USA > New York > Onondaga County > Syracuse > Sixty-odd, a personal history > Part 15
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When we returned to Ithaca my chaperon extended her arms. "Was it a perfect day, dear?"
"N-no, I'm afraid it wasn't, exactly. We-, you see it was very disappointing. He can't drive."
Disillusionment was complete.
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I was now headed for a life of single-blessedness, so far as my attitude toward matrimony was concerned. It seemed to me that the prospect for usefulness in the community was broader on that basis than to devote my strength to the management of a house, not to say a husband and children. While visiting in Utica I had met a girl four years older than myself for whom I had conceived a fervent admiration. She was the daughter of my father's friend, Dr. Watson. We were drawn together first by church interests, I think, but we had in common an appreciation of the possibilities of usefulness to the community, and our comradeship grew into a deep affection. Her passion for social justice was tempered by humor, and her in- fluence was steadying to my less evenly-balanced temperament.
Notwithstanding my absorption in my friendship with Lucy Watson, and my conviction that matrimony was an unimportant aim in life, a closer observation the courting around me, the many subtle expedients for expressing devotion to a lady-love, fascinated me. An interesting example of this intellectual type of wooing was before us in our own household during a winter in the late seventies. We had a particularly attractive young woman, a friend of Arria, staying with us, whose admirers were legion. Two of them were conspicuously in love with her, and their rival approaches amused the younger members of our family. One of them kept ahead in the race; every pursuing ingenious device for prosecuting his suit. He had a glorious bass voice, and sang in concerts as well as parlor musicales; I had the supreme delight of playing his accompani- ments at times. When he sang the love-songs of Schubert or Schu- mann, or old English airs like Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes, he did not need to look at his lady-love in order to let the world know that he was addressing himself to her and her only. In fact. observers felt that even his choice of programmes was influenced more or less by moods of exaltation or despair. No one could have put more convincing expression into the famous aria from the Elijah, one of his masterpieces;
It is enough; O Lord, now take away my life For I am not better than my fathers.
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All the humiliation of defeat, of misused inheritance, of weariness and fear, was brought out in this cry of the prophet under the juniper-tree. But sentimental young admirers, watching for de- velopments in the singer's love-affair, were wont to ascribe his dramatic rendering to the result of a rebuff at the hands of his idol. When he sang a popular favorite, Down the Shadowy Lane She Goes, winding up in the last verse with
Surely every living thing That has seen, must love her, must love her,
we watched Jeannie Dows, the most downright and unaffected of beings, for all the masculine adoration bestowed upon her, as she sat apparently unmoved by the tribute.
During her visit at our house we made many observations. We noticed-and felt very proud of our perspicacity-that when other admirers called to take her to the theatre or a dance she came down already wrapped in her evening cloak; but it was hanging over her arm when the particularly favored escort appeared, and he folded it about her with such tenderness that our maiden bosoms fluttered in sympathy. Once, leaving the drawing-room after a call, he lifted a rose (which he had sent her) out of a vase, and touched it lightly to her lips before putting it into his button-hole. Oh, to be the re- cipient of delicate overtures like that! Implications so exquisite could not be long ignored.
Then there were daily deliveries of notes or offerings; once a sheet of paper with a marvelous illuminated monogram, nine let- ters entwined in soft colors with touches of gold. He was as facile in the use of brush and pen as of his voice. I wish I could remember the word the cypher represented; it was devotion, adoration or some other expression of his sentiments, and his sweetheart took some time to unravel it.
We had also an interest in the rival lover, who was handsomer, but not so keen nor talented. One day he made a long afternoon visit, with the drawing-room doors closed; an interview which we felt was final, especially when we saw him depart with drooping shoulders. Our mother and sister were not at home, else I think we
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should have been denied the chance of spying from an upper win- dow; and of course no hint of the proceedings reached us. Arria and her friend probably had it out in the midnight hours.
A few days after, the engagement of Jane Dows to Edward West- cott was announced. The successful suitor was the author of David Harum, one of the "best sellers" of late nineteenth-century fiction. Their house became the center of a cultural, and preeminently musical, circle, into which I entered in following years.
This example of Victorian courtship was not uncommon, as we know; the facts verify those descriptions which fiction has given us. Stark sex-impulse was not the first consideration either in the man or the method; a gradual approach of the lover occupied his in- genuity and captivated the lady; there was no open public encour- agement to hurry matters, save impassioned drama, occasional dis- tinctly "sensual" literature and a measurable amount of heated interpretation. I do not know that wedded bliss was any more cer- tain as the result of this calculated courtship, but I like to think that reaction came somewhat more slowly and that marriages were contracted with a narrower margin of uncertainty and allowance for the fading of attraction.
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The fifteenth of August, 1879, was a clear bright day after a thunderstorm. Coming home from an early row with Cousin Ellen, the Bishop's fourth child heard voices in the Long Room, and slipped upstairs to doff her boating-dress. Molly heard her and followed.
"Who do you suppose is here?" she asked. "Grace, 'our girl- cousin,' and Fred and Will from the West, and a quiet one from Brooklyn, Cousin Lizzie Sessions' son. He's awfully good-looking but he doesn't say much."
"I don't care about meeting him: he's his sisters' pet. The others are jollier. Give me my brown gingham, Molly, will you? I suppose I'll have to go down."
She set her feet on the stair-treads as firmly as if she had been Elizabeth Huntington going to meet the deacons. Behind the two nice Western boys stood a brown-eyed lad of nineteen. Yes, rather handsome, she said to herself.
"This is our cousin Archie."
"Our cousin once-removed. We're a generation ahead of you," the girl laughed. So this was the boy with a name like an English curate. She had heard it before.
They were all invited to stay to dinner, so in the meantime, the young people went to the croquet-ground. The "unerring eye" was vouchsafed to the fourth child as she sent a ball flying from long range to hit that of her silent cousin, just in time to prevent him from carrying his partner to victory. Down went her square-toed shoe, and a hammer-stroke dispatched the ball into exile.
"You play splendidly," he said; "I choose you for the next
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game." And before dinner he had been invited to stay on for a few days at Forty Acres. The Bishop was pleased to learn that his mother, the fifth Elizabeth, who had been a close friend and bridesmaid at the time of his wedding and always a favorite cousin, had sent Archie to see the old family house because of her happy associa- tions with it. That evening he was especially genial with his young kinsman, and told story after story of the old times, with snatches of song and bits of legend.
"They get on wonderfully, don't they?" said Molly.
"Yes, he's really quite nice," admitted her sister.
But the clear day had been a weather-breeder, and next morning the farm was enveloped in rain and mist, shutting us off from the outside world. The western cousins had gone back to Amherst, so there was nothing to do but find entertainment in the house. Ex- ploring the attics was an appropriate pastime, and to this the boy and girl betook themselves, hunting out spinning-wheels and trun- dle-beds, looking from the window of the prophet's chamber across the rain-drenched meadow, finally squeezing into a tight little niche in the library to look at a black-letter volume of Fox's Book of Martyrs, with its grewsome illustrations; it was a rather protracted session and amusing withal. Now and then they wandered off the subject of the martyrs, and discussed mutual likings, one of which was music. The boy had enjoyed fine concerts, and had inherited his mother's lovely voice. The Damrosch and Sessions family were friends, and Theodore Thomas, the great conductor, had been intimate with them. Walter and Frank Damrosch were about our age and were planning to follow their father's profession.
"We can take you to hear some wonderful music if you'll come to visit us," he said. But he said nothing of his own favorite pursuit, and when the girl came downstairs that afternoon, having ex- changed the brown gingham for more becoming garments, she found him deep in a rather faded book, of whose title she gained a fleeting glance. Newman's Grammar of Assent; most extraordinary reading for a college boy. Was he going to be a minister? Hardly, one would think, and yet she had certainly seen the book in her father's theological library. He had been taken ill at Harvard the
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winter before, and was now returning, in the class of 1883. He put the book down when she came in.
The next day was Sunday, and the rain had not abated. Just how the day was spent, I cannot remember, but in the evening the two walked over to make a call on Cousin Ellen at the Phelps house. The walk comes clearly to mind, for on the way along the muddy road, the girl's foot slipped, and her cousin caught her wrist to pull her to her feet. His face was turned away; of a sudden a thrill passed from his finger-ends to her shoulder, a light, but dis- turbing touch, such as she had never felt before. It was gone in an instant; they drew a little further apart. Had he felt it too, she won- dered. The east wind blew fine raindrops into their faces, and they fell into a rhythmic step, keeping pace with fresh energy.
Cousin Ellen, welcomed them in her plain, hearty fashion, and so did little Cousin Sarah, lovely in her soft laces and pearl brooch. When it came to a genealogical straightening-out of family rela- tions, the younger woman observed, "So you are 'once removed,' you see, Archie."
He smiled; "The further removed, the better." Cousin Ellen's gray eyes met the brown ones squarely, with instant understanding. But the girl was irritated; she had not caught the implication, and felt suddenly disappointed. Nevertheless, a certain bond had been acknowledged; something new, something of a stimulus to the quiet, augmenting affection of the last three days. After an evening of Cousin Ellen's delightful tales, chiefly relating to a recalcitrant great-great-grandfather in Vermont who had been cast into prison for his objection to the expansionists there who had seized his New Hampshire grants and appropriated them to the interest of the new State, a tale to which our cousin could do full justice, we tramped back to the old house bubbling with merriment, swinging along in the fog, thrilled when hands touched, cheeks burning as we sat by the woodfire later.
Then followed a week of marvelous weather, and a series of ex- cursions; the house filled up with young people, the cordial, cousinly western boys and their sister, more Amherst friends. We two were not often alone, but little secret signals, as one took a pencil from
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the other, or was helped from a carriage, were multiplied. Out- wardly there was reserve, almost shyness.
Somehow the Fates managed to give us a long afternoon to our- selves at the very end of that blissful week, in the old hay-mow, the fourth child's special fastness. Archie had promised to read aloud some Shakespeare sonnets, which he had quoted once or twice when we were looking over the same poetry-book by the long room table, an occupation pursued under cover of general con- versation. But we went out to the barn for the ostensible purpose of letter-writing, and were a bit breathless and embarrassed as we sank into the soft, sun-warmed hay. The solitude, the familiar crack- ling of brittle haystalks, the chirp of a cricket, were momentous. The boy plunged at once into the faded Grammer of Assent, not Shake- speare. Disappointing, that. But one had pen and paper and could keep busy at letter-writing. Presently, however, the girl was piqued into asking bluntly,
"Why do you read that? It can't be interesting."
"Well," Archie said, thoughtfully, "when I went to college last year I was a comfortable Unitarian, but when I was sick, I began to think I wasn't satisfied. A man has to have some basis of faith if he is going to accomplish anything, and know what he believes and why. I made up my mind to watch other people's religion, so I came up here to do it. I knew that my mother's grandmother had come over to Unitarianism from a much more positive theology, and that my great-uncle had changed his faith and gone into the Epis- copal church. Mother was disappointed about that, but she is fond of your father, and thinks he is not bigoted. In the meantime, I have a friend who is Catholic, and he lent me the Grammar of Assent. I wish you would read it, but what I've got by being here has meant more to me than any argument."
"What have you got by being here?" I asked.
"Well, I expected you'd all be dreadfully pious. I didn't dream that Uncle Frederic was the kind of person he is. The family life is so perfect, yet you are all so alive to spiritual things."
"I'm glad you think so, but I don't imagine we'll settle your re- ligions views one way or another. But somehow it would be incon-
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gruous for one of our tribe to go over to Rome, after all the other departures!"
"I don't know. I wish you would tell me just what you do be- lieve-what your faith rests on. Maybe it is true that what our fathers fought out, makes a background for our own beliefs. The question is whether we can be satisfied to let them carry us. I sup- pose that was in Newman's mind; an inherited faith, passed on by the Church. The church that has the longest and strongest history will naturally claim the authority, of course."
"Yes, and that is the easiest way. Authority is what each church claims. Newman is settling it in the Catholic way."
"One would think assent was more important than prayer, even."
"Have you gotten anything out of family prayers?" I asked irrelevantly. "Doesn't it pall on you to have a thing like that every morning? I've wondered how it strikes an outsider. I sometimes think there's a sameness about it. There's no liturgy and Father mostly makes up the prayers as he goes along, to be frank. It's a part of his early training; his background, you know; from years and years back, like most New England customs."
"I like it. I'm not very religious myself, so far. But I'd like to be, I think."
It was late afternoon before the talk ended. He had told me about himself, his home, his hope to study law and go into his father's office. He could be a help in that way, and the family thought it his best course. But he loved literature better; he had always loved it. He was nineteen; the youngest of four. His mother and uncles had been educated in France. He had spent a good deal of time by himself and thought things out.
When it was finally time to descend from the haymow, Archie gave me his hand, and we slid over the edge of the mow and were still holding hands when we plunged into the dry clover below.
I wanted to be alone to think. This person for whom I was con- ing to care intensely, had challenged my carefree spirituality. I reproached myself for a weak parasite, and my merriment of the pre- ceding days was checked. This sudden thing, so unlike my imagina-
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tion or experience, fascinated me. I was convinced that the boy wanted help which I might give, and that I must try to meet his need. But the significance of that magnetic touch, made the need a desire, not a duty.
Sunday, the last day. . . . The Bishop and his lady drove to the Amherst church in the little black carryall, and the rest of us followed in the open wagon. To the pair of us who sat sharing one book in that little gray stone church, there seemed to be divine intent in its words, and the message of the preacher was intensely significant in the light of our discussion the day before.
In the afternoon Cousin Ellen shared our walk over the farm. There was a cardinal flower in bud beside the brook, and we stopped to admire it. I found it difficult to get an opportunity for something I wanted to say to Archie. I was carrying, out of sight, a worn copy of The Imitation of Christ which my older brother had given me years ago.
"I want to lend you a book of mine," I said simply when a chance came. "You see, I have absolutely no theology to fall back upon; I'm ashamed to say that I never seemed to need it, with such a large supply in the family. But Thomas a Kempis is different. He's helped me to live what I couldn't understand. I believe that's the thing to do; you may wait forever to be entirely settled, and mean- while one gets a chance to see how faith works out. Anyway, when you feel you've got what you're looking for, just send this back some day. I'll know then that it proved to be what you wanted. It's my only way of giving you any real help."
He took it and my hand with it. Molly's voice called from the woodshed arch close by.
"Come out on the stoop, you two! There's a wonderful Aurora; great streams of color going up."
Half a dozen people stood together watching the north. The flickering waves of color reached almost to the zenith. A shaft of light shaped like a great bird's wing moved above us. It was a super- natural seal on our unspoken pledge.
In the morning there was a bustle of preparation for departure; thanks for a splendid visit; handshakes; people not finishing their
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boiled eggs at breakfast; a list of commissions for the Northampton grocery store and a hunt for the big oil-can; an address scribbled on the back of an envelope; somebody wanting to borrow a stamp and somebody else forgetting to put the whip in its socket. Merciful trivialities blunted the keenness of the parting moment. As the car- riage drove away, life sank suddenly to a dead level.
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The last September days at the farm were quiet ones. I was much by myself, but my family did not notice it; they were used to my love of solitude. When the return to Syracuse put an end to my dreaming, some of the brightness of the ten days' enchantment faded. Someone had suggested that James should have as his assist- ant in his church work, a person more mature than I (there was something grotesque in having Mothers' meetings conducted by a nineteen-year-old girl, and a Bible-class for grown boys in charge of a teacher only three or four years their senior) so I gave up my work in that capacity and spent the winter in active dislike of the substi- tute who had been imported for the purpose, and who lived at our house. In May, however, she left, perhaps for the reason that some of the working-men's wives had not been properly grateful for their husbands' conversions. In any event, our family was happier after her departure, and when summer came, I was invited to Berkshire, where Archie was staying with his family. It was a happy visit, but not quite like the glowing week of the summer before. Archie's family had no inkling of the affection between us, so a forced gaiety covered up our real feelings, and since we were never alone to- gether, I returned to Syracuse puzzled, and slightly embittered at our failure to regain and continue the charm of the intimacy we had begun.
I took up my music and practised fitfully, accompanied singers at concerts, raved over the Pre-Raphaelites, memorized poems of the Rossettis, Morris and Swinburne. I did crewel embroidery, stitching sulphurous flowers on dull green backgrounds. But life was jaundiced. My friends remarked on my sallow skin, the dark
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rings under my eyes and my nervous habit of twitching. In Novem- ber I went to Cedar Square, dreading the visit because of Grand- mother Sargent's death the year before. But Aunt Kate was there, and she too, was concerned about my indolence, and lack of initia- tive.
"I wish," she said one day, "that you could see Dr. Zakrzewska. She is the one person, I believe, who could find out what is the matter with you. She's a very dear friend of mine: I'm sure she would take an interest."
"What's she like?" I inquired. John Van Duyn was the only physician whose opinion I respected, just then, and even his advice I had not followed.
"Marie Zakrzewska is an unusual person. She's about fifty now. She's a descendant of a Polish family. Her great-great-grandfather was an army surgeon all through the Seven Years' War, and his daughter was his assistant. Then in some way the profession was handed down, and her father, too, was an army surgeon, but was dismissed from his post because of revolutionary tendencies. Marie is rather proud of that I think. Her mother became a midwife after- ward, studying for it as a profession. Marie herself was the eldest of five sisters and brothers and had the family mania for surgery. She was once taken to a dissecting-room to see the decomposed corpse of a young man, as a matter of interest apparently, and was forgotten and locked in there for hours. That was when she was eleven; she had read the History of Surgery and Midwifery before she was thir- teen, at which time she left school."
These biographical facts, less concisely stated, interested me. More followed. Marie had assisted her mother in a large practice, and at twenty was admitted to the Berlin School of Midwifery, but only through an appeal to the King by a powerful intermediary- and was met with any amount of opposition, some if it treacherous. That was in '49, Aunt Kate said. Then, discouraged, she deter- mined to go to America, where she had heard there were medical courses for women. She came over to Boston with her sister, but of course met with more discouragement; women physicians were ranked as low in the United States as in Germany. It was humiliat-
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ing to acknowledge defeat even before the struggle, and to piece out the scanty sum she had brought from Europe by keeping an em- broidery-shop. But she had thirty girls in her establishment before long, and incidentally learned enough of their handicaps to become a champion of the laboring woman and her cause; the cause of morality under deadening conditions. Then Dr. Elizabeth Black- well, herself a pioneer in the medical profession found the valiant girl and took her into her dispensary, taught her English and brought her a practice. She was later given the chair of Obstetrics in a Boston medical school and resigned from it later to found a hospital for women and children. It was incorporated in 1863- quick work,-and began on a basis of funds to the amount of over a million dollars. Ever since, she had had a warm interest in working- women, girls of all sorts, and reformers or revolutionists.
"I'd rather like to meet Dr. Zakrzewska, if she's as interested in girls as you say she is."
In a few days I found myself face to face with a remarkable woman sitting in a straight arm-chair by a wood fire, a dynamic person with irregular features and bright eyes; hair carelessly, but becomingly, twisted; beautiful brown hands, made for skilled ac- tivity.
"I'm glad to see you," she began. "I'm so fond of your aunt. Lovely old house, that. I've only seen the lower story, but I want to go over it some day."
"Oh, it is lovely. Only of course we miss my grandmother. Did you know her?"
"Met her just once; a strong personality and much poise. Is your mother like her?"
"Yes, the same calm, I think; not demonstrative but tremen- dously sympathetic."
"Do you think you have anything of her make up? Your mother's, I mean."
"Something, maybe, but she hasn't got nerves, and I have. Of course it may be that I wasn't meant to have them." I was anxious to get in tlie story of the cannon-shock. It was so interesting to talk about oneself. But Marie Zakrzewska did not follow up this lead.
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"What do you enjoy most in your visits here?"
"Oh, the old house, and the library, and my uncles, but most of all the concerts, of course. Music is the one thing that means the most to me!"
"What does it mean?"
A somewhat disconcerting question. I faltered.
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