“THE SIMPLE LIFE.”
I HAD strung up a hammock between two trees in front of the
house and days when Ethel did not feel like walking she used to
lie in it while I sat by her side and read to her. She would
have been glad to read to me some times, but if there is
anything I dislike it is to be read to. I can never follow what
is being said unless I have a book in front of me, and besides
as I cannot knit and do not know how to draw it would be time
wasted for me to sit still and listen to reading.
We are so built, the most of us, that we consider we are wasting
time unless our hands are moving. If a woman sits with her hands
in her lap thinking great thoughts she is manifestly idle. But
if she sits embroidering tasteless doilies and thinking of
nothing, she has found something for her hands to do and Satan
is foiled again. How often he is foiled these days.
As I say, I do dislike to be read to, so while Ethel sits and
crochets or knits or does fancy sewing, I sit by her side and
read, and it is a very pleasant way of passing the time. Her
embroidery is worth while, and I think there is to be found no
such practice in language as reading aloud.
I recommend it to all lispers and persons with uncertain
pronunciations.
While we were reading who should drive up but the Guernseas, the
people who had heard our open air concert.
I saw they were about to stop, so I laid down my book and went
out to greet them.
“Won’t you come into the house?” said I, and Ethel rising,
seconded the invitation.
“Thank you, no it is such a lovely day we’ll sit here. John, you
may come back in twenty minutes.”
John was their very elegant driver, and after hitching the
horses to the stone post, he touched his hat and walked away.
Ethel and I stood by the carriage and passed the commonplaces of
the day for a minute or two and then the absurdity of the
situation dawned on me. Here were our two distinguished friends
doing us the honour of calling on us, and they were sitting in
the most comfortable seats in a very ornate carriage, while my
good wife and I stood at their feet as it were and received
their call. I prefer _sitting_ at people’s feet, after the
manner of the Jews of old, so I went into the house and brought
out two dingy hair-cloth chairs, much to Ethel’s mortification,
and we sat down on them.
So sitting we were not more than abreast of the floor of the
carriage, and we addressed all our remarks to those above who
evidently had no sense of humour, for they never smiled at the
situation once.
“We want to know,” said Mrs. Guernsea, languidly, “whether you
are living this simple life that Charles Wagner preaches.”
“I haven’t read his book, but our life is simple. I think we are
both very simple.”
I looked at Ethel and she and I looked up to the perches above
us, and I know that she was thinking that we _were_ very simple
to allow a thing of this kind to happen, instead of insisting
that our grand visitors come at least to the verandah and meet
us upon an equal footing.
“Caroline, they are leading the simple life. Fancy! Was that why
you went driving with those colored people yesterday?”
Ethel started to tell the facts in the case, but I rudely
interrupted and said,
“Mrs. Guernsea, in the simple life all men are equal, but in
real life there are many inequalities. The woman you saw on the
back seat was Minerva, our estimable cook, while the man was
James, our man-of-all-play.”
I pronounced his title quickly and she did not notice the
variation.
“This is the land of the free and theoretically all men are free
and equal. As a matter of fact, all men are not so, but up here
while we lead the simple life we try to make those with whom we
come in contact believe that they are so. You met us yesterday,
and yesterday I was driving Minerva and James out. Had you met
us to-day, James would have been driving Mrs. Vernon and me
out.”
Both Mrs. Guernsea and her lackadaisical daughter accepted what
I had to say in the spirit in which I wished them to accept it;
as a truth of the simple life, and it was so different from
their own lives that for the nonce it interested them to hear
about it. Therefore, despite Ethel’s reproving brow-liftings, I
went on.
“In our life here in this cottage Minerva does all the cooking,
because she is the best cook of the four, just as I do all the
reading aloud, because I am the best reader; and Mrs. Vernon
does all the embroidery, because she is the best embroiderer;
and James—well, we have not yet found what James can do best,
but there is one thing—his spirits are never depressed and he
heartens us all.”
“How curious. And do you believe that such a state of things
would be possible in a more complex life, in New York, for
instance?”
“Mrs. Guernsea, have you ever tried having Mr. Guernsea take
your men and your maids out driving in the Park?”
“Why, no!”
“Try it, when you go back,” said I. “They will be pleased beyond
any doubt.”
“But your servants were singing. Did not that annoy you?”
“My dear Mrs. Guernsea, it is one of the first principles of the
simple life not to be annoyed. Didn’t you think their voices
sweet?”
“Yes, but it seemed so—so unconventional.”
“The simple _lifers_,” said I, “abhor conventions that already
exist. They aim to create new conventions and live up to them.
We felt the need of song. Neither Mrs. Vernon nor myself can
sing very acceptably. Both Minerva and James are blessed with
delightful voices, so they sang for us without a word of
demurring.”
“Would they sing now, do you suppose? It was really very
lovely.”
“I have no doubt. I’ll go and ask them. But—”
I hesitated. The precious old humbug, so devoid of humour, was
condescending toward the simple life during a single ennuied
afternoon. I wondered if I could make her become a disciple of
it for a few short moments; hence my hesitation. I resolved to
risk it, and with an elevation of my eyebrows directed at Ethel
which meant “Keep out,” I said:
“In the simple life anything like condescension jars. If Minerva
and James consent to sing I must ask that they be allowed to sit
in the carriage and that you make one of us on the ground. I
will get chairs.”
“Oh, no, we will stand.”
And the daughter said languidly, “We sometimes drive over to the
country fairs, and it is awfully jolly to stand alongside the
carriage and watch the races. We have done it on the other side,
too.”
“Oh, I know they always do it there,” said I, with enthusiasm.
“Many’s the picture I’ve seen of it.”
I went in and found Minerva ironing, while James was blacking
the stove.
“Will you please tidy yourselves up a bit and come out and sing
for two of our friends?” said I. “They are influential city
people, and they may not be able to attend the concert. You’re
to sit in their carriage and sing.”
They were, of course, delighted, being two children, and I left
them tidying up, and hurried back.
Ethel had gone into the house for something, but she soon came
out with a bowl of blue berries and two napkins.
“Will you help yourselves?” said she.
Mrs. Guernsea looked at her daughter, and her daughter looked at
Mrs. Guernsea. They were too well bred to suggest that anything
was missing, but they were evidently thinking of saucers and
spoons. I came to the rescue, knowing that Ethel had entered
into my madness.
“More simple life, but you don’t _have_ to do it. Still, berries
never taste so luscious as when eaten from the hand.”
I held the bowl solemnly before them, they removed their gloves,
ate dainty mouthfuls of berries, and their delight in the
flavour was very real.
“Oh, I wish that it were possible to do this at home.”
I bowed. “It needs only for Mrs. Guernsea to do it to make it
possible everywhere.”
While they were eating Minerva and James came out, and if
Minerva was not the best looking woman there, James was the best
looking man—by all odds. I was proud of their appearance.
I was a little afraid that the Guernseas would show a certain
amount of _hauteur_, but they were evidently trying to enter
into the simple life, and would obey all its rules for the
nonce. It was a break in their sadly monotonous lives.
“Minerva and James, these are Mrs. Guernsea and her daughter,
Miss Guernsea, and they wish you to sing some of your songs.”
Both Mrs. Guernsea and the daughter smiled very seriously, and I
helped them to alight from the carriage.
They took their stand on the green sward, and as I would not
have felt comfortable to remain seated with them standing, I
left my seat, and so Ethel was the only one who had a seat at
the concert.
After a little self conscious giggling on Minerva’s part, a
giggling that James reprimanded with native dignity, the pair
began “Steal Away.”
[Illustration: “Steal away.”]
The richly caparisoned horses, to employ a term that has been
faithful to writers these many years, the beautiful Victoria,
handsomely japanned, the earnest songsters leaning back on the
cushions and singing the plaintive song, while the fashionable
Guernseas stood and drank it all in, formed a picture as unusual
as it was pleasing—to me.
Midway in the second verse, even as the Guernseas had surprised
us the day before, so to-day the pastor of the Second
Congregational Church surprised us to-day by driving past in his
buggy, accompanied by his wife.
I think he had meant to stop, but when he saw what was going on,
he simply opened his mouth; his good wife opened her mouth, and
I think the horse opened its mouth, and they drove by.
They had seen the simple life being lived by six persons.
James and Minerva were ready for an encore, but it did not occur
to either Mrs. Guernsea or her daughter to applaud. They
contented themselves by saying it was very charming.
But I felt that the labourers were worthy of their hire, and
still thinking of the simple life and equality, I said to Mrs.
Guernsea, in the most matter of course way:
“I wonder if you wouldn’t let James take Minerva out for a short
drive in return for their singing? James is an expert driver.”
Mrs. Guernsea was not at all hard, and besides, I believe that
she was in a way hypnotised; so with scarce a moment’s
hesitation she said:
“Why, certainly. You won’t be gone long, I suppose?”
“Oh, no ma’am. We’ll just drive around the square.”
The “square” was a stretch of country road some two miles in
length.
James unhitched the horses and mounted the driver’s seat, but
Minerva sprawled luxuriously in the seat in which she had sung.
James tightened the reins and the horses started off at what is
called a spanking pace by those who know.
What happened thereafter was told me in part by James, and I
will give the substance of it.
It seems that he had not gone very far when he met John, the
driver.
Naturally enough, when John saw his mistress’s horses coming
toward him at a pace considerably above that indulged in by
himself (when he was driving for her), he was at first
dumbfounded and then angered. To him what had occurred was as
plain as the nose on his face. Mrs. Guernsea had been asked into
the house by us, and this impudent scamp had seized the
opportunity to take his girl out for a ride.
“Here, stop. Get out of that!” he yelled.
James replied by some piece of impertinence that served to
increase the coachman’s anger, and picking up a stone he let
drive at James, but hit the flank of the nigh horse instead. He,
feeling the unwonted sting, plunged forward, communicated his
fear to his mate, and the two horses began to run away.
We at the house heard Minerva’s familiar screams, but I set it
down to a new animal that had come to her ken, as I knew that
James was a capable driver.
As for Mrs. Guernsea, she was telling us something about the
evening that the English primate took dinner at her house on
Madison Avenue, and she did not notice Minerva’s cries.
James had been familiar with horses from his boyhood, and he
would have brought the pair under his control before long, but
John was a man of action, and when he saw the horses start on a
mad run, and also saw a boy (Bert, in fact,) riding horseback,
he yelled to him: “Lend me that horse, boy. My team is being
stolen.”
Bert, having just passed the run-a-way, jumped quickly from his
mount and John took his place and turning the horse, dashed
after James.
The run-a-ways, hearing the clatter of hoofs behind them, ran
the harder and Minerva’s screams steadily increased in pitch and
volume.
At the first turn James guided the horses to the left and
calculated that before the two miles were made they would be
winded, for their gait was tremendous.
As John made the turn, crying “Stop thief” at the top of his
lungs, he passed the minister who had just passed us and who was
going back to our house—for as it turned out, he wished to see
me.
He heard the hue and cry, and bidding his wife get out of the
carriage and wait for him, he whipped up and started in pursuit.
And Bert, deprived of his horse, but unwilling to be deprived of
so much excitement cut across lots, that he might see the race
on its last quarter. This much I afterward learned from him.
Through it all James never lost command of the horses, nor
Minerva of her voice. Her view halloo echoed over woodland and
vale, and came to me from different points of the compass, and I
began to feel that something serious was the matter, and now and
again I had visions of bills for the repair of a carriage.
When they reached the last quarter I could distinctly hear the
“Stop thiefs!” of two voices, and so did Ethel, but both Mrs.
Guernsea and her daughter were of those people who can attend to
but one thing at a time, and they were busily engaged in
talking, the mother to me and the daughter to Ethel.
The way in front of our house is level and commands a view of
the country for a considerable distance, and when James started
on his last quarter, and had attained a steep hill, from where I
sat (for I had insisted on bringing out chairs for us all) I
could see Mrs. Guernsea’s delicately made carriage swinging from
side to side of the road, James sitting erect, his wrists tight
against his chest and Minerva letting out warwhoops on the back
seat.
Nearer and nearer they came, and at last Mrs. Guernsea heard the
commotion and, putting up her lorgnon gazed in the direction
from which the sound came.
“Why he is going too fast!” said she. “He will lather the
horses.”
I felt quite sure that the lathering had already been well done,
but I did not say so.
“I’m afraid they are running away,” said I.
“No,” said Miss Guernsea, rising to her feet and using her own
eyes, “He is running away with them. He is being chased. Hear
that? ‘Stop thief!’”
Across the swampy land in front of our house I saw the running
figure of a boy. He climbed the stone wall that edges the road,
and panting violently rushed up to us.
It was Bert. “Try to head him off,” said he. “He’s trying to
steal that turn-out.”
I did not believe it, even then. When I put my confidence in a
man I don’t like to have it disturbed, and I won’t disturb it
myself as long as there is a shadow of a chance to preserve it.
The horses were running away, but it was not James’ fault. I was
sure of that.
A minute later the form of a man on horseback was seen cresting
the hill, and after a longer interval the minister’s buggy
topped the same crest.
The last turn in the road is a few rods north of our house, and
James guided the horses skilfully round that turn and stopped
them in front of our house. This was partly because Minerva,
having fainted, was no longer screaming, and partly because
John’s horse had stumbled and thrown him. And the minister came
in second, his horse panting.
“James,” said I indignantly, “what do you mean by driving those
horses at such a gait?”
James, when the horses had stopped, had sprung from the seat and
was now at their heads talking in a low voice to them and
patting them in order to calm them.
Minerva came to herself, said “Oh Lawdy! Are we back again,
already?” and climbed ungracefully out of the carriage.
The horses were white with lather, their tongues lolling out of
their mouths; and the wagon was sadly scratched. It was a
mortifying moment for a liver of the simple life.
“James, what happened?” said I, sternly.
And then John came limping up, with a flesh wound on his
forehead and shaking his fist at James, and with his cockaded
hat in his hand said to Mrs. Guernsea, “I met him trying to run
away with the horses ma’am, and I tried to stop him. The cheek
of him, ma’am!”
James gave a contemptuous grunt, and leaving the horses, who had
calmed down wonderfully under his ministrations, he pointed to a
cut on the flank of the nigh horse.
“That’s what started the trouble, madam,” said he, “and it was
your driver that threw the stone.”
I will say for Mrs. Guernsea, that she behaved like a
thoroughbred. She was evidently a woman who reasoned things out,
and she knew something of the principles of the simple life, for
she said:
“Everybody meant well, I’ve no doubt, and the thing is all over
now.”
John was blanketing the sweating horses.
“Don’t let it worry you an instant, Mr. Vernon,” said she. “It
was all an accident.”
I tried to get them to come indoors and take some refreshment,
for the last few moments had been more strenuous than simple,
but they decided that it was better for the horses to exercise
them a little more and so they drove slowly home, and Bert went
after his horse which had not hurt itself, and the minister went
on to pick up his wife whom he had left at the first turn.
“And it was really all your fault,” said Ethel, smilingly, after
James and Minerva had departed to the kitchen.
“Well, it gave Minerva something to think about and made life
worth living for the Guernseas.”
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