Kitabı oku: «The Smart Set: Correspondence & Conversations», sayfa 3

The Children

I

Divorce

Tom Barnes, age ten, whose mother, Mrs. Barnes, having divorced his father, her second husband, has since remarried, and is now Mrs. Fenley.

Claire Worthing, age seven, whose mother, Mrs. Worthing, having divorced her Father to marry the divorced Mr. Barnes, is now Mrs. Barnes.

Scene, a Fashionable Dancing School in New York. A quadrille has been announced. Master Barnes goes up to Miss Claire and bowing somewhat stiffly, mumbles some not altogether intelligible wards. Miss Claire, sliding down from her chair, says "Thank you," with perfect composure and a conventional smile, as, taking his arm, they choose a position in the dance.

TOM

Shall we stop here in this set?

CLAIRE

No! Becky Twines' dress would ruin mine. And she made her maid give her that one on purpose I'm sure, because she knew what I was going to wear. But I don't care. I heard mama say, yesterday, her mother, in spite of all her money, hadn't been able to buy her way into several houses. I don't think she ought to have been invited to join our dancing class at all. When people buy their way into other people's houses like that, how do they do it do you suppose? Does the butler sell tickets at the door, do you think?

TOM

Perhaps so! Butlers look like that. My! I'd jolly like to be a butler! (They have moved on to another set.) Shall we stop here?

CLAIRE

Oh, no, not here! Teddy Jones always mixes us up. He treads on our toes.

TOM

Yes, and squeezes the girls' hands, too.

CLAIRE

Oh, that we don't mind! Would you like to sit this dance out on the stairs? (She would prefer it herself.)

TOM

No, let's dance. Come on, this is a good place.

CLAIRE

As you please. Do you like kissing games?

TOM

(Red in the face.) No; do you? (He does.)

CLAIRE

Oh, I don't mind. (An embarrassed pause.)

TOM

I like football and those kind of games.

CLAIRE

They are all very well for boys. But I don't much care for games myself, and, besides, I don't have the time.

TOM

What do girls do with themselves all the time?

CLAIRE

Oh! I have my lessons, and I walk out with my maid every morning, and I dress three times a day, and then I have visits to make on other little girls.

TOM

You've got a new father, haven't you?

CLAIRE

Yes, mama was married two weeks ago.

TOM

How do you like him?

CLAIRE

Oh, very much!

TOM

You take my word for it, he's a brick. I know! He used to be my father once.

[The music starts up, and the couples bow.

II

Birth

Elsie, age 6.

Teresa, age 8.

Bob, age 7.

(They are sitting on the steps of the large piazza of a beautiful country house, the two little girls affectionately close, the boy at an awkward distance. There has been a pause in the conversation, which the boy breaks.)

BOB

We've got a new baby at our house!

(Splendid effect!)

ELSIE, TERESA

(Together.) Oh!

(Their eyes are suddenly bright and their faces glow with a sort of awed curiosity and pleasure, not unmixed with envy.)

ELSIE

What kind?

TERESA

(Eagerly.) Yes; which is it?

BOB

(Proudly.) A boy, of course!

(The two little girls' faces fall for a second, and they are silent, but not for long.)

ELSIE

Of course there have to be boys sometimes.

TERESA

Yes, to make a change.

ELSIE

Isn't it funny where babies come from!

BOB

Yes, you find them in cabbages.

ELSIE

Oh, no! They come down in rainstorms.

TERESA

No, no! They come out of the flowers.

BOB

Stuff!

ELSIE

They do come from the skies, because you know the stars are little babies waiting to be picked.

TERESA

I thought the stars were the places where God put his fingers through.

BOB

They aren't any such thing; they're the gold tacks that fasten on the carpet of heaven.

ELSIE

When I grow up I shall have eleven babies, because I have eleven favorite names, and I shall have them all at once, so they can have nice, happy times playing together, and there won't have to be any horrid older brother and sister, always getting the best of everything.

TERESA

And I'll tell you what! I'll have eleven children too, to marry yours.

BOB

No, I'll marry one of them.

ELSIE

No, you must marry one of us.

BOB

Which one?

ELSIE

Well, I think it would be best for you to marry me and be father for my eleven children. I want them to have a father. I love my father.

TERESA

Yes; but then who'll be a father to my children?

ELSIE

Yours can be sort of orphans; they needn't ever have had any father.

TERESA

(Approaching a tearful state.) No, that's awfully sad. I want my children to have a father, too!

BOB

Never mind. I'll be their father besides.

ELSIE

Let's play house.

TERESA

Let's!

BOB

Let's play Indians, and I'll scalp you two girls!

ELSIE

No, that's too rough. We'll play husband and wife. Bob and I will get married, and, Teresa, you must be the minister and a bridesmaid.

(They retire into the house, where, with the aid of a wrapper, a night dress, a bouquet, and a black mackintosh, the ceremony is properly performed.)

ELSIE

Now we'll have a little girl baby, and (to Teresa) you must be it.

TERESA

No, I want to be the wife now, and you be the baby.

ELSIE

No, I'll be the husband, and let Bob be the baby.

BOB

I won't be the baby!

TERESA

Anyway, it isn't polite for a little baby to come right away like that. They never do.

ELSIE

That's so; you have to wait till the news that they want one gets up to the skies.

III

Death

Teddy and Elsie are in the drawing-room, which is shadowy and sad with the drawn curtains. The children speak in half whispers, and with an air of importance.

TEDDY

It's going to be in here.

ELSIE

Isn't it awful. (Sobs.)

TEDDY

Papa was a brick!

ELSIE

(Sob.) Now he's an angel.

TEDDY

(Thoughtfully.) Do you really think papa would like being an angel?

ELSIE

Everybody likes to be an angel.

TEDDY

I don't.

ELSIE

O Teddy!

TEDDY

It sounds stupid to me, like Sunday all the week. Besides, papa won't have any office there, and what'll he do without an office?

ELSIE

Isn't it awful. (Sob.) Poor papa!

TEDDY

(Swallowing a lump.) Don't cry!

[There is a slight noise overhead.

ELSIE

O Teddy! What was that?

TEDDY

(Trembling.) Don't be afraid!

(He puts his arm comfortingly around her, and they sit in a huge arm-chair together.)

ELSIE

What is it like to be dead.

TEDDY

It's like school all the time, never letting out, and no recess.

ELSIE

(With another sob.) Poor papa! Are you afraid of him now?

TEDDY

No —

ELSIE

Do you want to go up and see him?

TEDDY

No. That isn't him anyway upstairs!

ELSIE

Yes, it's him; only his soul isn't there.

TEDDY

Do you believe it? Say, if that's true, how did his soul get out?

ELSIE

I've thought of that. This is what I believe: When people die, God kisses them, and their soul comes right out of their lips to God's.

TEDDY

I'll never play be dead with you, anymore.

ELSIE

No, I don't want to, either.

TEDDY

God might think I really was dead, and I might lose my soul.

ELSIE

You can't make believe with God.

TEDDY

That's so; I forgot. I say, Elsie, I'm never going to be wicked again in all my life.

ELSIE

Nor I.

TEDDY

Oh! girls never are wicked. I believe when we die Death comes along and pulls us by our feet; that's why our souls go out. They're afraid of Death.

(Elsie shudders, and nestles closer to her brother.)

TEDDY

Don't be afraid; I won't let him catch you.

ELSIE

Poor mama, she cries all the time.

TEDDY

And she won't eat.

ELSIE

I know where there are some little cakes.

TEDDY

(Eagerly.) Could you get them?

ELSIE

Not alone. I'm afraid.

TEDDY

I'll go with you. (They get down out of the big chair.) Do we go to school the next day after it?

ELSIE

Yes; and wear all black. (Sobs.) Poor papa.

TEDDY

(Choking.) Don't cry.

ELSIE

You're crying too.

TEDDY

No, I ain't! (Crying.)

(She kisses him. He is comforted, but very much ashamed.)

ELSIE

Do you think we can go to the circus next week just the same?

TEDDY

I don't care about circuses now.

ELSIE

Neither do I. I don't want to go anyway. Let's find the cakes.

TEDDY

And then we'll make a coach out of the chairs, and you'll drive me four in hand.

[They go out of the room smiling.

Maternity

Three Letters and a Cable from Mrs. Stanton, a Widow

I

To Robert N. Stanton, Esq., her son (and only child)

Venice, Thursday.

My Darling Boy:

Your letter reached me a few moments ago. We were just starting off to see the Tintorettos in the Scuola, but I opened your envelope before I stepped into the gondola, and read enough in the first few lines to let the others go on without me.

First, let me say this; no one in all the world wishes you more joy, more real happiness, than your mother. I wish it more than anything else in the world, and have prayed for it for you every night of my life since you first came into this world. And I've always counted a wife for you as one of the chief joys of your future. I have always wanted you to marry, only I have always said to myself – not yet; I can't spare him yet. Mothers begin their children's lives by being the most unselfish beings in the world; and then, as we grow older, I'm afraid we are inclined to go to the other extreme. I won't tell a falsehood and say I am glad you are going to be married now. Forgive me, dear, forgive me; but in my heart there is still the same cry – "Not yet! not yet!"

Oh, I know I'm wrong! It is to be, and I accept it; but it seems so sudden; and, after all, I was so unprepared, and you are my life, dear – my everything. You must let me sigh just a little; I'll promise to be all smiles at the wedding. When you first laughed in the sun, and twinkled your baby eyes at the stars I was not a very happy woman. You were only six months old when I divorced your father. (How much I have regretted that step since. It would have been far better had I borne with him. He was the only man in the world for me; and he would have come back to me if I had only waited. Then, instead of dying wretchedly miserable as he did, he might have been alive to-day, and we would be companions for each other; but I was proud and wilful – however, enough of that.) As I said: when you were a tiny baby I was an unhappy woman, with an heart empty and bruised. How I hugged you to it! O never, never can I tell you, nor can you imagine, the comfort, the blessing you became to me! Your butterfly-like little kisses made well all the bruises; your little hands, with their soft, flower-like caresses, smoothed away the troubles, and before long you seemed to have crept in, little body, little soul, into my heart, till you filled it completely. And now I must share – Oh, we are selfish, we mothers! for I want all – all! I used to be a little jealous, in those early days, even of your nurse. Do you know, Rob, that I bathed my baby every morning of your little life, so long as you took infant tubs? I wouldn't leave it to anyone else; and for more than one year of your life, in the middle of each night and early morning, I warmed over a little spirit lamp (I have it yet) your preparation of milk, and fed it to you, so that you would get your food from me in one way, if the doctor wouldn't let me feed you as I hungered to do. How soon it was you knew me. I could make you smile when no one else could; and what a joy it was to see a love for me coming into your infantile existence. I had cried a good deal before you were born, and some afterward, first out of relief and then for pure gladness. But under your dear influence I gradually forgot how tears came. You almost never cried; and what a good baby you were – oh, a blessed baby! – and I tried to repay you by not worrying you with too many kisses, with too much loving, which I'm sure is not good for a child. Sometimes I had to clench my hands, so strong was my desire to take you up and clasp you tight. Then how quickly you began to grow; and before long my letters and intimate conversation began to be filled with what "Rob said this morning;" and you did say such delightful things! I never knew so naïvely witty a child! And soon you reached the age when I could play the rôle of comforter. The knocks and bruises I've healed by kissing them! – do you remember one-third? I'm sure I don't. The many imagined slights of your little friends, which were forgotten on my lap! The little aches and pains that were slept away in my arms! How full my life was then! What a blessed boy you were! And then those half-lonely years, when everyone frightened me – by saying you would be spoiled – into sending you away to school. I begrudge those months I spent without you yet. But how we enjoyed the vacations! That's when we began reading together again real stories, not those of the younger days. Do you remember your favorite when a very small boy? We always read it when you weren't feeling very well, or after you'd been punished for being naughty, sitting together in the great big old rocking-chair. It was about two poor little fatherless boys whose mother died in a garret, and they were so terribly poor they had to beg a coffin for her, and they alone followed it to the grave. There was a very trying and sad woodcut of the two little orphans doing this, and we always cried together over it. It wasn't a healthy story for a small boy, and I don't know how we got hold of it. Oh yes, I do! It was published by the Tract Society, and had a moral. It was your aunt sent it to you, but I have forgotten the moral. The football period began in the school vacations, and went all through college; but still I think you were always more fond of books and music than athletics; and I was never good at outdoor sports; I only managed to master tennis so as to be able to play with you.

The four years of college had some loneliness in them, too; but I enjoyed my visits to Williamstown, and then is when I began going into "society" a good deal again, for I said when Rob comes out he will want to go. He will have at least three cotillon years, and I want him to go in the best society we have. Besides, there is sure to be a wife; let her be a girl of our own position and class. But the dearest parts of your college life were our four trips abroad during the summer. And then it was that I began to turn the tables, and when I was tired to lean on you, and when disagreeable things happened to let you take mother in your arms and hold her there till she promised to forget them. Then it was when your judgment began to mature, and I found it so clear and good, and have been guided by it ever since. Oh, those perfect years between the day you graduated and now! How proud I was of you, too, in society. It seemed to me no one was so brilliant a talker at a dinner table. It was all I could ever do to listen to my neighbor instead of straining my ears across the table in your direction. And I am sure it was not maternal prejudice that picked you out in a ball room, for it was not I who made you leader of all the cotillons so long as you cared to dance them. Then how more proud I was of you when you interested yourself in politics. I love my country. Your father fought, and bravely, in the civil war; so did my brother. And I know if such a terrible calamity as another war should befall us, you would be ready. The patriot fights for his country, in peace, in politics, and I am happy to say your interest in our government is as keen and active to-day as ever. Then there is the ever increasing success in your profession – haven't I been through it all with you! Never, I am sure, were a mother and son more sympathetic. The reason I came abroad this year was because I was afraid we were getting too dependent on each other. I realized you now preferred staying home with me evening after evening instead of going out. I loved it, but I knew it was wrong. I argued if I went away for a little you would go out into society again, and to your clubs, seeking companionship. It was not good for a young man – I said to myself – not more than thirty-three, to be spending all of his spare time with an old woman – for practically I am that, though you must never call me so; it would break my heart! And so, though it was really an awful break for me to do it, I went away, and the only thing I wanted to happen did, only more. Oh, yes! more than I wanted – because I didn't want you to marry – not yet! And if I hadn't gone away you would probably never have met this Miss Stone, and you would have been just as happy. For you were happy with me before you met her; weren't you? Oh, of course, I know not so happy, and not in the same way, but later on you would have met perhaps Miss Stone, or somebody else you would have cared for in the same way; don't you think so? I am afraid, if I let myself, I'd be sorry I went away. And yet no —no; I'm not so selfish as all that. If you really have found the one woman in the world for you I will try to be glad. I will be glad. I am glad! There! I am. After all it is your happiness. How unhappy I should feel if you loved her and she hadn't returned your love! Yes, it is much better as it is – for you, so it must be for me, too. Allowing even for all a lover's enthusiasm, Miss Stone must be very charming and very lovable. I can see it in her picture, too, which I thank you for sending. Of course, without it I should have been cruelly anxious to see what she was like. She is very pretty – very. I am obliged to confess that. I think I shall come to love her for her own sake, and not only for yours. If only she will love me! You love me more than I deserve or merit, so don't say too much about me or she will be sure to be disappointed.

If I must be a mother-in-law (horrid name), I want to be a nice one and be loved. I shall do my best. Only it is the giving you up. O Rob, darling! What shall I do without you – without my blessed son? Breakfast alone, luncheon alone, dinner alone, everything alone! Ah, I can't bear the thought of it! No! No! I don't mean that! But of course I can't and won't live with you – it's very kind and like you, dear, to say I must, but I don't believe in that. You'll see enough of me, I'm sure, as it is. And I shall have my memories. Baby and boy, you are mine alone. I didn't have to share you then; and I won't have to share the memories now, and no one can take them away from me. And what if you make me a grandmother? It isn't at all sure. Everybody doesn't have babies now, like they used to. Still, if you do! Well, I shall probably adore it. But then I must settle down, wear caps, and perhaps revive a widow's veil. I certainly shall have to be more dignified and not go gallivanting about everywhere, and control some of my enthusiasms, or I shall be a ridiculous old creature. You see, I have always kept your age. Now I must take one awful flying leap to my own; and then go along with myself properly. I shall have to become much more regular about church and know all the saints' days. A good thing that will be for me, too, I'm sure – What do you think? They've just knocked on the door and told me it is dinner time. I've been three hours over this disgraceful letter. I knew I'd been dreaming¹ a good deal between sentences; but I didn't know it was so bad as all that. Well, I'm going down to tell the others my good news (you understand that good, don't you?), and we'll drink to the health and happiness of you both in some crimson Chianti. And they shall all see how happy I am over your happiness. For I am. And you will see it, too, when I come back; which will be as soon as I can.

Good bye, my boy. Forgive your old mother if she's seemed a little cross in this letter, because she isn't really. I shall write Miss Stone a little letter to-night. God bless you and her (and me), and fill your lives as full of happiness as your hearts can hold and mine can hold for you! Good night, my comfort, you best son in the world!

Your devoted

Mother.

Yes, yes, I am glad, dear; so glad. Don't misunderstand my letter. Your mother is glad, honestly and with – yes, I can say it now – with all her heart.

II

A Cable to her son. (Sent fifteen minutes after the preceding letter.)

Overjoyed, congratulations, love.

Mother.

III

Letter to Miss Lucy Stone, Troy, N.Y

Venice, Thursday.

My dear Miss Stone:

So you are going to take my boy away from me? I begrudge him, just a little, or just a good deal; but I will tell you a secret. I feel pretty sure that when I know you, I shall be grateful to him, instead of grudging, for giving me you for a daughter; and you must love me, for after all if it wasn't for me you wouldn't have him, would you? He has been a perfect son, and they make perfect husbands. And he loves you, my dear. Oh, if you had any doubts of it – which of course you haven't, or I shouldn't like you – but if you had, could you have read over my shoulder his letter to me to-day telling me about it.

I am very impatient to know you, but I think we shall be great friends, through Rob, before we even meet. Till then believe me your – dear me, what? – your Robert's affectionate old mother.

Katherine Miles Stanton.

I am sending with this a little old jewel I found at an old shop the other day; it is a love ring of the sixteenth century. Perhaps you will find a place for it. I send it with my love.

K. M. S.

IV

Letter to Mrs. Henry A. Austin, Troy, N.Y

Venice, Thursday.

Dear Gertrude:

You will be very much surprised to hear from me, I imagine, as a correspondence is something we could never keep up. But our friendship has lasted without it a long time, my dear girl – forty-two years – for we met when I was fourteen. I haven't forgotten yet how the whole school became bearable after you took possession of the other little white cot in my room. It's a year and a half now since I've seen you, and I've missed you. Troy is so near; and yet, after all, it is so far, too, when we realize how seldom we meet. You must give me a whole winter soon! Yes, for I am going to be alone; Rob is going to marry, and that's why I am writing you. It is to a Miss Lucy Stone, of Troy. Do write me about her. Do you know the family? Are they friends of yours? Rob is fearfully and wonderfully in love; and I can't blame him after seeing her picture. She is lovely (and charmingly dressed), and I am sure Rob would never fall in love with any one but a lady. Still, I want to know if she, or rather her family, are really smart people, or what. Even if they are "what," I'm sure it won't make any difference to Rob, and so it mustn't make any difference to me. But it will be a relief to know that they are friends of yours, or even that you know them. I pretend not to believe in class distinctions, and I don't; but when it comes to your own son, somehow or other you do want him to choose his wife among his own social equals. Between you and me I am just about broken-hearted. I know it is very wrong of me, but I had sort of let myself grow very dependent upon him, and always had looked upon his marriage much as one looks upon death, as inevitable, but always remote and the end of all things. It still seems like the end of all things, but in time I shall get used to it. I feel simply ashamed of myself for feeling as I do now. Of course, if it were given me the choice, "your son's happiness, woman, or your own selfish comfort," I wouldn't hesitate a moment, but it's so hard for a mother who has spent such happy years with her son to realize that his happiness does altogether and absolutely depend on some one else, and on that one and no other? And then we always have that terrible doubt, – has he chosen the right woman for him? Just as if he wasn't, after all, the best judge for himself. Of course he is; and in time I know I shall be able to thank God he made this choice, but just now – just to-night – it seems to me I come nearer to envying you your childless wifehood than I would ever have thought possible.

Being in this sentimental, unreal city, doesn't help me any! Forgive this, I'm afraid morbid, letter, and believe me affectionately always – write me the truth – your school girl friend,

Kitty.

Have they any position whatever in Troy?