Eugene Field was one of Edward Bok's close friends and also his despair,
as was likely to be the case with those who were intimate with the
Western poet. One day Field said to Bok: "I am going to make you the
most widely paragraphed man in America." The editor passed the remark
over, but he was to recall it often as his friend set out to make his
boast good.
The fact that Bok was unmarried and the editor of a woman's magazine
appealed strongly to Field's sense of humor. He knew the editor's
opposition to patent medicines, and so he decided to join the two facts
in a paragraph, put on the wire at Chicago, to the effect that the
editor was engaged to be married to Miss Lavinia Pinkham, the
granddaughter of Mrs. Lydia Pinkham, of patent-medicine fame. The
paragraph carefully described Miss Pinkham, the school where she had
been educated, her talents, her wealth, etc. Field was wise enough to
put the paragraph not in his own column in the Chicago News, lest it be
considered in the light of one of his practical jokes, but on the news
page of the paper, and he had it put on the Associated Press wire.
He followed this up a few days later with a paragraph announcing Bok's
arrival at a Boston hotel. Then came a paragraph saying that Miss
Pinkham was sailing for Paris to buy her trousseau. The paragraphs were
worded in the most matter-of-fact manner, and completely fooled the
newspapers, even those of Boston. Field was delighted at the success of
his joke, and the fact that Bok was in despair over the letters that
poured in upon him added to Field's delight.
He now asked Bok to come to Chicago. "I want you to know some of my
cronies," he wrote. "Julia [his wife] is away, so we will shift for
ourselves." Bok arrived in Chicago one Sunday afternoon, and was to dine
at Field's house that evening. He found a jolly company: James Whitcomb
Riley, Sol Smith Russell the actor, Opie Read, and a number of Chicago's
literary men.
When seven o'clock came, some one suggested to Field that something to
eat might not be amiss.
"Shortly," answered the poet. "Wife is out; cook is new, and dinner will
be a little late. Be patient." But at eight o'clock there was still no
dinner. Riley began to grow suspicious and slipped down-stairs. He found
no one in the kitchen and the range cold. He came back and reported.
"Nonsense," said Field. "It can't be." All went down-stairs to find out
the truth. "Let's get supper ourselves," suggested Russell. Then it was
discovered that not a morsel of food was to be found in the
refrigerator, closet, or cellar. "That's a joke on us," said Field.
"Julia has left us without a crumb to eat.
It was then nine o'clock. Riley and Bok held a council of war and
decided to slip out and buy some food, only to find that the front,
basement, and back doors were locked and the keys missing! Field was
very sober. "Thorough woman, that wife of mine," he commented. But his
friends knew better.
Finally, the Hoosier poet and the Philadelphia editor crawled through
one of the basement windows and started on a foraging expedition. Of
course, Field lived in a residential section where there were few
stores, and on Sunday these were closed. There was nothing to do but to
board a down-town car. Finally they found a delicatessen shop open, and
the two hungry men amazed the proprietor by nearly buying out his stock.
It was after ten o'clock when Riley and Bok got back to the house with
their load of provisions to find every door locked, every curtain drawn,
and the bolt sprung on every window. Only the cellar grating remained,
and through this the two dropped their bundles and themselves, and
appeared in the dining-room, dirty and dishevelled, to find the party at
table enjoying a supper which Field had carefully hidden and brought out
when they had left the house.
Riley, cold and hungry, and before this time the victim of Field's
practical jokes, was not in a merry humor and began to recite
paraphrases of Field's poems. Field retorted by paraphrasing Riley's
poems, and mimicking the marked characteristics of Riley's speech. This
started Sol Smith Russell, who mimicked both. The fun grew fast and
furious, the entire company now took part, Mrs. Field's dresses were
laid under contribution, and Field, Russell, and Riley gave an impromptu
play. And it was upon this scene that Mrs. Field, after a continuous
ringing of the door-bell and nearly battering down the door, appeared at
seven o'clock the next morning!
It was fortunate that Eugene Field had a patient wife; she needed every
ounce of patience that she could command. And no one realized this more
keenly than did her husband. He once told of a dream he had which
illustrated the endurance of his wife.
"I thought," said Field, "that I had died and gone to heaven. I had some
difficulty in getting past St. Peter, who regarded me with doubt and
suspicion, and examined my records closely, but finally permitted me to
enter the pearly gates. As I walked up the street of the heavenly city,
I saw a venerable old man with long gray hair and flowing beard. His
benignant face encouraged me to address him. 'I have just arrived and I
am entirely unacquainted,' I said. 'May I ask your name?'
"'My name,' he replied, 'is Job.'
"'Indeed,' I exclaimed, 'are you that Job whom we were taught to revere
as the most patient being in the world?'
"'The same,' he said, with a shadow of hesitation; 'I did have quite a
reputation for patience once, but I hear that there is a woman now on
earth, in Chicago, who has suffered more than I ever did, and she has
endured it with great resignation.'
"'Why,' said I, 'that is curious. I am just from earth, and from
Chicago, and I do not remember to have heard of her case. What is her
name?'
"'Mrs. Eugene Field,' was the reply.
"Just then I awoke," ended Field.
The success of Field's paragraph engaging Bok to Miss Pinkham stimulated
the poet to greater effort. Bok had gone to Europe; Field, having found
out the date of his probable return, just about when the steamer was
due, printed an interview with the editor "at quarantine" which sounded
so plausible that even the men in Bok's office in Philadelphia were
fooled and prepared for his arrival. The interview recounted, in detail,
the changes in women's fashions in Paris, and so plausible had Field
made it, based upon information obtained at Marshall Field's, that even
the fashion papers copied it.
All this delighted Field beyond measure. Bok begged him to desist; but
Field answered by printing an item to the effect that there was the
highest authority for denying "the reports industriously circulated some
time ago to the effect that Mr. Bok was engaged to be married to a New
England young lady, whereas, as a matter of fact, it is no violation of
friendly confidence that makes it possible to announce that the
Philadelphia editor is engaged to Mrs. Frank Leslie, of New York."
It so happened that Field put this new paragraph on the wire just about
the time that Bok's actual engagement was announced. Field was now
deeply contrite, and sincerely promised Bok and his fiancee to reform.
"I'm through, you mooning, spooning calf, you," he wrote Bok, and his
friend believed him, only to receive a telegram the next day from Mrs.
Field warning him that "Gene is planning a series of telephonic
conversations with you and Miss Curtis at college that I think should
not be printed." Bok knew it was of no use trying to curb Field's
industry, and so he wired the editor of the Chicago News for his
cooperation. Field, now checked, asked Bok and his fiancee and the
parents of both to come to Chicago, be his guests for the World's Fair,
and "let me make amends."
It was a happy visit. Field was all kindness, and, of course, the entire
party was charmed by his personality. But the boy in him could not be
repressed. He had kept it down all through the visit. "No, not a
joke-cross my heart," he would say, and then he invited the party to
lunch with him on their way to the train when they were leaving for
home. "But we shall be in our travelling clothes, not dressed for a
luncheon," protested the women. It was an unfortunate protest, for it
gave Field an idea! "Oh," he assured them, "just a goodbye luncheon at
the club; just you folks and Julia and me." They believed him, only to
find upon their arrival at the club an assembly of over sixty guests at
one of the most elaborate luncheons ever served in Chicago, with each
woman guest carefully enjoined by Field, in his invitation, to "put on
her prettiest and most elaborate costume in order to dress up the
table!"
One day Field came to Philadelphia to give a reading in Camden in
conjunction with George W. Cable. It chanced that his friend, Francis
Wilson, was opening that same evening in Philadelphia in a new comic
opera which Field had not seen. He immediately refused to give his
reading, and insisted upon going to the theatre. The combined efforts of
his manager, Wilson, Mr. Cable, and his friends finally persuaded him to
keep his engagement and join in a double-box party later at the theatre.
To make sure that he would keep his lecture appointment, Bok decided to
go to Camden with him. Field and Cable were to appear alternately.
Field went on for his first number; and when he came off, he turned to
Bok and said: "No use, Bok, I'm a sick man. I must go home. Cable can
see this through," and despite every protestation Field bundled himself
into his overcoat and made for his carriage. "Sick, Bok, really sick,"
he muttered as they rode along. Then seeing a fruit-stand he said: "Buy
me a bag of oranges, like a good fellow. They'll do me good.
When Philadelphia was reached, he suggested: "Do you know I think it
would do me good to go and see Frank in the new play? Tell the driver to
go to the theatre like a good boy." Of course, that had been his intent
all along! When the theatre was reached he insisted upon taking the
oranges with him. "They'll steal 'em if you leave 'em there," he said.
Field lost all traces of his supposed illness the moment he reached the
box. Francis Wilson was on the stage with Marie Jansen. "Isn't it
beautiful?" said Field, and directing the attention of the party to the
players, he reached under his chair for the bag of oranges, took one
out, and was about to throw it at Wilson when Bok caught his arm, took
the orange away from him, and grabbed the bag. Field never forgave Bok
for this act of watchfulness. "Treason," he hissed--"going back on a
friend."
The one object of Field's ambition was to achieve the distinction of so
"fussing" Francis Wilson that he would be compelled to ring down the
curtain. He had tried every conceivable trick: had walked on the stage
in one of Wilson's scenes; had started a quarrel with an usher in the
audience--everything that ingenuity could conceive he had practised on
his friend. Bok had known this penchant of Field's, and when he insisted
on taking the bag of oranges into the theatre, Field's purpose was
evident!
One day Bok received a wire from Field: "City of New Orleans purposing
give me largest public reception on sixth ever given an author. Event of
unusual quality. Mayor and city officials peculiarly desirous of having
you introduce me to vast audience they propose to have. Hate to ask you
to travel so far, but would be great favor to me. Wire answer." Bok
wired back his willingness to travel to New Orleans and oblige his
friend. It occurred to Bok, however, to write to a friend in New Orleans
and ask the particulars. Of course, there was never any thought of Field
going to New Orleans or of any reception. Bok waited for further
advices, and a long letter followed from Field giving him a glowing
picture of the reception planned. Bok sent a message to his New Orleans
friend to be telegraphed from New Orleans on the sixth: "Find whole
thing to be a fake. Nice job to put over on me. Bok." Field was
overjoyed at the apparent success of his joke and gleefully told his
Chicago friends all about it--until he found out that the joke had been
on him. "Durned dirty, I call it," he wrote Bok.
It was a lively friendship that Eugene Field gave to Edward Bok, full of
anxieties and of continuous forebodings, but it was worth all that it
cost in mental perturbation. No rarer friend ever lived: in his serious
moments he gave one a quality of unforgetable friendship that remains a
precious memory. But his desire for practical jokes was uncontrollable:
it meant being constantly on one's guard, and even then the pranks could
not always be thwarted!