Part 7

My conscience is a perfect old tyrent, and jest drives me round more’n half the time. I am willin’ to be drove by her as fur as I ort to be. But sometimes, I declare for’t, I get so tuckered out with her drivin’s, that I get fairly puzzled, and wonderin’ whether she knows herself all the time jest what she is about; whether she is certain that she is always a drivin’ me in the right road; and how fur I ort to be drove by her, and when, and where to; and whether I ort to let my intellect and common sense lay holt and help her drive. As I say, she run me considerable of a run on this head-dress. I had a awful time of it, and won’t deny it, and I was on the very pint several times of carryin’ it back. But when Kellup come right out, and gin such powerful hints about it; about extravagance, and wickedness, and vanity; and about married wimmen settin’ sinful patterns to them outside of meetin’-housen, and that it didn’t look likely, and et cetery, et cetery, and so forth.

Why, as he went on a hintin’ so powerful strong, and givin’ such burnin’ glances onto that head-dress, why, I sort o’ sprunted up, and begun to see things on the other side plainer than I had seen ’em.

Then says I, as the eyes of my specks rested upon the apple-boughs that filled the north kitchen winder with a glow of rosiness and sweetness:

“The Lord don’t seem to think as you do, Kellup. Jest see how He has dressed up that old apple-tree.” Says I: “No fashionable belle in New York or Paris village can ever hope to wear garments so daintily fine and sweet. No queen nor empress ever wore or ever will wear for their coronation robes such splendid and gorgeous raiment as the common spring suit of that old apple-tree.”

Says Kellup, holdin’ his head well up in the air, and drawin’ his lips down with a very self-righteous drawin’, that I knew meant head-dress, though he didn’t come right out and say it:

“I despise and detest the foolishness of display. There is more important and serious business on earth than dressin’ up to look nice.”

“That is so,” says I, “that is jest as true as you live. Now that old apple tree’s stiddy business and theme is to make sweet, juicy apples; but at the same time that don’t hender her from dressin’ up, and lookin’ well. The Lord might have made the apples grow in rows right round the trunk from top to bottom, with no ‘foolishness of display’ of the rosy coloring and perfume—but He didn’t. He chose in His wisdom, which it is not for you or me to doubt, to make it a glory and a delight to every beholder. So beautiful that the birds sail and sing with very joy in and out of the sweet branches, and the happy bees hum delightedly about the honey-laden cells, and she whose name was once Smith, has been made happy as a queen all day long, by jest lookin’ out of that window down into the fragrant, rosy depths of sweetness and light.”

“Wall,” says Kellup, lookin’ keen at my head-dress, “I don’t consider it likely, anyway, to spend so much time a dressin’ up—it is a shiftless waste of time, anyway.”

“Why,” says I; for the more he scolded me, the plainer I see the other side of things. So curious are human bein’s constituted and sot.

“Nater has always been considered likely—I never heard a word against her character, and she is stiddy minded, too, and hard workin’. She works hard, Nater does. She works almost beyond her strength sometimes. She has sights of work on her hands all the hull time, and she has a remarkable knack of turnin’ off tremendous day’s works. And I never in my hull life heard her called shiftless or slack. But what a case she is to orniment herself off; to rag out and show herself in so many different colors. And if she feels better to be dressed up and fixed off kinder pretty while she’s to work, I don’t know whose business it is. I never was no case myself to dress up in white book muslin, or pink silk, or bobonet lace, or anything of that kind, when I was a doin’ hard jobs, such as makin’ soap, and runnin’ candles, and cleanin’ house, and etcetery. And when I have got to be out in the rain when it is all drabbly and muddy, why I jest wrap up and look like fury. But she don’t. No! I have known her time and agin to tie the most gorgeous and shinin’ rainbow round her old waist and jest lay herself out to look foamin’ and dressy, right there in the rain.

“It beats all how she does fix herself up. But it don’t hurt my feelin’s at all. I never was a mite jealous of other females lookin’ better than I did. The better they look, the better I enjoy lookin’ at ’em. And if Nater can dress up better and look better while she is a doin’ her spring work and all her other hard jobs than I can, good land! how simple it would be in me to blame her. There is where I use such cast-iron reason. You don’t ketch me a blamin’ other folks for their little personal ways and habits that don’t do nobody no hurt. She is well off, Nater is, and able to do as she is a mind to; she has got plenty to do with; she don’t have to scrimp herself to buy flowers, and tossels, and rainbows. If she did, I shouldn’t approve of it in her, not at all. I despise folks goin’ beyond their means to look pretty. I think it is wicked, and the height of dretfulness. But if them that are abundantly able and willin’ want to look nice, I say, let ’em look.”

And I cast a conscious and sort of a modest glance up into the lookin’-glass that hung over the table. I could jest ketch a glimpse of my head-dress, and I see that its strings floated out noble, and I see at the same glance that he was still lookin’ witherin’ at it. But I didn’t care a mite for it. I was jest filled with my subject (that side of it, for every subject has got more’n a dozen sides to it), and the more he cast them witherin’ looks onto me the more I wuzn’t withered—but soared up in mind, and grew eloquent.

And I went on fearfully eloquent about Nater, and the way she fixed herself up perfectly beautiful—right when she was a workin’ the hardest.

“Why,” says I, “when she goes way down into the depths of the under world to make iron, and coal, and salt, and things that has got to be made, and she has got to make ’em—why, she can’t be contented way down there in the dark, all alone by herself, without deckin’ herself off with diamonds, and all sorts of precious gems, and holdin’ up wreaths of shinin’ crystal, enameled fern fronds, and hangin’ clusters snowy white, and those shinin’ with every dazzlin’ hue.

“And way down on the ocean floor, fifteen miles or so down below, where she would naturally expect nobody would come a visatin’—why, way down there, where she must know that there hain’t no company liable to drop in on her onexpected, yet every minute of the time she is all ornimented off with pearls, and opal-tinted shells, daintest green and crimson seagrass, gem-like purple astreas, wonderful pink and white coral wreaths—all strange and lovely blossoms of the sea.

“What tongue can tell the wonders of the beauty she arrays herself with way down there in the dark alone. How every little bud of beauty is wreathed around with other marvels of loveliness—how all about one tiny little bit of a blossom will be twined other wonderful little flowerin’ vines, starred with crystal bells.

“No tongue can ever describe it—not mine, certainly, for I say but little myself, and that little is far too small to express these wonders of beauty.

“And then right round here, when she is to work right here in our fields, doin’ her common run of hard work—such as makin’ wheat, and oats, and other grain. No matter how hot the weather is, or muggy; no matter whether she is behindhand with her work, and in a awful hurry—she always finds time to scatter along in the orderly ranks of the grain, wild red poppies and blue-eyed asters. And I never in my life, and Josiah never did, see her ever make a solid ear of corn without she hung on top of it a long silk tossel. And I don’t believe she ever made a ton of hay in the world, if she had her own way about it, but what she made it perfectly gay with white daisies and butter-cups.

“And all the gardens of the world she glorifies, and all the roads, and hedges, and lanes, and by-ways. No matter how long and crooked they are, or how tejus, she scatters blossoms of brightness and beauty over them all.

“And clear up on the highest mountains, under the shadow of the everlastin’ snows, she will stop to lay a cluster of sweet mountain anemones and Alpine roses on the old bosom—for she is a gettin’ considerable along in years, Nater is. Not that I say it in a runnin’ way at all, or spiteful, or mean. But I s’pose she is older than we have any idee of—as old agin as folks call her. But she acts young, and looks so. She holds her age remarkable, as has been often remarked about a person whose name was once Smith.

“Why, she acts fairly frisky and girlish sometimes. Way down in the lowest valleys, down by the most hidden brook-side, she will sit down to weave together the most lovely and coquetish bunches of fern and grasses, and scarlet and golden wild flowers, and deck herself up in ’em like a bride of 16. You never ketched her runnin’ in debt for a lot of stuff though—her principles are too firm. But she goes on makin’ beauty and gladness wherever she goes, and lookin’ handsome, and if it had been wicked the Lord wouldn’t have let her go on in it. He could have stopped her in a minute if He had wanted to. She does jest as He tells her to, and always did.

“And,” says I, with considerable of a stern look onto Kellup, “if Nater—if she who understands the unwritten language of God, that we can’t speak yet—if she, whose ways seem to us to be a revelation of that will of the Most High—if she can go on wreathing herself in beauty, I don’t think we should be afraid of gettin’ holt of all we can of it—of all lovely things. And I don’t think,” says I, givin’ a sort of a careless glance up into the lookin’-glass, “that there should be such a fuss made by the world at large about my head-dress.”

“But,” says Kellup, a groanin’ loud and violent, “it is the wickedness of it I look at. To follow the vile example of the rich. And oh! how wicked rich folks be. How hard-hearted, how unprincipled, and vile.” And agin he groaned, deep.

Says I, “Don’t groan so, Kellup,” for it was truly skairful to hear him.

Says he, “I will groan!” Says he, “The carryin’s on and extravagance of the rich is enough to make a dog groan.”

I see I couldn’t stop his groanin’, but I went on a talkin’ reasonable, in hopes I could quell him down.

Says I, “There is two sides to most everything, Kellup, and some have lots of sides. That is what makes the world such a confusin’ place to live in. If things and idees didn’t have but one side to ’em, we could grab holt of that side, hold it close, and be at rest.

“But they do. And you must look on both sides of things before you make a move. You mustn’t confine yourself to lookin’ on jest one side of a subject, for it hain’t reasonable.”

“I won’t try to look on both sides,” says he with a bitter look. “That is what makes folks onsettled and onstabled in their views, and liberal. But I won’t. I am firm and decided. I am satisfied to look on one side of a subject—on the good old orthodox side. You won’t ketch me a whifflin’ round and lookin’ on every side of a idee.”

“Wall,” says I, calmly, for to convince, and not to anger, is ever my theme and purpose. And knowin’ that to the multitude truth is most often palatable if presented in a parabolical form, and has been for centuries often imbibed by them in that way, entirely unbeknown to them. And knowin’ that the little scenes of daily life are as good to wrap round morals and cause ’em to be swallowed down unbeknowin’, as peach preserves are to roll round pills, I went on and says:

“If you won’t look on only one side of a subject, Kellup, you may find yourself in as curious a place as Melvin Case was last fall. His wife told it herself to Miss Gansey, and Miss Gansey told the editor of the Augurs’es wife, and the editor of the Augurs’es wife told Miss Mooney, and she told the woman’s first husband’s mother-in-law that told me. It come straight.

“It was a very curious situation, and the way on’t was: Melvin Case, as you know, married Clarinda Piller of Piller P’int, down on the Lake Shore road. Wall, they had been married 23 years and never had no childern, and last fall they had a nice little boy. He was a welcome child, and weighed over 9 pounds.

“Wall, Malvin thought the world of his wife, and bein’ very tickled about the boy, and feelin’ very affectionate towards his wife at the time, he proposed at once that they should call him after her maiden name—Piller. Of course she give her willin’ consent, and they was both highly tickled. But you see, bein’ blinded by affection and happiness, they didn’t look on only one side of the idee, and they never studied on how the two names was a goin’ to look when they was put together, till after he had wrote it down in the Bible; and then he paused, with his pen in his hand, and looked up perfectly horrified at his wife, who was holdin’ the baby in her arms and lookin’ over his shoulder, and she looked perfectly dumbfoundered at him, for they see it looked awful—Piller Case.

“Now you are lookin’ at one side of the subject, but there is another side to it, Kellup,—there is as sure as you live and breathe.

“God knows too much cannot be said or sung about the duty the rich owe to the poor. They cannot study too correctly, and follow too closely the pattern that He, the loving Elder Brother, set them. He who was so tender in His compassion; so helpful and thoughtful to the claims of the poor and humble. But charity is a big word, and it has more than one side to it. It means charity to the poor, under whose lowly roofs He once entered, a child of the poor, and so consecrated them honorable for all time. Those who were His closest friends through His toilsome earthly life; those whom He loved first, and loved last; cared for even in that supreme moment of His most triumphant and glorious ignominy. Shall not His followers forever love and bless those He hallowed by His tender care in such a moment? Yes, charity to the poor first. But we mustn’t stop there, Kellup. We may want to set right down in front of that side of the word, and stay there. But we mustn’t. If we want to view this heavenly word on every side we must walk round on the other side of it, and see that it means, too, charity to the rich. A higher, subtler quality of charity it calls for in us than the other.

“For I can tell you, Kellup, some folks say it is a tough job for one to keep a sweet, charitable, loving spirit towards them that are richer, more successful, and happier than they be. Hard for ’em to rejoice over the good fortune of the great. Hard for ’em to keep from judgin’ them severely—from feelin’ envious over the good fortune they cannot share.

“We are exhorted to feel sorry for the man who falls down and breaks his leg. We are exhorted to feel christian toward that humble man. But though there hain’t much said on the other side of the subject, I think it is enough sight harder to feel christian towards that man when we are a layin’ flat on the ice, or slippery sidewalk, and he is a standin’ up straight.

“It is easy to deceive ourselves; easy to give very big, noble names to very small emotions. And if we feel uncomfortable to see some one else who has always stood on the same level with ourselves suddenly lifted above us,—no matter how worthily he may have earned that more exalted station,—we may call that uncomfortable feelin’ any name we please. We may call it a holy horror of worldly-mindedness—a hauntin’ fear lest he be jeopardizin’ his immortal soul, by settin’ up on that loftier spear. And mebby it is. I hain’t a goin’ to come right out and say that it hain’t. But I will say this, for there hain’t no harm in it, and it can’t make no trouble. I will say that if we feel this uncomfortable feelin’ we ort to keep a close watch of our symptoms. For though that gripin’ pain in the left side may be a religious pain, yet there is a possibility that it may be envy. And if it is, it requires fur different treatment. And it may be a self-righteous, Pharasaical feelin’ that our Lord seemed to hate worst of any feelin’ we could feel.

“I tell you it requires the very closest dognosing (to use a high learnt medical phrase) to get the symptoms exactly right, and see exactly what aches we are a achin’. For the heart that we imagine is a gripin’ and a achin’ at sinful worldly-mindedness, may be a achin’ with the consumin’ fever of spite, and envy and revenge,—the heart-burnin’ desire and determination to bring the loftier and the nobler down in some way on a level with ourselves, if not by fair means, with the foul ones of malice and slander and lies.

“I don’t say it is so; but I say, let us be careful, and let us be charitable to all,—the rich and the poor,—for charity, Kellup, like the new linen ulsters, covers a multitude of sinners.

“Now,” says I, metaforin’ a little, as I might have known I should before I got through, “now if I was a woman, and should say that to wear diamonds was wicked, or to live in a beautiful home full of books and pictures, and all the means of ease and culture was an abomination to me, and wicked, when I was hankerin’ in the very depths of my soul to be wicked in jest that way, if I only had the wherewith to be wicked with, why, that holy horror I professed would be vain in me; empty as soundin’ brass and tinglin’ symbols. Let us be honest and true first, and then put on more ornamental christianity afterwards; there hain’t no danger of our gettin’ any too much of it, that is, of the right kind. Envy and hypocracy and cant look worse to me than diamonds; and I would wear the diamonds as quick agin—if I got the chance.”

Kellup didn’t look a mite convinced. But I kep’ right on, for though I am a woman that says but little, yet when I begin to convince anybody I always want to finish up the job in a handsome, thorough way, and then I felt real eloquent; and I tell you it is hard, even for a close-mouthed woman, it is hard for ’em when they feel as eloquent as I did then to keep from swingin’ right out and talkin’, and I didn’t try to stop myself; I kep’ right on, and says I:

“It is a mistake in you and in me if we think that every rich person is necessarily a hard-hearted one; if we think a tender heart cannot beat jest as warmly and truly aginst a ermine robe, as a shabby overcoat; aginst a rich boddist waist, as a calico bask. There are little, stingy, narrow, contracted souls in every station-house of life, high ones and low ones; and there are loving, generous ones, visey versey, and the same. And God bless those tender hearts where-ever they are; those who in lofty places organize the great charities whose benefactions bless the nations in famine, in war, and in the calamity of national sickness and distress. And Heaven bless the lowly toilers of life, whose humble gifts out of their scanty means are in God’s sight equally as great.

“The little blue potato-blossom laid upon the pillow of the sick by the child of poverty—we think the perfume of that little odorless flower will rise to Heaven as sweet as the most royal blossom given by the children of kings. The blossoms of true charity are all sweet in Heaven’s sight.”

And says I, lookin’ up to the ceilin’ in a almost rapped eloquence of mean, and a lofty fervency and earnestness of axent:

“Heaven bless all the generous, loving hearts that beat under any and every colored robe; under the shabby garb of poverty; the somber hue of some consecrated sisterhood of compassion; under the quaint Quaker garb, or the bright silks of the Widder Albert’s generous daughters; those who conscientiously wear sober clothing, and those who jest as innocently wear brighter apparel. Heaven bless them all; the gray-robed sisterhood of Mercy, God’s dove-colored angels, who lean over the beds of the sick and the sorrowing, and whose shadows falling by the beds of pain the sad-eyed soldiers kiss; Catholic or Protestant, whatever their creed, they have the divinest gift of the three—the divine gift of Charity. God made them all—the rose and the gray; the blue sky, the rainbow, and the soft shadow of the twilight clouds. He made the earth for His beloved; nothing is too good for them, or too beautiful. And why should one color boast over another, as being purer-minded, and less wicked?”

I had been very eloquent, and felt considerable eloquent still, but happenin’ to let the eye of my speck fall for a minute on Kellup, I see by the awful unbelievin’ look on his face that I had got to simplify it down to his comprehension. I see that he did not understand my soarin’ ideas as I would wish ’em to be understood.

Not that I blamed him for it. Good land! a tow string hain’t to blame for not bein’ made a iron spike. But at the same time it is bad and wearisome business for the one who attempts to use that tow string for a spike—tries to drive it into the solid wall of argument and clinch a fact with it. I had said a good deal about beauty, but it seemed as if I wanted to say sunthin’ more, and I went on and said it:

“Some folks seem to be afraid of beauty; as ’fraid of it as if it was a bear. They seem to be more afraid of lettin’ a little beauty into their lives than they be of lettin’ the same amount of wickedness in. You would think a man was awful simple who would spend his hull strength in puttin’ up coverin’s to his windows to keep out the sunshine and fresh air, and not pay any attention to the obnoxious creeters, wild-cats, burglars, and etcetery that was comin’ right into the open front-door. And it hain’t a mite more simple than it is for them, for they take so much pains a puttin’ up iron bars (as it were) across the windows of their souls to keep beauty and brightness and innocent recreation out of it, that they have no time to see how uncharitableness and envy and malice and hatred and a hull regiment of just such ugly creeters are troopin’ right into the front-door unbeknown to them.

“They seem to take a pride in despisin’ beauty, as if it was a merit in them to look down upon, and feel hauty and contemptuous toward the divinest and loveliest thing God ever made. I don’t feel so, Kellup. I don’t think it is wicked for me to lay holt of all the beauty and happiness that I can, consistently with my duty to humanity and Josiah.

“There are some things that must be done first of all. We must hold the spear firm and upright. We must carry our principles stiddy and firm. But we have a perfect right and privilege to wreath that spear and them principles with all the blossoms of brightness and innocent happiness we can possibly lay holt of. Them is my opinions. Howsomever, everybody to their own mind.”

“Beauty the divinest thing God ever made!” says Kellup in a hauty, ironical tone. “How dare you be so wicked, Josiah Allen’s wife? I call it awful wicked to talk so.”

Says I, “I don’t believe anything is wicked that lifts us right up nearer to Heaven. I don’t mean to be wicked.”

“Wall, you be,” says he, speakin’ up sharp. “Worshipin’ beauty, worshipin’ the creature instead of the creator.”