Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  Our Hero and Leander, then, who are arranging their cottage to-day, are examples just in point. They have both of them been only children, — both the idols of circles where they have been universally deferred to. Each in his or her own circle has been looked up to as a model of good taste, and of course each has the habit of exercising and indulging very distinct personal tastes. They truly, deeply esteem, respect, and love each other, and for the very best of reasons, — because there are sympathies of the very highest kind between them. Both are generous and affectionate, — both are highly cultured in intellect and taste, — both are earnestly religious; and yet, with all this, let me tell you that the first year of their married life will be worthy to be recorded as a year of battles. Yes, these friends so true, these lovers so ardent, these individuals in themselves so admirable, cannot come into the intimate relations of life without an effervescence as great as that of an acid and alkali; and it will be impossible to decide which is most in fault, the acid or the alkali, both being in their way of the very best quality.

  The reason of it all is, that both are intensely “set in their way,” and the ways of no two human beings are altogether coincident. Both of them have the most sharply defined, exact tastes and preferences. In the simplest matter both have a way, — an exact way, — which seems to be dear to them as life’s blood. In the simplest appetite or taste they know exactly what they want, and cannot, by any argument, persuasion, or coaxing, be made to want anything else.

  For example, this morning dawns bright upon them, as she, in her tidy morning wrapper and trimly-laced boots, comes stepping over the bales and boxes which are discharged on the verandah; while he, for joy of his new acquisition, can hardly let her walk on her own pretty feet, and is making every fond excuse to lift her over obstacles and carry her into her new dwelling in triumph.

  Carpets are put down, the floors glow under the hands of obedient workmen, and now the furniture is being wheeled in.

  “Put the piano in the bow-window,” says the lady.

  “No, not in the bow-window,” says the gentleman.

  “Why, my dear, of course it must go in the bow-window. How awkward it would look anywhere else! I have always seen pianos in bow-windows.”

  “My love, certainly you would not think of dashing that beautiful prospect from the bow-window by blocking it up with the piano. The proper place is just here, in the corner of the room. Now try it.”

  “My dear, I think it looks dreadfully there; it spoils the appearance of the room.”

  “Well, for my part, my love, I think the appearance of the room would be spoiled if you filled up the bow-window. Think what a lovely place that would be to sit in!”

  “Just as if we couldn’t sit there behind the piano, if we wanted to!” says the lady.

  “But then, how much more ample and airy the room looks as you open the door, and see through the bow-window down that little glen, and that distant peep of the village-spire!”

  “But I never could be reconciled to the piano standing in the corner in that way,” says the lady. “I insist upon it, it ought to stand in the bow-window: it’s the way mamma’s stands, and Aunt Jane’s, and Mrs. Wilcox’s; everybody has their piano so.”

  “If it comes to insisting,” says the gentleman, “it strikes me that is a game two can play at.”

  “Why, my dear, you know a lady’s parlour is her own ground.”

  “Not a married lady’s parlour, I imagine. I believe it is at least equally her husband’s, as he expects to pass a good portion of his time there.”

  “But I don’t think you ought to insist on an arrangement that really is disagreeable to me,” says the lady.

  “And I don’t think you ought to insist on an arrangement that is really disagreeable to me,” says the gentleman.

  And now Hero’s cheeks flush, and the spirit burns within, as she says, —

  “Well, if you insist upon it, I suppose it must be as you say; but I shall never take any pleasure in playing on it;” and Hero sweeps from the apartment, leaving the victor very unhappy in his conquest.

  He rushes after her, and finds her up-stairs, sitting disconsolate and weeping on a packing-box.

  “Now, Hero, how silly! Do have it your own way. I’ll give it up.”

  “No, — let it be as you say. I forgot that it was a wife’s duty to submit.”

  “Nonsense, Hero! Do talk like a rational woman. Don’t let us quarrel like children.”

  “But it’s so evident that I was in the right.”

  “My dear, I cannot concede that you were in the right; but I am willing it should be as you say.”

  “Now, I perfectly wonder, Leander, that you don’t see how awkward your way is. It would make me nervous every time I came into the room, and it would be so dark in that corner that I never could see the notes.”

  “And I wonder, Hero, that a woman of your taste don’t see how shutting up that bow-window spoils the parlour. It’s the very prettiest feature of the room.”

  And so round and round they go, stating and restating their arguments, both getting more and more nervous and combative, both declaring themselves perfectly ready to yield the point as an oppressive exaction, but to do battle for their own opinion as right and reason, — the animal instinct of self-will meanwhile rising and rising and growing stronger and stronger on both sides. But meanwhile in the heat of argument some side-issues and personal reflections fly out like splinters in the shivering of lances. He tells her, in his heat, that her notions are formed from deference to models in fashionable life, and that she has no idea of adaptation, — and she tells him that he is domineering and dictatorial, and wanting to have everything his own way; and in fine, this battle is fought off and on through the day, with occasional armistices of kisses and makings-up, — treacherous truces, which are all broken up by the fatal words, “My dear, after all, you must admit I was in the right,” which, of course, is the signal to fight the whole battle over again.

  One such prolonged struggle is the parent of many lesser ones, — the aforenamed splinters of injurious remark and accusation which flew out in the heat of argument, remaining and festering and giving rise to nervous soreness; yet, where there is at the foundation real, genuine love, and a good deal of it, the pleasure of making up so balances the pain of the controversy, that the two do not perceive exactly what they are doing, nor suspect that so deep and wide a love as theirs can be seriously affected by causes so insignificant.

  But the cause of difficulty in both, the silent, unwatched, intense power of self-will in trifles, is all the while precipitating them into new encounters. For example, in a bright hour between the showers, Hero arranges for her Leander a repast of peace and goodwill, and compounds for him a salad which is a chef-d’æuvre among salads. Leander is also bright and propitious; but after tasting the salad, he pushes it silently away.

  “My dear, you don’t like your salad.”

  “No, my dear; I never eat anything with salad oil in it.”

  “Not eat salad oil? How absurd! I never heard of a salad without oil.” And the lady looks disturbed.

  “But, my dear, as I tell you, I never take it. I prefer simple sugar and vinegar.”

  “Sugar and vinegar! Why, Leander, I’m astonished! How very bourgeois! You must really try to like my salad” — (spoken in a coaxing tone).

  “My dear, I never try to like anything new. I am satisfied with my old tastes.”

  “Well, Leander, I must say that is very ungracious and disobliging of you.”

  “Why any more than for you to annoy me by forcing on me what I don’t like?”

  “But you would like it, if you would only try People never like olives till they have eaten three or four, and then they become passionately fond of them.”

  “Then I think they are very silly to go through all that trouble, when there are enough things that they do like.”

  “Now, Leander, I don’t think that seems amiable or pleasant at all. I think we
ought to try and accommodate ourselves to the tastes of our friends.”

  “Then, my dear, suppose you try to like your salad with sugar and vinegar.”

  “But it’s so gauche and unfashionable! Did you ever hear of a salad made with sugar and vinegar on a table in good society?”

  “My mother’s table, I believe, was in good society, and I learned to like it there. The truth is, Hero, for a sensible woman, you are too fond of mere fashionable and society notions.”

  “Yes, you told me that last week, and I think it was very unjust, — very unjust, indeed” — (uttered with emphasis).

  “No more unjust than your telling me that I was dictatorial and obstinate.”

  “Well, now, Leander, dear, you must confess that you are rather obstinate.”

  “I don’t see the proof.”

  “You insist on your own ways so, heaven and earth can’t turn you.”

  “Do I insist on mine more than you on yours?”

  “Certainly, you do.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Hero casts up her eyes and repeats with expression, —

  “Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us

  To see oursels as others see us!”

  “Precisely,” says Leander. “I would that prayer were answered in your case, my dear.”

  “I think you take pleasure in provoking me,” says the lady.

  “My dear, how silly and childish all this is!” says the gentleman. “Why can’t we let each other alone?”

  “You began it.”

  “No, my dear, begging your pardon, I did not.”

  “Certainly, Leander, you did.”

  Now a conversation of this kind may go on hour after hour, as long as the respective parties have breath and strength, both becoming secretly more and more “set in their way.” On both sides is the consciousness that they might end it at once by a very simple concession.

  She might say,—”Well, dear, you shall always have your salad as you like;” and he might say,—”My dear, I will try to like your salad, if you care much about it;” and if either of them would utter one of these sentences, the other would soon follow. Either would give up if the other would set the example; but as it is, they remind us of nothing so much as two cows that we have seen standing, with locked horns, in a meadow, who can neither advance nor recede an inch. It is a mere dead-lock of the animal instinct of firmness; reason, conscience, religion have nothing to do with it.

  The questions debated in this style by our young couple were surprisingly numerous: as, for example, whether their favourite copy of Turner should hang in the parlour or in the library, — whether their pet little landscape should hang against the wall, or be placed on an easel, — whether the bust of Psyche should stand on the marble table in the hall, or on a bracket in the library; all of which points were debated with a breadth of survey, a richness of imagery, a vigour of discussion, that would be perfectly astonishing to any one who did not know how much two self-willed, argumentative people might find to say on any point under heaven. Everything in classical antiquity, everything in Kugler’s “Hand-Book of Painting,” — every opinion of living artists, — besides questions social, moral, and religious, — all mingled in the grand mêlée: because there is nothing in creation that is not somehow connected with everything else.

  Dr. Johnson has said,—”There are a thousand familiar disputes which reason never can decide; questions that elude investigation, and make logic ridiculous; cases where something must be done, and where little can be said.”

  With all deference to the great moralist, we must say that this statement argues a very limited knowledge of the resources of talk possessed by two very cultivated and very self-willed persons, fairly pitted against each other in practical questions; the logic may indeed be ridiculous, but such people as our Hero and Leander find no cases under the sun where something is to be done, yet where little can be said. And these wretched wranglings, this interminable labyrinth of petty disputes, waste and crumble away that high ideal of truth and tenderness, which the real, deep sympathies and actual worth of their characters entitled them to form. Their married life is not what they expected; at times they are startled by the reflection that they have somehow grown unlovely to each other; and yet, if Leander goes away to pass a week, and thinks of his Hero in the distance, he can compare no other woman to her; and the days seem long and the house empty to Hero while he is gone; both wonder at themselves when they look over their petty bickerings, but neither knows exactly how to catch the little fox that spoils their vines.

  It is astonishing how much we think about ourselves, yet to how little purpose, — how very clever people will talk and wonder about themselves and each other, and yet go on year after year, not knowing how to use either themselves or each other, — not having as much practical philosophy in the matter of their own characters and that of their friends, as they have in respect of the screws of their gas-fixtures or the management of their water-pipes.

  “But I won’t have any such scenes with my wife,” says Don Positivo. “I won’t marry one of your clever women; they are always positive and disagreeable. I look for a wife of a gentle and yielding nature, that shall take her opinions from me, and accommodate her tastes to mine.” And so Don Positivo goes and marries a pretty little pink-and-white concern, so lisping and soft and delicate that he is quite sure she cannot have a will of her own. She is the moon of his heavens, to shine only by his reflected light.

  We would advise our gentlemen friends who wish to enjoy the felicity of having their own way not to try the experiment with a pretty fool; for the obstinacy of cleverness and reason is nothing to the obstinacy of folly and inanity.

  Let our friend once get in the seat opposite to him at table a pretty creature who cries for the moon, and insists that he don’t love her because he doesn’t get it for her; and in vain may he display his superior knowledge of astronomy, and prove to her that the moon is not to be got. She listens with her head on one side, and after he has talked himself quite out of breath, repeats the very same sentence she began the discussion with, without variation or addition.

  If she wants darling Johnny taken away from school, because cruel teachers will not give up the rules of the institution for his pleasure, in vain does Don Positivo, in the most select and superior English, enlighten her on the necessity of habits of self-control and order for a boy, — the impossibility that a teacher should make exceptions for their particular darling, — the absolute, perishing need that the boy should begin to do something. She hears him all through, and then says, “I don’t know anything about that. I know what I want: I want Johnny taken away.” And so she weeps, sulks, storms, entreats, lies awake nights, has long fits of sick-headache, — in short, shows that a pretty animal, without reason or cultivation, can be, in her way, quite as formidable an antagonist as the most clever of her sex.

  Leander can sometimes vanquish his Hero in fair fight by the weapons of good logic, because she is a woman capable of appreciating reason, and able to feel the force of the considerations he adduces; and when he does vanquish and carry her captive by his bow and spear, he feels that he has gained a victory over no ignoble antagonist, and he becomes a hero in his own eyes. Though a woman of much will, still she is a woman of much reason; and if he has many vexations with her pertinacity, he is never without hope in her good sense; but alas for him whose wife has only the animal instinct of firmness, without any development of the judgment or reasoning faculties! The conflicts with a woman whom a man respects and admires are often extremely trying; but the conflicts with one whom he cannot help despising, become in the end simply disgusting.

  But the inquiry now arises, What shall be done with all the questions Dr. Johnson speaks of, which reason cannot decide, which elude investigation, and make logic ridiculous, — cases where something must be done, and where little can be said?

  Read Mrs. Ellis’s “Wives of England,” and you have one solution of the proble
m. The good women of England are there informed that there is to be no discussion, that everything in the ménage is to follow the rule of the lord, and that the wife has but one hope, namely, that grace may be given him to know exactly what his own will is. “L’état, c’est moi,” is the lesson which every English husband learns of Mrs. Ellis, and we should judge from the pictures of English novels that this “awful right divine” is insisted on in detail in domestic life.

  Miss Edgeworth makes her magnificent General Clarendon talk about his “commands” to his accomplished and elegant wife; and he rings the parlour-bell with such an air, calls up and interrogates trembling servants with such awful majesty, and lays about him generally in so very military and tremendous a style that we are not surprised that poor little Cecilia is frightened into lying, being half out of her wits in terror of so very martial a husband.

  During his hours of courtship he majestically informs her mother that he never could consent to receive as his wife any woman who has had another attachment; and so the poor puss, like a naughty girl, conceals a little school-girl flirtation of bygone days, and thus gives rise to most agonizing and tragic scenes with her terrible lord, who petrifies her one morning by suddenly drawing the bed-curtains and flapping an old love-letter in her eyes, asking, in tones of suppressed thunder, “Cecilia, is this your writing?”

  The more modern female novelists of England give us representations of their view of the right divine no less stringent. In a very popular story, called “Agatha’s Husband,” the plot is as follows. A man marries a beautiful girl with a large fortune. Before the marriage, he discovers that his brother, who has been guardian of the estate, has fraudulently squandered the property, so that it can only be retrieved by the strictest economy. For the sake of getting her heroine into a situation to illustrate her moral, the authoress now makes her hero give a solemn promise not to divulge to his wife or to any human being the fraud by which she suffers.