_BOSTON DAYS._
THE next morning Aunt Belinda called me into the library and asked me
what she should give me to make up for the loss of my doll.
"Please, Aunt Belinda, I don't want you to give me anything," I
answered.
"Not another doll?" asked my aunt.
"No, aunt, because another doll would not be the same doll if it was
ever so pretty, you know."
My aunt smiled. I never saw her smile without wishing that she would do
so oftener, for she looked really beautiful at such times.
"You mean, I suppose, that another doll would not have the same
associations," said my aunt. "But, Olivia, it is right that we should
make restitution to those whom we have injured, and therefore it is
proper that I should replace your doll or give you something in its
stead. What shall it be?"
I told Aunt Belinda I would rather leave the matter to her; so the next
time she went out she bought me a pretty ink-stand and portfolio.
Aunt Belinda and I got on much better after this affair of the doll.
For one thing, it opened her eyes in some degree to Elmina's true
character. She began to watch the girls, and thereby discovered a good
many things which surprised her not a little. One day when we came home
from walking with Phebe we found Aunt Belinda superintending Jane, the
chambermaid, who was moving Elmina's clothes and other possessions into
aunt's room.
"What are you doing, Jane?" ask Elmina, when my aunt was in the other
room.
"Moving your things, as you see," answered Jane. "You are to sleep in
missus's room after this, and Miss Livia and Miss Amelia to sleep in
here."
Poor little Amelia uttered a cry of joy and Elmina actually turned
white. For myself, I was not quite so well pleased. I was glad to have
Amelia freed from her tormentor, but I was not at all fond of her. Her
excessive timidity—cowardice, I called it—and her insincerity repelled
me, and I regretted the freedom and quietness of my own little room,
where I could sit and think my own thoughts about mother and Jeanne,
and almost imagine myself at home again. I hinted as much to Phebe when
I found myself alone with her, and received a very unexpected reply:
"Don't you s'pose my mistress" (Phebe never said "Missus," like the
other servants) "likes 'her' room to be quiet in just as much as you
do, Miss Olivia? Do you think 'she's' going to find it very pleasant to
live with such a girl as Miss Elmina? If she at her age is willing to
make such a sacrifice, I don't think you need complain about your part
of it."
I was silenced and a good deal ashamed, for I had not thought of Aunt
Belinda as making any sacrifice.
"I don't think you'll have much trouble with Amelia," continued Phebe,
seeing that I did not answer. "She's a biddable little thing enough
when she isn't scared out of her life; and I am sure you will be good
to her. I don't believe she will trouble any one very long, poor little
dear!"
"I am sure I want to be good to her," said I, "and I should like her
too, only—"
"Only what?" said Phebe as I hesitated.
"Well, she is such a little story-teller, Phebe. You can't believe a
word she says. She tells any lie that Elmina tells her to, just as she
did the other day about the noise in the school-room. And, after all,
Elmina owned up, and then Amelia was punished."
"My own notion is that Elmina has got to the end of her tether, or
pretty near it," said Phebe; "my mistress is beginning to open her
eyes. As to Amelia's lying, it is just as you say, and it's all a part
of the same thing. She is such a little coward! You needn't feel above
her, though, Miss Olivia. If Amelia had had such a home and such a
mother as yours, she would have been a very different girl; and if you
had grown-up as she has, you might have been different too."
I felt that this was quite true. I had been reading the "Life of David
Brainerd,"—the same book which my aunt had taken away from me as a
punishment—and it had inspired me with a great desire to "do good" to
somebody. I had built many delightful castles in the air as to what
I would accomplish in that line when I went to Vermont. But here was
missionary work close to my own door. I resolved at once that I would
be very kind to Amelia and do my best to teach her to speak the truth,
and that I would never get out of patience with her if her fears were
ever so troublesome.
To do myself justice—and I don't know but we are as much bound to do
justice to ourselves as to other people—I think I kept my resolution
pretty well, though it cost me a good deal of trouble. Amelia had no
notion of trustworthiness. She never thought herself bound to obey when
she was out of sight, or when she was, as she conceived, in no danger
of being found out and punished. I had been trained in very different
ways.
One of Aunt Belinda's rules—and not a bad one, on the whole—was that
there should be no talking after we went to bed. The very first night
we slept together Amelia began to whisper as soon as the light was out.
"Hush!" said I. "We mustn't talk."
"She can't hear us," said Amelia. "She is down in the parlour."
"That makes no difference; we are to mind just as much;" and I
resolutely turned my face away and refused to answer.
"I think you are real mean," said Amelia, at last, beginning to cry. "I
thought you said you would be good to me."
"It isn't being good to let you be naughty," I answered, truly enough.
"Come, now; don't be silly, but shut your eyes and go to sleep."
"I can't," answered Amelia. "I'm always afraid if I don't talk. I
listen and listen, and I hear people walking and whispering all round
the bed."
"Nonsense!" said I. "There is nobody here. Take hold of my hand and
say your prayers till you go to sleep. That's the way I do when I am
afraid."
But poor Amelia had not learned to take any comfort in her prayers.
They were to her only one more task,—rather worse than the others
because said to a Task-master whom she could not see, but who—if indeed
he were anything more than a part of the catechism—was always looking
out to catch her tripping. Finding that she really was frightened, I
took her in my arms, telling her that I would not talk, but I would
say a hymn to her. I was glad to find that this answered the purpose.
Her sobs and moanings gradually ceased, and she finally fell asleep
in my arms. I was a little doubtful in my own mind as to whether this
hymn-saying was an infraction of my aunt's rule, and at last I made up
my mind that I would ask her. I took an opportunity the very next day
when Amelia and I were out in the carriage with her.
"Aunt Belinda," said I, "Amelia was frightened last night after we went
to bed, and I said some hymns to her to get her to sleep. Was that
breaking the rule about talking?"
Amelia cast a glance of terrified reproach at me, and Aunt Belinda
looked decidedly surprised. She considered a moment before speaking, as
usual. Then she asked,—
"Are you sure you did nothing but repeat hymns, Olivia?"
It was, now my turn to consider. I did not like to get Amelia into a
scrape, but I was determined to be honest with my aunt.
"I will tell you just how it was, Aunt Belinda," said I. "Only
please don't be angry with Amelia. She did want to talk because she
was afraid, but I told her we must mind the rule. Then she was so
frightened she began to cry, and I told her I would say hymns to her,
and so I did; and she went to sleep pretty soon. But I thought I would
ask you before I did it again."
"You have done right," said my aunt, after another interval of
consideration. "No, I have no objection to your saying hymns after you
go to bed, provided you do nothing else. But how shall I know that you
do not?"
"Mother always believed me when I told her what I had done," I
answered, boldly. "I believe you, Aunt Belinda, because you have always
told the truth ever since I have known you. I don't see why you should
not believe me in the same way. I have never told you a lie yet, have
I?"
If I had tried to manage Aunt Belinda—which I certainly never did—I
could not have found a better method than the frankness I used toward
her. She was truthfulness itself, and she appreciated truthfulness in
others, though her system of management was not calculated to bring
it about. I was in doubt as to the effect of my bold words on this
occasion, but as I looked up at her I saw at once that she was not
angry.
"No, Olivia, I have never found you out in a lie," she answered; "and
as you say, I think justice requires me to trust you. If; then, you
will give me your word to indulge in no other conversation, I will
permit you to repeat to Amelia such hymns and verses as you already
know, and also the poems you may have learned during the day."
So this matter was settled, to my great delight.
My next effort was to make Amelia as open and frank with my aunt
as I was myself, but in this I never could succeed: she had been
too thoroughly cowed between Aunt Belinda's strictness and Elmina's
bullying. I don't think the system of education was a good one for any
child, but to one like Amelia it was utterly ruinous.
The fall and winter passed away quietly enough; and though I had times
of being dreadfully home-sick, I was not very unhappy on the whole. I
liked my lessons better every day, and especially my music-lessons.
My aunt had a harpsichord, which would be insignificant enough by the
side of a modern Steinway piano, but was a very fine instrument for
the time, and she played very well. She herself gave me a few lessons
by way of finding out whether I had a correct ear and some musical
talent, for she said—and I think truly—that where these are absent
music-lessons were only time and money thrown away. Finding that I
succeeded very well, she engaged for me the best master the city
afforded, and after that I practised an hour and a half every day. I
took great pleasure in my music, and very much delighted I was when I
was able to play Handel's "Harmonious Blacksmith," then quite a new
piece, so as to satisfy my aunt.
Elmina wished also to take lessons, but she had absolutely no ear for
music—indeed, she could hardly tell one tune from another—and my aunt
would not allow it, but said she might have drawing-lessons instead. I
think she might have done very well with them if she had chosen, but
she was vexed about the music-lessons, and would take no pains.
Amelia, on the contrary, seemed to find in Miss Sulley's instructions
exactly the stimulus she wanted. She showed a remarkable talent for
drawing, and especially for catching likenesses, and she made pencil
sketches of everybody in the house, from my aunt down to the cat,
some of which were extraordinary for so young a child. Of course her
drawings were incorrect, but they had a surprising degree of life
about them. I shall never forget her alarm when my aunt found one of
these portraits of herself on a loose bit of blotting-paper, nor her
change to delighted surprise when Aunt Belinda, instead of blaming her,
as she expected, praised the drawing and told her if she took pains,
she might perhaps become a good portrait painter, like some lady she
mentioned—Angelica Kaufmann, I think it was—who was attracting a great
deal of notice at the time.
Amelia worked with double diligence after this, and it happened with
her as I afterward observed to be the case with others—that success in
one point seemed to stimulate her powers in other directions. She began
to have some confidence in herself, and to recite without stammering.
She was always drawing in her hours of recreation, and she really
learned to take an interest in her English history when illustrated by
pictures of King Alfred burning the cake, and William the Conqueror
killing Harold at Hastings in a manner totally inconsistent not only
with the laws of war, but also of gravitation. My aunt was much pleased
with Amelia's improvement, and I heard her remark to Phebe that her
system was at last beginning to bear fruit.
Elmina did not improve. My aunt now watched her more closely, and
understood her better, so she could not do quite as much mischief as
formerly; but there was no amendment in her real disposition. In her
heart she hated my aunt and rebelled against her rule, and yet she was
jealous of any one whom she favoured or loved. She tyrannized over
Amelia, and tormented her in every possible way. She liked her own
comfort too well to come into open collision with Aunt Belinda, but her
obedience was all outward: there was no conscience about it.
I do not think Aunt Belinda's beloved system was at all calculated to
develop or cultivate the conscience. It set out with the proposition
that all children were bad as a matter of course. Mother always went
upon the supposition that her children meant to be good, and she was
always surprised and disappointed to find them otherwise, but Aunt
Belinda seemed to conclude that we meant to be naughty, and that the
only way to keep us within any kind of bounds was to fence us in with
endless restrictions and rules. Mother, on the contrary, had very few
rules. I think she used rather to give us principles and leave us to
apply them for ourselves.
It was in religious matters, however, that I think Aunt Belinda's
system was the worst, and had the worst effect. Good Christian as she
meant to be, she made the subject absolutely hateful to us children—at
least to Elmina and Amelia. My "Pilgrim's Progress" and the remembrance
of mother's teaching saved me from that extreme, but even to me the
vital truths of the gospel grew more and more dim and lifeless, and
my heavenly Father and my Saviour became not so much living persons
taking an interest in me, and wishing me to be good and happy, as
mere doctrines—things to be believed in as I believed in the rules
in Murray's grammar. If God had any reality, it was as a tremendous
law-giver and ruler, carrying on a system something like Aunt
Belinda's, only on an infinitely greater scale, or an engineer managing
some mighty machine of which I was an insignificant part which might
be taken out at any time and thrown into the fire. As I said, my aunt
used to give punishment lessons out of the Bible—a very effectual way
of making children dislike any book whatever. Phebe disapproved of this
method of punishment, and more than once spoke her mind freely on the
subject, but without producing any change.
My great pleasures this winter were the few letters I had from
home—not more than four or five in all, for communication was slow and
uncertain. These letters were written on large sheets, and every member
of the family added a little, mother's coming last of all. Jeanne told
me about the house and the neighbours, the new church and school-house
that were being built in the village, and the prospect there was of
her teaching the school next summer. Ruth told me about the cows and
sheep, the flying-squirrel Ezra had caught for her, and also of the
wolves they heard howling at night and the deer whose tracks father and
Ezra saw in the morning when they went out to the barn. Once she wrote
that Ezra had actually shot a fat bear. They were living on his flesh,
and Ezra was going to send the skin to Aunt Belinda for her carriage.
But mother's was the best of all. I used to read these letters over
and over till I knew them by heart. At first I was afraid Aunt Belinda
would ask to see them, but she was too much of a lady to do that, nor
did she ever ask any questions as to what I wrote in return. It was
this lady-like spirit and her strict sense of justice which made her
rule endurable.
My own letters home were very long and full, but I said very little
in them of the things which annoyed me, while I enlarged upon my
music-lessons, my embroidery, and the books I was reading. I told how
my aunt had taken me to see a lady who had just received from England
one of those wonderful new instruments called a piano-forte, how I
had been allowed to play upon it, and how my aunt had promised that
I should some time have one of my own if I were industrious with my
music. I told how I had seen Mrs. Adams, wife of the Vice-president,
how I had sat in the room with her and heard her describe the wonderful
things she had seen abroad, and had had the distinguished honour of
playing one of my music-lessons for her. I told of my new dresses and
my drives with my aunt. In short, I told of everything pleasant, and
kept my annoyances in the back-ground as much as possible. My aunt
would sometimes write little notes to be enclosed in my letters. I
never saw these notes, but from what I heard, I suppose they were
satisfactory to mother.
Poor Amelia used sometimes to cry when she saw me reading or
answering my letters from home. She was far happier since she began
drawing-lessons, and she and Aunt Belinda got on better, but she still
sighed for her old home in Nantucket and for her mother, and she
still—which was no marvel—disliked Elmina, though she feared her less
than formerly. She had acquired a new weapon of defence, and even of
offence, in her pencil, and she produced some caricatures of Elmina
which excited their subject fury and made Miss Sulley laugh heartily.
My aunt saw a great deal of company in a quiet way, though she never
gave large entertainments. She used to have tea- and supper-parties of
twenty or thirty ladies and gentlemen, at which the gentlemen rather
preponderated, attracted, I fancy, fully as much by the excellence of
Phyllis's cooking and the quality of my aunt's Madeira as by the charms
of her conversation. We little girls were sometimes permitted to be
present at these parties, and sometimes, at the intercession of Mrs.
Adams or some other special friend of my aunt's, to sit up to supper.
Amelia and I enjoyed these occasions very much—Amelia because she could
make studies of dresses and faces, and I because I liked listening to
the conversation. The circle of society in which my aunt moved was
highly cultivated, and embraced a good many distinguished people—public
men, clergymen and professors, officers in army and navy, doctors,
and lawyers. My aunt took great interest in all public affairs both
at home and abroad, and these were freely discussed at her house.
The French revolution was in progress, the royal family virtually
prisoners, and every ship brought news of some new outbreak of violence
on the part of the revolutionists, some new piece of folly on the part
of the royalists. News was "news" in those days, and I really think
people enjoyed it far more than they do now, when the queen's speech
is read at half the breakfast-tables in America on the morning after
its delivery. I used to drink in like water the discussions that took
place every time there was a new arrival from France or England. I
often longed to ask questions, but this was a liberty not permitted to
little girls, so I listened in silence and formed my own theories and
opinions, and laid up in my memory such pieces of news as I thought
would most interest my friends at home.
Besides the French revolution and the books of the day, there were
English and American politics to be discussed; and very hot discussions
those were. Party-spirit never ran higher than at that day, and I used
sometimes to be much astonished at the vituperative epithets applied
to their opponents by well-bred and religious ladies and gentlemen.
I shall never forget my amazement and horror at hearing a famous
politician speak of General Washington as "a concealed traitor." I
disliked these political discussions, and was always delighted when the
conversation turned on books or foreign travel. Sometimes we had music,
and then I would be called upon to play some of my little pieces. I
don't remember being very much frightened on these occasions. I had a
business-like way of looking at such things which saved me from a great
deal of embarrassment.
Indeed, I gained a great deal this winter both in book-learning and
in manners. I honestly tried to please my aunt, and succeeded, on the
whole, pretty well. I liked my lessons better and better. I learned to
love Amelia, as we almost always do love those we try to benefit, and
I had the pleasure of seeing her improve in health and courage, and
also—perhaps consequently—in truthfulness and honesty. She no longer
told lies every day at Elmina's bidding or to conceal her own faults,
and she was much merrier and better company.