USA > New York > Onondaga County > Syracuse > Sixty-odd, a personal history > Part 22
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In the spring we moved to Englewood. With surprise we dis- covered that a few miles from the northern end of New York there existed a spot where woodland solitude, grand cliffs, and an outlook on rolling country across the broad river quite isolated us from the city. The little house was charming. The main part had low rooms, steps up and down in narrow halls, and a steep staircase; there was an addition of two large six-windowed rooms. The living-room was ample, and our bedroom above it delightfully airy; its back win- dows looked out into the woods, and in each room was an open fireplace. There was a garden and a barn; a broad lawn separated the house from the road. A few steps brought us to the Palisades, and we could look across and over, and down at the tiny fishing- hamlet at their base, to which a descending path along the rocky ledges offered an interesting walk.
The woods were full of birds, and twilight brought notes of thrushes; other notes in the daytime set us studying. There were raccoons, too, in the forest which stretched north of us for miles. Now and then at night the barking of dogs and men's voices an- nounced an exciting coon-hunt: otherwise the nocturnal stillness gave absolute rest to a tired brain. Here we could be completely out of the world which even in our sky-suite had been too much with us, we thought.
The life at Englewood was more than satisfying. We found friends, were most hospitably taken into clubs and groups, and espe- cially enjoyed a musical circle among our nearer neighbors on the hill. Our families visited us, and we took long drives, and made ex-
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płorations in old Jersey towns, where we found interesting traces of the earlier Dutch settlers.
To our great joy we learned early in the summer that we were to have a child. Now there was a deeper purpose in life-a new reason for living, and living intensely. I wanted at first to be near my mother, and to revisit the scenes of my own earliest childhood; I remember that just then prenatal influence was discussed and much written about. After a blissful month at Forty Acres, Archie joined me there for a visit, and a part of our time was spent at Ash- field, Massachusetts, for it would not have been a complete sum- mer's happiness without our older brother George, who was there with his six children.
In the autumn we returned to the charming Englewood com- munity. I had my own piano there, and devoted a good deal of time to practising, or playing accompaniments to my husband's fine baritone voice, all with the hope that our child might be musical. And by the autumn fire, I made small garments while he read aloud. With perfect health and with a strong horse to carry us about, we kept up a pretty continuous social activity.
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One blustering February day, when a business-like nurse drove up to the door, she found her patient performing a Chopin waltz in which she was so absorbed that the young woman went upstairs by herself, got into a uniform, and descended to call the expectant mother's attention to the job in hand. Our little girl was born that night into a stormy world; the light of a log fire in our chimney- place, reinforced by James at midnight, flickered on her crib. We had my mother's name, Hannah Sargent, waiting for her.
That was a happy time. The cold gave place to softer airs. There were intimations of coming spring: supernaturally lovely yellow light at dawn and in late afternoon, and when my nurse returned from her daily walk along the cliffs, she would bring back tiny green shoots, already starting from the ground, for spring is early on the heights of Englewood; the spot seems to have a climate of its own.
Sometimes my brother came out to sit with me; his accounts of the Order's activities were always picturesque and compelling. My big room let in generous light, and I came to love it during the weeks of confinement and to keep up friendly converse with the few special books on the table by my bedside; Plato's Republic, a little worn from its trip to Germany, and a similarly shabby copy of Faust, the first volume more thumbed than the second. Companion- ing them was a borrowed copy of Herbert Spencer, and from the bag which James always carried about with him, he would pour out especially interesting books of the moment. At that moment there was much interest in the Higher Criticism, so-called, of the Bible, a matter of profound scholarly research. The conservatives decried it bitterly; fundamentalism gnashed its teeth. My father
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was one of the first bishops to interest himself in the movement, and to appreciate its value.
Archie and I had long abandoned theological research; he had been baptized in the Episcopal Church during my years abroad, and later confirmed, satisfied that it was the communion in which his religious life could best be developed. We had never discussed the matter, but simply accepted our faith as mutual and helpful and not dependent on dogma. In spiritual end and aím we were at one; we said our prayers together and made our weekly Communions side by side.
My nurse read aloud to me Barrie's Little Minister, just pub- lished, and we found it enchanting. The spring days lengthened, mild airs blew in at open windows. Life was full of quiet joys and hopes. But before little Nan was quite three weeks old there came a disturbing telegram to Miss C. from the mother of the baby she had nursed just before coming to Englewood, saying that he had de- veloped pneumonia, and would she please return to their house- hold at once to take care of him? It was quite evident that she was keen to go; the family was wealthy, their house luxurious, and my health unquestionable. Before I knew it I had agreed to let her off, and within an hour she had packed her things, called a cab, and sped to the afternoon train. leaving me somewhat stunned, over- come with the realization that I had learned nothing as yet of the care of a young baby. My husband, arriving a half-hour later, wanted to recall her at once; but it was too late, and we telegraphed my mother, who came next day and took charge of her grandchild's rearing with great delight.
The nurse was, I understand, disciplined by her hospital for having broken its rules. But whenever I see the name of Mr. Hamil- ton Fish, just now in political circles, I recollect the episode, since he was the infant involved.
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The next summer and winter were uneventful, but very happy. Nothing seemed wanting; the child throve apace, our families made us long pleasant visits; in the warm months we went back to Forty Acres. But nevertheless there was a cloud on our horizon. Certain principles observed in our early training, principles which held us aloof from reality, were partly responsible. I have already men- tioned that we married without a proper understanding of ways and means. In the 'sixties and 'seventies and 'eighties we had learned that it was not nice to talk about money. Only the sordid, the nouveaux riches, or sycophantic insolvents would make it a subject of discussion. Our thrifty forefathers had accumulated it unobtrusively. The Bishop and his wife had lived comfortably on a salary of four thousand dollars, and made generous contributions to churches and charities. Our mother kept house with touches of comfort and beauty which never made a shoe pinch. Maids were paid about three dollars a week, and sent much of it home to Ire- land; their wardrobes were standardized, and at Christmas they were pleased with aprons and lengths of calico. As children we had our longings, and would willingly have spent money on trinkets and fine raiment, but were after all as well provided for as our mates. The family code absolutely required that all bills should be paid the first of the month; no younger member of the family might buy on account. After being given an allowance I was supposed to plan before purchasing, but our parents were indulgent, and often helped out when funds were low and desires strong.
If a girl in a privileged family married, however, and her hus- band failed to keep up with the spending standards of her people,
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the common remark of observers was that he "didn't amount to much." One had more dread of that than of the old word ordinary; in fact that damning adjective was already losing its sting because the majority outside of Old New York and Boston and Philadel- phia defied classification.
The children of professional men could not generally aspire to anything like a substantial income. Clients did not pay promptly, and young lawyers dared not urge settlement of their bills. The prac- tice of law could not hold people to obligations, apparently, as did the ministry. But realization did not come at once. Some months of our satisfying Englewood experience had passed before a day of awakening dawned. Every morning Archie took from his wife the orders for grocer and butcher, when he drove to the station, and sent back the provender by James. And he had also taken charge of the monthly bills; smaller payments we made in cash. One day a fatal item, Bill rendered, $30.00 came by post. It was from the grocer, and brought the current charge up to something like fifty dollars. Another such item swelled the butcher's bill to alarming proportions.
I remember that I sat down on the nearest chair, which hap- pened to be a stiff one against the dining-room wall, and stared straight ahead of me for a long time. Last month's bills, then, had not been paid. The foundations of our economic structure were crumbling; the future was problematical. Behind with our ac- counts! Money to be raised (saved it could not be), perhaps even another such notice next month. I remembered the rumor in our Syracuse days that a certain family, always rather down at heel, could not buy in any of the stores without paying cash for things; it seemed very terrible, for the man had a position that paid him a fair salary, but they had "gone into real estate," some people said, and the wife had been extravagant, and their speculations had not succeeded. Should we get like that, and be alternately pitied and scorned by our friends? .
I dreaded to see my husband that night. It seemed to me he must be weighed down by anxiety too. I set to work to cut down the provision bills; a most unsatisfactory effort. One had to have
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sugar and butter and flour and yeast and such things. No one knew about calories and vitamins and proteins in those days. Our garden kept us in vegetables. But certain fruits, preserving-stuffs, maple syrup, sweets, lined up in the attack on my system of economics, and I reminded myself painfully of Meg, Miss Alcott's heroine, when she became aware of her domestic extravagance, and had to present her husband with the "demd total"; a recollection which was fol- lowed by pictures of Dickens debtors. Were we to become Manta- linis or Micawbers? Then the upkeep of the house, the horse and carriage and James and the cook, and the more serious expenses ahead for which we had begun to plan in unpractical and vague fashion. A dreadful conviction came with the staring mental strug- gle there on the dining-room chair. We were living beyond our means.
It takes very little to turn a naturally buoyant outlook from de- spair to hope. When Archie got off the train that night his bearing did not reflect any trace of the anguish which had tormented his wife. I myself was able to dissemble, after a nap and a change of gowns, and to keep the conversation upon a sociable level. But after dinner I showed him the bills. To my amazement he took them quite calmly.
"Yes, dear, I did have to let those charges go over. Nothing to speak of has come in this last month, but I have a hundred dollars owing me. The worst of it is that we've spent our money sometimes before we get it!"
"Oh, but bills have to be paid, Archie! We simply mustn't let them go over. It's so wrong, so futile!" The sense of my own futility made me fairly tearful. This was vital and yet I was not convincing. He kept calm and steadfast as ever.
"You know," he said, "all professional men have to go through this sort of thing. That's the worst of it; you can't look ahead. My mother and father have had to live that way for years, sometimes getting quite a large payment, sometimes waiting and letting bills run up. Even experienced lawyers have to let their charges go."
"We mustn't have to"; I repeated it obstinately. I have recalled many times since how quietly he took what must have been one of
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his first disappointments in the woman he had married: her evident inability to understand the financial difficulties ahead for them both. If she had accepted the situation, if they had both put their minds to work on it, it would have helped him so much. But at that moment the one thing to do, as he saw it, was to keep her from worrying. She must not have any more surprises.
He reached out his hand for the unlucky papers. "I'll take care of these," he said gently. "You know I don't mean to have any bothers come to you. Don't think about it any more. You won't get bills in the mail after this. And we'll just go ahead and forget the money part." It ended with a love-scene, and anxiety was shelved for the moment. But the shadow was there. Recovery came after that first taste of debt. Bills rendered were paid, I never knew how.
Then there came prosperous times when we were extravagant to some degree, and regretted it later; when the baby came there were more expenses than ever; debts began to pile up, and we could not conceal the knowledge of them from one another. I was still obdurate, I remember; but there was now no money left of my own, though the families remembered us often with presents. Our hap- piness in having a child forced financial cares into the background. The first months of her life were spring and summer; velvety grass under the wheels of her chariot, flowers in her little hands. In August, when she was six months old and beginning to creep, I had a sort of nervous breakdown; she was a heavy baby, and I had overdone a little in taking care of her. The doctor ordered me to bed, and my room was turned into a nursery, in which she played and slept, and I managed for a while longer without help, but finally it became impossible to do justice to the task. Kind friends urged that I could not recover my strength unless the nursing were taken off my hands. The one thing to do was to have a good care- taker, and for that position there was a perfect specimen available, Melissa-a little old woman who had brought up the babies of the first families in Englewood, year in and year out, and who just now, luckily, was free to take a place. We didn't think we could afford her, but it was a necessity, and proved an immense relief; the whole tone of the household came up after she was once settled
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in the nursery. She was a diminutive creature, reminding one of a blackbird, and with a slight quiver of the upper lip when much in earnest. Her long thin arms were incredibly strong for lifting, and once gathered into them, seven-months-old Nan wanted no better resting-place.
I cannot leave Melissa out of this chronicle, for all in all she spent years with us, and was a wise adviser and friend of young mothers. The peace that fell upon our household with her arrival remained, but stability did not come at once, for it was the day of Mary Calligan, the immigrant in the kitchen, and I had grown anx- ious about affairs below stairs during my weeks in bed. Mary gave her own reports, kneeling by my bedside in an attitude of con- fession, but framing her activities in a self-constituted halo which was suspiciously decorative. I could not quite believe her accounts of housecleaning and economies. Melissa pounced at once upon a mass of deficiencies, and brought up fearful hints of conditions in kitchen and pantry. The climax came when she appeared one fore- noon with lip trembling like a rabbit's, and announced the worst break of all.
"I hate to tell you, Mrs. Sessions, for you won't believe me; it doesn't sound possible. But Mary's boiling the diapers and the dish- towels together in the soup-kettle!"
That finished it. Mary was given her congé gently, since she was so manifestly a child, and received it with a distressed wail, "But I dawn't knaw the rawd to Bruiklyn!" She had to be personally con- ducted thither, betraying no remorse and no anger.
But meantime, a far more heart-breaking departure was immi- nent. That summer we had begun to realize that our happy Engle- wood life must come to an end. Debts were mounting, even though a measurable amount of business had raised our hopes from time to time; we had never caught up. It would not do to embark on an- other season there. Not only was it too far from the law-office in Pine Street, curtailing business hours, but our whole establish- ment, the railroad fares to and fro, the impracticability of transpor- tation to the village, and even the hospitality which had been our delight, implied far greater financial resources than we could hope
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to command for several years yet, and should never have been un- dertaken. Even though we must leave debts behind, there was ab- solutely no way but to sever what we felt to be strong ties of friend- ship and obligation before our liabilities swamped us completely. Our friends the Allisons, who had been absent from home a good deal during that last year, and were again going away, offered to let us store our furniture in the little house which they had so generously considered our own while there. I went to Syracuse, with Melissa and Nan, and made a long visit, returning in Decem- ber to new quarters in a boarding-house on Brooklyn Heights.
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The two years following are not happy to recall, so far as living conditions were concerned. We knew we must live most economi- cally in order to clear up the Englewood liabilities even partially, and so long as the baby could be made comfortable it did not mat- ter so much about ourselves. We had a kind landlady, and a typical collection of fellow-boarders. Our friends, old families on the water- front, the Lows, the Lymans, Pierponts, Coltons, Hunters, Ben- sons, Whites, were all very near; my husband's family not far off with the beloved grandmother, whose advice and affection were a strong backing. There were hard times, foggy days and weeks, much discouragement, but we were happy in one another and in our child.
It was during those years that we came to know certain charac- ters in a world different from our own, yet not unknown. While I was in Germany my brother had brought to our family a new friend, a girl whose visit to Forty Acres was her first experience of the real country, for she had never been out of sight of the chimneys of New York City: He had met her in his work on the East Side, and her name was Leonora O'Reilly. She and her mother were of pure Irish stock, and on the father's side some of her uncles had been priests, men of brains and learning. But the father had died, and the two now lived together in a top-tenement, both working by day and educating themselves by night. Leonora had had only elemen- tary education, for she had begun very early in life-as a twelve- year-old, in fact-to work in the sweat-shops which were then a blot on the city. She sewed in an uptown shirt-factory, a one-room es- tablishment with some twenty sewing-machines crowded together,
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the girls underpaid and kept for long hours at work. Mrs. O'Reilly worked also, I think at some kind of home-labor. At night, as soon as they had eaten their supper, it was their habit to read aloud, one reading while the other washed the dishes. They had accomplished an incredible amount of study, and an astonishing familiarity with the great writers, both of history and economics. On holidays they went to the museums, and made themselves familiar with art and the history of art.
In the midst of their tenement environment they were solitary, but they had found kindred spirits outside, and one of Leonora's advisers from youth up (she called him uncle) was an old man, a handworker and furniture-maker, born in Italy, and a friend of Mazzini, with many stories to tell of the great Italian patriot whose adventures and escapes he had to some extent shared, and whose principles he impressed upon the adoring child. It was through him that Leonora had acquired a cultivation which later made a place for her among the intellectuals then coming to the struggle for better social conditions and equality. They were cropping out here and there, some of them students working out their courses at Columbia or studying in spare moments at night like the O'Reillys, some of them men or women who had seen a problem and stepped out of their own privileged circles.
My brother James was active in bringing these people together. He had written to his family in the summer of 1882 that he would like, as his birthday present, to be enabled to send a young girl in whom he was sure they would be interested, for a visit to Forty Acres. So Leo, as we came to call her for her courage, became one of the most congenial guests who had ever been welcomed there. To show its beauties to a human being who actually did not know what woods and meadows and a clear river, wild-flowers and hills were like, was an unmitigated delight. And to find her intellectually ca- pable of making common ground with her hosts, and giving as well as greeting new points of view, made her visit an event in the history of that summer. She came again from time to time, and I was able to share the friendship during the rest of her life. She had a passion- more than a passion-for truth. The recoil from even a prevarica-
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tion, the horror of a lie, the deep sting of social injustice, all this was. so marked in her that I think she was able to combat deceit more ef- fectively, in her work with individuals, than anyone I have ever known. Her confidence was irresistible. I vividly remember her figure as it was originally described to me in one of Molly's letters, standing for the first time on a hill-top looking off over a fertile valley dotted with farmhouses and barns and harvest fields; her slender figure (she must have been nineteen then) with the proud little head erect, and her rapt face; an interesting face with quick changes of expression.
"Think of it!" she exclaimed. "Living in this place years and years, these people; born here and working here, always with sun- rises over those hills, and sunsets, and northwest winds, and a sky like that every few days, why, how good they must be! Do New England people ever do anything wrong, or cheat, or hurt their neighbors?" And she meant it. It was difficult to convince her that all wrong-doing did not come from overcrowding and competition and the selfishness of wealth. She called herself an anarchist; there were no communists, then, as I have said, but anarchy was the word for dangerous elements; anarchy, we were taught, meant assassina- tions and plots and the overthrow of government. The Haymarket bombing in Chicago had touched off a train of revenge. But Leo- nora was not that kind.
"Yes, I am an anarchist," she always explained patiently. "I be- lieve in having no government; in doing away with governments. They are at the bottom of all evils in society."
And why, it would be asked, should government be in itself an evil? There were bad governments of course, but certainly society could not get on without some laws.
"We believe it could. If everyone would simply follow the Christian law, doing unto others as we would have them do to us, there would be no need of government. Abolish the system of forc- ing people to do right, and they will measure up. Anarchy is not meant to be lawlessness and riot, and the true anarchist will not promote that. We want to do away with government slowly, not by violently overthrowing it. Terrorism is quite another thing."
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Leonora was true to that principle to the end of her days. Al- though not belonging to any religious body, she maintained, and I think my brother never took issue with her on that point, that it was the attitude of the early Christians.
We were kept in touch with various interesting people during our life on Brooklyn Heights. Now and then we tried to bring two extremes of society a little nearer together, but without much success.
My brother was a great comfort to us in those two winters. He came over to us often, and set our minds working on interests which kept us alert. It was his last year in New York, for the Order was about to leave its habitation, on the East side, where they had worked for ten years, and move to a monastery of its own in Mary- land; a small building given by a woman for its use, set in exquisite country and soft climate, where it was thought the broader object of the Order and the ideals of monastic life could be better fur- thered. The closing months of his New York service, however, in- volved intense labor. We were grateful for his confidence, and for the inspiration he brought with him.
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