard,
Yours affectionately,
EUGENE FIELD.
Buena Park, September 16th, 1893.
There had ever been but one response from Mr. Gray to such an appeal as
this from his quondam ward, and Field was not disappointed this time.
But _l'homme propose et Dieu dispose_; and in this case there was no
woman to intervene, as in the Spanish version of the proverb, to
"discompose" the disposition of Deity. Before the project contemplated
in Field's letter took tangible shape, however, he was laid on his back
by a severe cold, which developed into pneumonia. On his recovery, the
doctor advised that he should go to California; and on November 8th he
wrote to Mr. Gray, asking him if he and his niece could not be ready to
accompany him about the 1st of December. Concluding a very brief note,
he said: "Writing makes me very tired, so pray pardon my brutal
brevity. I send very much love to you and yours. Many, many times have
I thought of you, dear friend, during the last three painful weeks, and
I have wished that you were here, that I might speak with you." Mr.
Gray arranged to join Field on the trip, which the latter outlined in a
letter to him December 4th, 1893:
I shall probably be ready to start for Los Angeles the latter part
of this week. My plans at present are very limited, extending only
to Los Angeles and San Diego. At the latter point it will be wise
for me to remain three weeks. That will practically make me a well
man. It is said to be a lovely spot. From there I shall want to go
for a week or ten days to Madame Modjeska's ranch, located ten miles
from the railway, half-way between San Diego and Los Angeles. It is
a large ranch--1,000 acres. Madame Modjeska has put it at my
disposal, and Lynch and you must help me bear the responsibility
thereof. Later in the winter we will go up to San Francisco and
visit Henry Field awhile. I will let you know when we start, and if
you can't join us at Kansas City, suppose you come on as soon as you
can and join me at San Diego. We go to Los Angeles by the Santa Fe.
On receipt of this, telegraph me if you can leave Saturday or
Sunday. If you are cramped for finances, what sort of a fix do you
suppose I'm in? But we must all live; we cannot afford to die just
yet. I went down to dinner for the first time on Thursday; I am
feeling pretty brisk. Love to Miss Eva.
Ever affectionately yours, with a sore finger,
EUGENE FIELD.
Field did not find in California the "glorious climate" which the
well-meant advice of his physicians had led him to expect. His going up
to San Francisco in winter to visit his cousin was a mistake, which he
quickly regretted, as the following testifies:
DEAR MR. GRAY: I am very tired of freezing to death, and I have made
up my mind to get into a country where I can at least _keep warm_.
Ever since I got to California I have shivered, and shivered, and
shivered, and there seem to be no facilities for ameliorating this
unpleasant condition here. I am told that in six months or a year
the new-comer becomes acclimated; I do not regard that as
encouraging. So I am heading for New Orleans. But we drop off at Los
Angeles to admit of my being with you long enough to write the
memoir of dear Mrs. Gray--a duty to which I shall apply myself with
melancholy pleasure. I think we shall arrive Thursday morning. I
hope you are all well, and that Miss Eva has not yet been carried
off by any pirate or Philadelphia brewer. I continue to gain in
weight.
Affectionately yours,
EUGENE FIELD.
Alameda, Cal.,
January 6th, 1894, Saturday evening.
Field kept the promise of this letter, and the memoir of Mrs. Gray
then written is a genuine work of love, composed amid "environments,"
as he wrote, "conducive to the sincerity and the enthusiasm which
should characterize such a noble task." Here is his picture of the
surroundings, redolent of the incense of sunshine and flowers that
fills that favored clime:
A glorious panorama is spread before me--such a picture as the
latitude of southern California presents at the time when elsewhere
upon this continent of ours the resentment of winter is visited. All
around me is the mellow grace of sunshine, roses, lilies,
heliotropes, carnations, marigolds, nasturtiums, marguerites, and
geraniums are a-bloom; and as far as the eye can reach, the green
velvet of billowing acres is blended with the passion of wild
poppies; the olive, the orange, and the lemon abound; yonder a
vineyard lies fast asleep in the glorious noonday; the giant rubber
trees in all this remarkable fairy-land are close at hand; and the
pepper, the eucalyptus, the live oak, and the palm are here, and
there, and everywhere.
A city is in the distance; the smoke that curls up therefrom makes
dim fantastic figures against the beautiful blue of the sky. There
is toil in that place, and the din of busy humanity; but upon this
faraway hillside, with the sweetest gifts of Nature about me, I care
not for these things. I am soothed by the melodies of wild birds,
and by the music of the gentle winds that come from the great white
ocean beyond the valleys and the hills, away off there where the
ships go sailing.
Perhaps Ruskin, the great artist-master of word-painting, might have
produced as perfect a gem of English description as this. But who
besides of our contemporaries has? To my mind, it is the proof of
the perfection of the technical skill in expression to which Field
arrived through arduous years, softened and refined by the emotions
of affection and gratitude which swept over him as he thought of her
who had been a mother to him. It has its counterpart in the
succeeding description of the Pelham hills, in which "the yonder
glimpse of the Pacific becomes the silver thread of the
Connecticut," which I have already quoted in a previous chapter.
Evidently, too, the glorious climate of California was a blessing which
brightened as Field took his flight toward the East. Early in February
he was back in the harness in Chicago, celebrating his return with
characteristic gayety in "Lyrics of a Convalescent." But his
contributions to the paper through the winter and early spring of 1894
were confined to occasional verse. After a short trip to New Orleans,
in April, he resumed active work the first week in May; and for the
remainder of the year his column gave daily evidence of his mental
activity and cheerfulness.
It was while in New Orleans in the spring of 1894 that the following
incident, illustrative of the boyish freaks that still engaged Field's
ingenuity, occurred. I quote from a letter of one of the participants,
Cyrus K. Drew, of Louisville: "I met Field on one of his pilgrimages
for old bottles, pewter ware, and any old thing in the junk line. Some
friends of mine introduced our party to Mr. Field and Wilson Barrett
and members of his company then playing an engagement in New Orleans.
Mr. Field's greatest delight was in teasing Miss Maude Jeffries, a
Mississippi girl, then leading lady in Mr. Barrett's company. She was
very sensitive and modest, and it delighted Field greatly when he could
playfully embarrass her. One day I found him in his room busy on the
floor pasting large sheets of brown paper together. He had written a
poem to Miss Jeffries in the centre of a large sheet of this wrapping
paper in his characteristic small hand--indeed, much smaller than
usual. On the edges of this sheet I found him pasting others of equal
size, so that the whole when complete made a single sheet about eight
feet square. This he carefully folded up to fit an improvised envelope
about the size of a Mardi Gras souvenir, then being distributed about
the city. With the joyousness of a boy about to play a prank, he chased
down-stairs at the noon hour when he knew Miss Jeffries was at lunch
with Mr. Barrett in the cafe of the Grunewald. Calling a waiter, he
sent the huge envelope in to her table. She glanced at it a moment and
then gradually drew the package from its envelope, while Field and I
stood watching behind the entrance. It spread all over the table as she
continued to unfold the enormous sheet, and its rustle attracted the
attention of nearly every one in the room. When it had spread itself
all over Mr. Barrett, who meanwhile was laughing heartily, Miss
Jeffries discovered the poem in Field's hand, and, although blushing
crimson, joined in the laughter, for she knew he was somewhere about
enjoying her discomfort."
By August of this same year he had his "Love Songs of Childhood" in
shape for the publishers, and had once more taken up the project of
acquiring a home. What Field was doing, as well as thinking about, a
little later is pretty accurately reflected in the following letter to
Mr. Gray:
DEAR MR. GRAY: Ever since your return from the East I have been
intending to write to you. I have time and again reproached myself
for my neglect to do so. I have not been very well. About the first
of September I had one of my old dyspeptic attacks, and since then
my stomach has troubled me more or less, reducing me in weight and
making me despondent. I think, however, I am now on the upgrade once
more. After you left here Julia was quite sick for a spell. She was
on the verge of nervous prostration. I packed her off to Lynch's for
a month, and she came back very much improved, and now she weighs
more than ever before. The children are well. Trotty attends a day
school near by. Pinny has gone back to his military school, and is
doing _very well_. I would like to send Daisy to the same school,
for he is not doing well at public school; but my expenses have been
so large the last year that I cannot incur any further expense. The
babies are doing finely. The boy is as fat as butter, and handsome
as ever. Little Ruth cut her first tooth to-day. I never loved a
baby as I love her. She is very well now; her flesh has become solid
and she is gaining in weight. She is playful and good-natured, sure
prognostics of good health. Roswell and Etta went East the 9th of
September, and were gone fifteen days; they visited Amherst, Boston,
New York, Greenfield, Brattleboro, and Newfane. Roswell regretted
not knowing your whereabouts, for he wanted to have you along for a
sentimental journey in Vermont. Etta is now with us. She returns to
Kansas City next Sunday night. I am pained to hear of Dr. Johnson's
illness; pray, give him my love and tell him that he ought to be
less frisky if he hopes to keep his limbs sound. I am not surprised
that you have got to go South. And I am glad of it. Yes, I am glad
to know that you will get away from business and that implacable
crowd who are constantly trying to bleed you of money. I want to see
you enjoying life as far as you can, and I want to see _you_ getting
actual benefit from the money which you have earned by your many
years of conscientious industry. To me there is no other spectacle
in the world so humiliating as that of people laying themselves out
to extort money from others. Do tear yourself away from the sponges.
You and Miss Eva ought to have a quiet winter in a congenial
climate. I hope you will go to Florida, and, after doing
Jacksonville and St. Augustine, why not rent a little furnished
cottage and keep house for the winter? Along in February I will run
down and make you a visit. Now, think this over, and let me know
what you think of it. Mr. Gray, there is no need of there being any
sentimentality between us; there never has been. Yet there is every
reason why the bond of affection should be a very strong one. My
father and you were associates many years, and at his death he very
wisely constituted you the guardian (to a great extent) of his two
boys. I feel that you have more than executed his wishes; I feel
that you have fulfilled those hopes which he surely had that you
would be a kind of second father to us, counselling us prudently and
succoring us in a timely and generous manner, for which we--for I
speak for us both--are deeply, affectionately grateful. It would
please me so very much to have you promise me that if ever you are
ill or if ever you feel that my presence would relieve your
loneliness you will apprise me and let me come to you. If I could
afford to do so, I would cheerfully abandon my daily work and go to
live with you, doing such purely literary work as delights me; that
would, indeed, be very pleasant to me. One of my great regrets is
that circumstances compel me to grind away at ephemeral work which
is wholly averse to my tastes. But enough of this. Within a month my
new book, "Love Songs of Childhood," will be out. I regard it as my
best work so far, and am hoping it will be profitable. I do
occasional readings. This afternoon I appeared at the Art Institute
with Joseph Jefferson, Sol Smith Russell, Octave Thanet, and Hamlin
Garland. I recited "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod," "Seein' Things at
Night," and "Our Two Opinions," and was heartily encored, but
declined to do anything further. Julia, Ida, Posie, and I may drop
in on you Saturday morning to spend Sunday. Would you like it? Would
the child be too much for the peace and dignity of the household?
Dear Mr. Gray, do be good to _yourself_. Don't let the rest of
creation worry you one bit. You are about the only man I have to
depend upon, for you know the good that is in me, as well as the
folly. Our love to the Butterflyish Miss Eva, and more love to
you--God bless you! Ever affectionately yours,
EUGENE FIELD.
1033 Evanston Ave., Station X, Chicago,
October 25th, 1894.
This is the most soberly, self-revealing letter written by Eugene
Field that has come within my ken. Through it the reader is taken into
the confidence which existed between the writer and his constant
friend--a confidence further extended in the following letter which
reports progress in the attainment of "the house":
DEAR MR. GRAY: Our deal was closed last evening (Monday). It would
have been closed Saturday but for a clerical error, which put the
whole matter off over Sunday. I have told the cashier at the Record
office to pay you One Hundred Dollars a month, beginning in May. She
will communicate with you as to how you desire remittances made.
Julia and I feel deeply obligated to you for your prompt and cordial
action, without which we might have been seriously embarrassed. The
plans we have at present are to introduce gas into the house, to add
two rooms, and to have a bath-room and laundry tubs put in. We shall
do nothing about a heating apparatus until late in the summer. This
will enable us not to borrow any money until August; by that time we
shall be able to see our way clearer than we do now. Mr. Stone wants
to help us somewhat, and he has told us to send the bill for
house-painting to him. We shall be compelled to go to the expense of
a new cooking range, and I have enough balance at the Record office
to pay for that. I am hoping that we shall be able to move into the
new quarters by May 1. The children are well. Pinny comes home next
Monday for a fortnight's vacation, and we shall be glad to see him.
I had a letter from Carter, _alias_ Rolling-pin, the other day, and
he renews his entreaty for me to join him in his publication venture
in St. Louis--but that is wholly impossible. You have probably seen
by the newspapers how savagely the Republicans swept the board in
Chicago at the elections; the affair was practically unanimous. I
can't see that there is much left of the party which Emory Storrs
once designated "an organized appetite." We all unite in
affectionate remembrances to you and Miss Eva. We shall be able and
glad this summer to have you with us for a while.
Affectionately yours,
EUGENE FIELD.
1033 Evanston Ave., Station X, Chicago,
April 9th, 1895.
"The house" upon which Field devoted so much thought at this time, and
every dollar he could raise by forestalling his income, was a
commodious, old-fashioned building in Buena Park, which stood well back
from Clarendon Avenue in a grove of native oaks within sight of Lake
Michigan. Its yard was mostly a sand waste, which needed a liberal top
dressing of black earth to produce the semblance to a lawn. The
remodelling of the house and the process of converting sand into a
green sward with flower-beds and a kitchen garden furnished light
employment and a never-failing subject for quips and bucolic
absurdities to its owner, to whom land ownership seemed to give a new
grip on life. The story of the remaking of this building into a
comfortable modern house and of converting the sandy soil surrounding
it into a land of horticulture promise is told by Field in whimsical
style in "The House," a work unfinished at the time of his death. The
first instalment of this story appeared in "Sharps and Flats" on May
15th. Eighteen chapters followed on successive days without a break. By
August 15th, when the last instalment was printed, a vexatious series
of disappointments had robbed Field's humor of its natural buoyancy. He
therefore dropped the story in about the same unfinished stage as he
found his new home when his impatience finally took possession of it
before the carpenters and painters were all out. On May 14th he wrote
to his aged Mæcenas:
DEAR MR. GRAY: I returned from my St. Joseph's trip last Saturday
and found your draft awaiting me here. The men have begun to push
work on the house, and it is expected that the plastering will be
done this week. I have no doubt that we shall be able to move into
our new home the first of June, although the place may not be in
complete trim at that time. I cannot tell you how pleasurably I
anticipate life in the house which I can call a permanent home. I
expect to do better work now than ever before. And I want you to
understand that Julia and I keenly appreciate that but for you the
important move we have made could hardly have been undertaken. We
are hoping that you will run up here for a day or two early in June.
Our love to you and Miss Eva. Affectionately yours,
EUGENE FIELD.
The next and last letter which I shall quote from this interesting
correspondence has the unique distinction of being the only one from
him of all that passed between them that is not in Field's own
chirography. In inditing this, he substituted the serviceable
typewriter for the pen, that had been his companion for so many years,
and that had served him "so diligently," as he so beautifully
acknowledged in the apostrophe to it addressed to his brother Roswell.
It bears date July 2d, and testifies to the writer's failure to realize
the bright anticipation of getting into his new home during the early
days of the leafy month of June:
Chicago, July 3d, 1895.
DEAR MR GRAY: For the last two weeks I have been deferring writing
to you, hoping from day to day that I would be able to announce our
removal into the new house, but it seems as though the Fates are
conspired against us. First it was one thing to delay our removal,
then it was another, and finally everything. Here it is the first of
the month, and we are still in our rented quarters. We intended to
begin moving yesterday, and up to the very last moment on Saturday
hoped to be able to do so, but the painters, and carpenters, and the
plumbers combined against us, and we are in the spot where you saw
us when last in Chicago.
From this beginning you will gather that the new house is in rather
a sad plight. It is not altogether so. The paper-hangers and
painters are nearly through with the second-story, and have done
considerable work down-stairs. I suppose that if everything was
ready for them they could get through in two days. The work that
remains for the carpenters and for the plumbers to do is of a
pottering character, just enough and of just such a character as to
be slow, and, consequently, exasperating. I presume to say that we
will be in the house at the end of this week, but another week must
elapse before we are in anything like order. Meanwhile the painters
have nearly completed painting the outside of the building, which,
with its new fresh coat of white paint and its green blinds is going
to look quite stunning, we think.
The front lawn has engaged my attention pretty much all of the time
since you were here, and I have brought it around into a state of
subjection, although I am told--and I think--that it will not be at
its best before another year. The neighbors have been very kind, and
have provided me with plants and flowers, and other green growing
things, and the consequence is that I have a fine lot of flowers,
roses, nasturtiums, and poppies. I have devoted about five square
feet of ground to pop-corn, and, not knowing anything about the
habits of the creature, planted it in a bunch. I have now enough
pop-corn to do the whole State of Illinois for the next two years.
It grows so fast that I seem almost to hear it grow. I also have
thirty hills of potatoes which I planted myself. I dug them up every
day to see how they were getting along. The neighbors made all sorts
of fun, and said the potatoes would not live. They are not only
living, but flourishing. All that I fear now is that the potato-bug
will put in an appearance, and thus blast my first and fondest
agricultural hope.
You see I am so devoted to the garden and to the lawn that I am
likely to neglect telling you what you are probably most anxious to
know about--the interior of the house. We have extended a porch from
the front side around to the north side of the house, so that when
you come here next (and I hope that will be soon), you will be able
to step from your room out through a French window upon the north
side to the porch. This change we did not have in view when you were
here, but our friends tell us it is a vast improvement upon the
original plan. The front door is a very imposing affair. It is of
solid oak, very tasteful in design and very imposing in appearance.
We are going to hang our best brass knocker upon it, and this
ornamentation will enhance its beauty. The front hall is completed,
and so is the parlor, through which you go to enter your room. The
large front room on the ground floor, which we call the library, is
now in the hands of the cabinetmaker. By this you are to understand
that we are having the oak trimming stained very dark so as to match
the permanent book-cases which the cabinetmaker has constructed for
us, and which will be set up this week. These book-cases extend
around three sides of the room, and will be capable of containing
about twelve hundred books. They are very handsome pieces of
furniture. We had them constructed in such a way as to be able to
add glass doors when we think we can afford to do so. We shall not
put any mantel either in the library or in Julia's room until the
financial outlook clears, for, as you surmised when you were here,
the funds with which you provided us are not sufficient to do all
that we want to do.
The roof to the old house will have to be patched up some. Then I
think we ought to have a roadway constructed from the front gate to
the house. The road at present is pretty nearly impassable. My idea
is that we ought to have a road-bed of coal cinders rolled down and
covered with fine gravel. This kind of road in private grounds is, I
understand, practically everlasting. Then, we have got to have a
front gate, the old affair having gone all to pieces. It is not at
all necessary to have a new fence for some time to come. I am told
that a roadway such as we want will cost $50. This means, I suppose,
$75. Mr. Stone is going to pay for the exterior painting of the
house. I suppose we ought to have the shingle roof painted. One coat
would be sufficient, and would involve a cost of $35 at the outside.
So far we have done pretty well, I think, with the means at our
disposal. What we have put into the house is of a good and durable
quality. Of course I understand, and so do you, that if we had the
same work to do over again doubtless we could do it cheaper, if not
better. There are also changes which have suggested themselves as we
went along which we did not deem it wise to make, inasmuch as they
were not absolutely necessary, and would have involved an
expenditure which we did not feel justified in making.
I am hoping that you will find it possible to spend your birthday
with us. If you will send me the date of the auspicious anniversary
I will gladly send passes for you and Miss Eva to come, and we shall
try to make your stay pleasant. You asked me in your letter what
plans I had for a summer trip. I have no plans at all. It is so cool
here that I do not feel disposed to go away from home. Then, again,
I am so much interested in the new premises that I find in that
interest another reason for staying home.
It has occurred to me that it might be both wise for you and Miss
Eva to make this point a base for operations this summer. Why can't
you both come here, and from here make such excursions into
Wisconsin and Michigan as may suggest themselves to you from week to
week as pleasant and profitable. It is possible that either Julia or
I, or maybe both of us, may be able to join some of these little
desultory trips with you.
Roswell has been called to an editorial position on the
Times-Herald, and he will begin work on the first of August,
arriving here, however, about the middle of July, and devoting a
fortnight to getting settled in quarters of some kind or another,
and perhaps taking a few days' rest in Wisconsin. So you see, if you
can arrange to be here on your birthday we shall all have a nice
family visit together.
Trotty has been in Kansas City nearly three months. She will be home
in a day or two accompanied by her Aunt Etta, who comes ahead of
Roswell to hunt up quarters.
The children are well. Julia looks well, but I think she is pretty
well fagged out, having worried a good deal about the house, and
being unaccustomed to the contrary ways of workmen. I am feeling
better now than I have felt for five years, which fact I impute very
largely to the out-of-door exercise which I am taking in the garden
and upon the bicycle. I am doing good work and am feeling generally
encouraged.
Give my love to Miss Eva, and as for yourself, be assured always
that we appreciate your very great kindness, and that we are very
grateful for it. Let us hear from you very soon, and be sure to get
your affairs in such condition that you can be here upon your
birthday.
Always affectionately yours,
EUGENE FIELD.
A postscript by pen informed Mr. Gray that the Record office held $200
for him on account, for which a draft would be sent as soon as the
cashier returned from a brief vacation.
During the years here passing in review Field entered upon a new
rôle--that of entertaining distinguished visitors for the Record. While
Mr. Stone was editor of the Morning News this important incident of
metropolitan journalism fell to his lot, and with Field as his first
lieutenant, he enjoyed it. Mr. Lawson, when he assumed the duties of
editorship in addition to the details of publishing, had no time to
waste on such social amenities, and thereafter delegated to Field the
task of representing the Record on all such occasions. As Field
exercised his own choice of occasions, as well as guests, the task was
entirely congenial to his nature, and as Mr. Lawson paid the bills,
fully within the narrow limits of his purse. One of the most memorable
of the entertainments that followed from this happy arrangement was a
luncheon at the Union League Club, in honor of Edward Everett Hale. The
company invited to meet the liberal divine consisted of a few Saints,
more Sinners, and a fair proportion of the daughters of Eve. Field
prepared the menu with infinite care, and to the carnal eye it read
like a dinner fit for the gods. But in reality it consisted of typical
New England dishes, in honor of our New England guest, masquerading in
the gay and frivolous lingo of the French capital. Codfish-balls, with
huge rashers of bacon, boiled corned beef and cabbage, pork and beans,
with slices of soggy Boston brown-bread, corn-bread and doughnuts, the
whole topped off with apple-pie and cheese, were served with difficult
gravity by the waiters to an appreciative company. The bill promised
some rare and appropriate wine for each course, and the table flashed
with the club's full equipment of cut glass for each plate. But alas
and alack-a-day! when the waiters came to serve the choicest vintages
from the correctly labelled bottles, they gave forth nothing but
Waukesha spring water. Not even "lemonade of a watery grade" did we
have to wash down our luncheon, where every dish was seasoned to the
taste of a salted codfish. But we had all the water we could drink, and
before we were through we needed it. Sol Smith Russell was among the
guests that day, and he and Field gave imitations of each other, which
left the company in doubt as to which was the original.
It was on an occasion somewhat similar to this, given in the early
winter, that Field perpetrated one of his most characteristic jokes,
with the assistance of Mr. Stone, by this time manager of the
Associated Press. The latter, at no little trouble, had provided as
luscious a dessert of strawberries as the tooth of epicure ever watered
over. They were the first of the season, and fragrant with the
fragrance that has given the berry premiership in the estimation of
others besides Isaac Walton. While everybody was proving that the
berries tasted even better than they looked, and exclaiming over the
treat, Field was observed to push his saucer out of range of
temptation. At last Stone remarked Field's action, and asked: "What's
the matter, Gene, don't you like strawberries?"
"Like them?" said Field; "I fairly adore strawberries! They are the
only fruit I prefer to pie."
"Then why don't you eat yours?" queried Stone.
"B-because," answered Field, with a deep quaver in his voice,
"b-because I'm afraid it would s-s-spoil my appetite for p-prunes."
Through these years Field was also the central figure in the
entertainments of the Fellowship Club, and contributed more to the
reputation these attained for wit and mirth-provoking scenes than all
other participators combined. But he had begun to weary of the somewhat
forced play of such gatherings, and found more pleasure watching the
children romping in the Waller lot, or pottering about and overseeing
the planting in his own new front yard. He had arrived at the time when
he wanted to get away from the city and into the country as far as the
engagements of his profession would permit. This spirit is dominant in
these lines to his friend Louis Auer:
_The August days are very hot, the vengeance of the sky
Has sapped the groves' vitality and browned the meadows dry;
Creation droops, and languishes, one cannot sleep or eat--
Dead is the city market-place, and dead the city street!
It is the noontime of the year, when men should seek repose
Where rustic lakes go rippling and the water-lily grows;
Come, let us swerve a season from the dusty urban track,
And off with Louis Auer to his Lake Pewaukee shack!
Upon a slight declivity that quiet refuge lies,
Where stately forest-trees observe the hot of cloudy skies!
The shack is back a goodly distance from the mighty lake
Whose waters on the pebbly beach with pretty music break;
Boats go a-sailing to and fro, and fishermen are there
With schemes to tempt the pike or bass or pickerel from their lair--
Oh with sailing, shooting, fishing, you can fancy there's no lack
Of fun with Louis Auer at his Lake Pewaukee shack.
The shack is wide and rangey, with bunks built up around,
While on the walls the trophies of the flood and field abound;
The horns of elk and moose, the skins of foxes, beavers, mink,
Keep glossy guard above the horde that gaily eat and drink;
It's oh, the famous yarns we tell and famous yarns we hear,
And we taste the grateful viands or we quaff the foaming beer;
And many a lively song we sing and many a joke we crack
When we're guests of Louis Auer at his Lake Pewaukee shack.
No wonder that too swiftly speed the happy hours away
In the company of Silverman and Underwood and Shea;
Of Yenowine, McNaughten, Kipp, Peck, Lush, and General Falk--
Eight noble men in action, but nobler yet in talk!
These are the genial spirits to be met with in that spot.
Where are winters never chilly and summers never hot!
And a fellow having been there always hankers to get back
With those friends of Louis Auer's in that Lake Pewaukee shack.
To this o'ercrowded city for the nonce let's say goodby,
And northward to the lake of Pewaukee let us hie!
To-night we'll lay us down to dreams of calm and cool delight,
Where owls and dogs and Kipp make solemn music all the night;
But with our fill of satisfying, big voluptuous cakes,
Such only as that prince of cooks friend Louis Auer makes,
We'll sleep and dream sweet dreams despite that roaring pack,
So come, let's off with Auer to his Lake Pewaukee shack._