Part 9

Wall, we stood over her most all night to keep the breath of life in her; and the oldest boy, bein’ skairt, it brought on some fits that he was in the habit of havin’,—a sort of fallin’ fits; he would fall anywheres; he fell onto Josiah twice that night, and almost knocked him down. He was awful large for his age; dretful big and fat. It seemed as if there was sunthin’ wrong about his heft, it was so oncommon hefty for a boy of his age. He looked bloated. His eyes, which was a pale blue, seemed to be kinder sot back in his head, and his cheeks stood out below, some like baloons; and his mouth was kinder open a good deal of the time, as if it was hard work for him to breathe; he breathed thick and wheezy,—dretful oncomfortable. His complexion was bad, too; sallow and sort o’ tallery lookin’. He acted dretful logy and heavy at the best of times, and in them fits he was as heavy and helpless as lead.

Wall, that was the third night after they got there, and from that night, as long as they stayed there, she had the historicks frequent and violent, and Bill had his fallin’ fits. And you wouldn’t believe if you hadn’t seen ’em, how many things he broke a fallin’ on ’em in them fits. It beat all how unfortunate he was. They always come onto him unexpected, and it seemed as if they would always come onto him while he was in front of sunthin’ to smash all to bits. And I says to Josiah, says I: “Did you ever see, Josiah Allen, anybody so unfortunate as that boy in his fits? It seems as if he’ll break everything in the house if it goes on.”

Says he, “’Tis a pity his cussed neck don’t break!”

I don’t know as I ever gin Josiah Allen a firmer, eloquenter lecture against swearin’ than I did then. But in my heart I pitied him, for it was only the day before that he fell as he was a lookin’ at the colt. It was only a week old, but Josiah sot his eyes by it, and the boy was admirin’ of it—there wasn’t nothin’ ugly about him—but a fit come on, and he fell onto the colt, and the colt not expectin’ of it, and bein’ unprepared, fell flat down, and the boy on it; and the colt jest lived, that is all. Josiah says it never will be worth any thing; he thinks it broke sunthin’ inside. As I said, there wasn’t a ugly thing about Bill. He’d be awful sorry when he broke things, and squshed ’em, and flatted ’em all out a fallin’ on ’em.

All I blamed him for was his prowlin’ round so much. I thought then, and I think still, seein’ he knew his own heft, and knew he had ’em, and was liable to have ’em, he’d done better to have kep’ still, and not tried to got round so much. But his mother said he felt restless and oneasy. I couldn’t help likin’ the boy; and when he fell right into my bread that I had a risin’ and spilte the hull batch, and when he fell acrost the table in the parlor and broke everything that was on it, and when he fell onto a chicken-coop and broke it down and killed a hull brood of chickens, and when he fell onto some tomato plants of a extra kind which Josiah had bought at a great expense and sot out, and broke ’em off short, I didn’t feel like scoldin’ him. I s’pose it was my hefty principles that boyed me up; them and the sweet thought that would come to me—mebby Josiah Allen will hear to me another time, mebby he’ll get sick of summer boarders and to takin’ of ’em in.

I s’pose it was these lofty feelin’s that kep’ me up; truly if it hadn’t been I don’t know how I could have lived, cookin’ as much as I had to, and goin’ through with what I did, historics, and fallin’ fits, and etcetery, etcetery.

And the 3 smaller children was ugly; there haint no other name made that will describe their demenors and acts, only jest that word, ugly.

They made me more work than all my housework put together. A handlin’ everything, and a breakin’ everything, and a ridin’ the turkeys, and actin’, and performin’.

I spose they was told more’n a hundred times by me and Josiah to _not_ ride that turkey gobbler. And I don’t spose there was ever any other children on earth, only jest them 3, that would have dast to gone near it. Why, I have seen right-minded and moral children time and agin weep and cry when they seen it comin’ nigh ’em, it was so powerful lookin’, and high-headed. But good land! first thing I’d know I’d see one on ’em right on that gobbler, pretendin’ to ride it; they almost killed that Tom Turkey.

And then all of a sudden we’d hear the fannin’ mill a goin’ full blast, and Josiah would run to the barn, and there they would be a runnin’ dirt through it, slates, stuns, or anything. And then I’d hear the wheel a goin’ up stairs, buzzin’ as if it would break its old band, and up I’d go, and there they’d be a spinnin’ of my best rolls. And five different times I took the youngest one out of the flour barrel, where they was a makin’ a ghost out of him, to appear to the oldest one—they loved to scare that boy into fits, they loved it dearly.

And they’d lay to and eat between meals all the preserves and jell and honey they could get holt of, unbeknown to me; they wasted twice over every day what their board come to. But I kep’ still, and held firm. Thinkses I the medicine is bitter, but it is goin’ to do good; the patient is feelin’ the effects of it. For Josiah looked awful as the days went by. He see he had made a terrible mistake; he see that he’d done better to have listened to his faithful pardner. He see where he had missed it. But pride kep’ him silent, only in the little unguarded speeches that he would make in sudden moments of anger and agony, unbeknown to him. Such as sayin’ in loud, quick axents:

“Dummit, I can’t stand it so much longer.” Or in low, plaintive tones, “Did Heaven ever witness such tribulation?”

I’d ketch him a sayin’ that as he would be a bringin’ Bill in, for Josiah would have to lift him and lug him in when he would fall out doors. That in itself I could see was a underminin’ my pardner’s strength and his back bones. And I shall always believe that was the reason why Danks stayed out of the way. It was underhanded in him; he knew that boy was heavy as lead, and he knew he would fall when he had ’em, and would have to be fetched in, and so he jest stayed away and let Josiah do all the luggin’ and lifting’.

It was three weeks before that man come, and Josiah didn’t look like the same man. What with chasin’ after them three littlest boys, and carryin’ round Bill in his fallin’ fits, and havin’ the care of providin’ more provisions than was ever devoured on earth before by the same number of people, and bein’ kep’ awake night after night by Miss Danks’es historicks, and the oldest boy’s walkin’ in his sleep (I don’t know as I have mentioned it, but Bill was liable to appear to us any time, and have to be headed up stairs agin)—take it all together, Josiah looked like a shadder. And thinkses I to myself, almost wildly, my principles was hefty, and they are hefty; I have said I would stand firm, and I have stood firm. But oh, must I, must I see my pardner crumple down and die before my face and eyes?

It was Josiah’s pride that stood in the way of his startin’ of ’em off. He couldn’t bear to give in to me that he was in the wrong on it, and I was in the right on it. He couldn’t bear to come right out openly and own up to his pardner how deceived, and fooled, and took in he had been. Men’s pride is high, it towers up like a meetin’-house steeple, and when it tottles and falls down, great is the fall thereof. I knew this, divin’ into the mysterious ingregiencies of men’s naters so deep as I had doven, I knew this great filisofical fact as well as I knew the dimensions of the nose on my pardner’s face. And so I shuddered to myself as I thought it over, and pondered on what the end would be. But I held firm on the outside, and never let on how agonized and burdened in soul I was. My mind is like a ox’es for strength, and very deep.

This was on a Friday mornin’ that I had this melancholy revery, as I looked out of the buttery window, as I stood there a washin’ dishes to the sink, and see Josiah come from the barn a luggin’ Bill in. He had had a fit, and fell acrost the grin’-stun where Josiah was a grindin’, and Josiah had to drop everything and come a luggin’ of him in. He broke some of the runnin’-gear of the grin’-stun that time. Josiah had it fixed so he could put a pail of water on top of it, and it would water itself while he was a grindin’, but Bill had fell right acrost it and flatted it all down. It cost Josiah upwards of seven shillin’s to make that loss good.

Wall, that night old Danks come. It was most bed-time when he come, and I didn’t see him much that night. She had the historicks the first part of the night, Miss Danks did, but we knew he was with her, so we sort o’ gin up the care to him. Bill got up in his sleep, and went to prowlin’ round as usual in the kitchen. But Josiah headed him off up-stairs, and locked the chamber door onto him, and let his father tussle with him. He had a fallin’ fit, we both think,—Josiah and me do, that he had,—and fell onto his father, and knocked him down. We don’t know it for certain, but we think so. For we heard the awfulest katouse you ever did hear. It sounded as if the house was a comin’ down, and then we heard groanin’ and sithin’ and low, very low swearin’.

Of course we couldn’t sleep none while such a rumpus was a goin’ on, and historicks and everything, and he a tryin’ to quell ’em down, but we lay and rested, which was a good deal for us. Wall, in the mornin’, if you’ll believe it, Danks told us (Miss Danks and the childern had gone down into the orchard to eat some strawberries), and Danks up and told Josiah and me that he was goin’ off agin that day, on the afternoon train. He did look bad, I’ll say that for him; his sufferin’s was great. But he hadn’t ort to shirk ’em off onto somebody else; he hadn’t ort to throw a historicky wife onto perfect strangers, and bring a lot of childern, perfect young hyenas, into the world, and then caper off, and let other folks tussle with ’em.

But I held firm. I knew a crysis was approachin’ and drawin’ nigh, but I wasn’t goin’ to say nothin’; I held firm; only I says in a mecanical and sort of wonderin’ way:

“Goin’ away to-day?”

“Yes,” said Danks, “it is a case of life and death; I must go.”

And then all of a sudden Josiah Allen bust right out, and oh! what a scene of wild excitement rained down for the next several moments. Josiah riz right up, and hollered out to Danks louder than I most ever hearn him holler,—loud enough to be hearn for half a mile, though Danks was within half a foot of him. Says he, in that loud, scareful, wild tone:

“If you leave this house for half a minute, without takin’ your family with you, I’ll prosecute you, and throw you into jail, and take the law to you.”

It skairt Danks dretfully; it come so unexpected onto him, he fairly jumped. And it started me for a minute, though my principles are so solid and hefty that they hold down my composure and keep it stiddy better’n a iron wedge, makin’ my presence of mind like a ox’es for strength.

Says Josiah, in that awful and almost deafenin’ tone of hisen, and with a mean as wild and delerious as a mean ever looked on earth:

“I hain’t a wet-nurse, and I’ll let you know I hain’t, and Samantha hain’t a horsepittle. Here I have,” says he, in a still more agonizin’ tone, “here I have for week after week kep’ stiddy company with fallin’ fits and historicks. I have been broke to pieces a luggin’ boys! and rode to death by childern! and eat up by tape-worms! And there has got to be a stop put to it, or somebody is goin’ to get hurt.”

He was perfectly delerious, and I says to him soothin’ly:

“Be calm, Josiah!”

“I won’t be calm, Samantha!”

But Danks had got over bein’ skairt, and begun to look cross,—crosser’n a bear. And he spoke out, in a pert, hateful tone, old Danks did, and says he:

“’Tain’t nothin’ to me; I don’t have the fallin’ fits nor the historicks.” He looked dretful mad, and spoke up as pert and impudent to my pardner as if it was Josiah’s business to tussle with them fits and things, instead of hisen.

I had thought I wouldn’t put in my note at all, but I hain’t one to stand by and see my pardner imposed upon. And then, too, I felt in the name of principle I ort to speak. I felt a feelin’ that mebby here was a chance for me to do good. And when he spoke out agin, more impudenter and hatefuler than before, “that it wasn’t nothin’ to him,” says I:

“It is sunthin’ to you.” And then I went on powerful and eloquent. I can tell you I talked deep and solemn to that man about what he took onto himself when he sot out in matrimony; about the responsibility of marriage, and bringin’ childern into the world; the responsibility to God and man of usherin’ eternal souls into this world for everlasting joy or misery; the terrible responsibility to these souls and to God, the righteous Judge; and the terrible responsibility to the world of lettin’ loose in it such mighty powers for good or evil,—a set of likely creeters, blessings and benefactors forever, or shacks and sources of uncounted misery, made so greatly by early care and culture; influences that will go on and on for all time, growing and widening out all the time, till no mind but the Eternal can reckon up or even imagine the awful consequences for good or evil of one human soul. “How dare anyone,” says I, “lightly and irreverantly even think on the subject,—much less tackle it.”

I talked beautiful on the subject, and deep, deeper than I had for some time. I felt fearfully eloquent, and acted so, and very noble. But Danks acted mad, mad as a hen. And he snapped out agin:

“Who made any calculations on fallin’ fits and such things? I didn’t.”

Why, that man almost took my head off, he snapped me up so. But I didn’t care; I knew I was a talkin’ on principle, and that reflection is a high rock to lean and rest the moral back against. That thought is a thick umberell to keep off the little hailstuns of impertinence and impudence that might otherwise hurt one’s self-respect and mortify it. I felt well and noble in my mind, and acted well, very. I kep’ right on cool and collected together.

And says I, “That is one great reason why any one ort to consider well on’t. They ort to know that this is one of them jobs that you can’t calculate on exactly how it is a comin’ out. You must take the chances. There is lots of undertakin’s jest so—jest as hard to tell how it is a comin’ out as some things in Nater. Now the greatest of minds can’t figger out exactly to a minute what time the butter will come—or how a marriage is a goin’ to turn out—or jest when it will stop rainin’, or begin—or when the old hen will lay.

“The world is a curious place, and in lots of undertakin’s you have to step out blindfold and ketch holt of the consequences, good or bad. The blinders will be took offen our eyes sometime, probable, but the time is not yet. And marriage, I take it, is one of the very reskiest undertakin’s you can undertake. It may lead you into a happiness as pure and lofty as a certain couple I could mention have enjoyed for the neighberhood of 20 years. It may, and then again it mayn’t. But there is one great comfort in this that there hain’t in some things, such as rain, and thunder storms, and etcetery. You needn’t enlist in this warfare if you hain’t a mind to—that is a sweet and consolin’ thought—if you feel scareful over it. But if you do enlist you must take the chances of war, you must take the resks. And if it wasn’t a resky piece of business to embark in, why did them old fathers put these words in the marriage service, ‘for richer, or for poorer.’ They knew what they was about, them old fathers did. They knew they couldn’t tell whether it would turn out rich as rich could be with blessings and bliss, or poor as poverty. Them old fathers knew that, and bein’ likely men and sound-moraled, they fixed that halter so that folks couldn’t squirm their necks out of it every time they got oneasy and worrysome.

“Historical fits, and etcetery,” says I, in reasonable tones, “might come under the head of ‘worse.’ But you can’t slip your head out; that vow holds you, for better or worse. You no need to have tackled that vow, but you did, and now you ort to stand up under it; that is law, and that is gospel too, which don’t always go together.”

“Well, what of it,” says Danks; “what if it duz? What are you goin’ to do about it?”

Oh, how surly and mad that man did look. His mean would have skairt some wimmen, but it didn’t me; mebby it would if I hadn’t been talkin’ on such high principle, but that boyed me up.

“Why,” says I, “as I have said more’n 40 times, folks ort to get it into their heads that it is a great and serious subject that ort to be considered and prayed over and meditated upon. They ort to realize that gettin’ married is a solemn thing; solemner, if anything, than it is not to, and that has always been considered a very solemn thing, very. But instead of lookin’ on it in this serious and becomin’ way, folks will caper and prance off into matrimony in jest as light and highlarious and triflin’ a way as if they was headin’ a row of fantasticks on the 4th of July. They don’t consider and filosifize on it that the fantasticks can take off their uniforms at night, and be themselves agin, but the matrimourners can’t. They can’t do it nohow; there they be, matrimourners. No matter how bad they feel, and how disappointed they be by the looks of the state they have got into, they can’t get out of it. They are matrimourners, and can’t help themselves.

“The state of wedlock has got a high, slippery wall round it, as high up as eternity, and as low down as the same. It is a wall that can’t be stepped acrost and climbed over. It is a wall that a man or a woman can’t sneak out and creep up on without fallin’ back—it is too slippery. It is a wall that can’t be broke down, and jumped over only on Bible grounds. And then when you do take that jump on Bible grounds, oh how fatiguein’ that leap is. How much happiness and ease of mind the matrimourner has to drop in the jump, drop forever. And how much trouble he has to carry with him, and disquietude of mind, and condemnation, and upbraidin’s, and gossip, and evil speaking, and hateful memories, and hauntin’ ones, and travel of soul and body. Oh, what a time that matrimourner duz have.”

“I thought,” says he, with that surly, mad look of hisen, “I thought you was one that preached up liberty, freedom, and etcetery.”

“So I be,” says I. “Hain’t I jest been a doin’ of it? Hain’t I jest said that no man or woman ort to be drove into the state of matrimony by anybody only jest their own selves? But after they lay holt, and drive themselves in, they ortn’t to complain. But, as I have said frequent, they’ll find after they have drove themselves in that it is the curiousest state that ever was made. None of our States of America will compare with it for curiosity,—and some of our’n are exceedingly curious, take ’em laws and all, to wit: Havin’ a man in congress to make laws that imprison a man for havin’ two wives, while he himself, proud and hauty, a settin’ up a makin’ that law, has four on ’em. Exceedingly curious that is, and to wit: Fixin’ penalties against crime and vice, and then sellin’ licenses to encourage and make it respectable. Oh! how curious, how curious some of our states be! But the state of matrimony is far curiouser. It is curiouser in the beginning—some like a conundrum. States have to be admitted into the Union; a union admits you into that state. And then, it is bounded on every side by divinest possibilities of happiness, or the most despairin’ ones, and no knowin’ which will break over the frontier, and capture you. Sweetest and most rapturous joys may cover its soil as thick as blossoms on a summer prairie, or angry passions and disappointments and cares may crunch ’em down under foot, and set fire to ’em. Peace and trust and tenderness may rain over that state, or anarky and sizm.”

“Yes, and fallin’ fits,” says Danks, with a bitter tone, “and historicks.”

“Yes,” says I calmly, “matrimourners ort to take all the blessings and enjoyments and comforts with a thankful heart, and they ort to have the courage and the nobility and the common sense to take all the evils, fallin’ fits, historicks, and etcetery, and etcetery, with a willin’ mind. You ort,” says I firmly, “you ort to have figured it all out. You ort to have figured out the hull sum, orts and all, and seen what was to carry, and got the right answer to it, before you drove yourself into that state.”

“How could I see to carry historicks? how could I figured ’em out?” says he bitterly.

But I kep’ right on: “You ort to have studied it out, whether you was strong enough to stand the climate, with its torrid weather and its frigid zones, its sweet summery winds and its blasts, its squalls and hurrycains. But as I have said 40 times, if I have once, after you have drove yourself into that state, you ort to hist up your moral umberell, and make the best on’t.”

Danks didn’t look convinced at all. He muttered sunthin’ agin about fits and other things, and how he hadn’t made no calculations on ’em; and I felt fairly out of patience, and went to allegorin’, as I might have known I should before I got through. (It is next to impossible for me to be so eloquent as I was then without allegorin’ some).

“Why,” says I, “when a man buys a farm, he must be a natural fool, or else a luny, if he expects and calculates the sun to shine on it every day the year round. He must make calculations for rain and snow, sunshine and thunder. He can’t expect it all to be ripe wheat and apple-sass. He buys it with his eyes open; buys it with all its possibilities of good or evil; and don’t expect, if he hain’t a fool, to shirk out of carryin’ of ’em.”

“Who has shirked out of carryin’ of ’em?” says Danks. “I hain’t.”

“You have!” says Josiah, a jumpin’ up and hollerin’ at him agin; and his face was red as a fire-bran’.

“I hain’t!” says Danks.

“You have!” says Josiah. “And don’t you dispute me agin if you know what is good for yourself. You have shirked out of carryin’ that dumb boy of your’n, in his dumb fits. And I let you know that I have broke my back for the last time a luggin’ him round, or somebody or sunthin’ is goin’ to get hurt, and I can tell you so—dummit!”

I felt as if I should sink. My Josiah was almost doin’ what Miss Job advised Mr. Job to do when he was smote with agony and biles. He was almost a swearin’. But here was where I and the late Miss Job differ. I knew my pardner’s sufferin’s was intense, and them sufferin’s was terrible to me. But still I says in a reprovin’, but tender and pityin’ tone:

“Be calm, Josiah!”

“I won’t be calm!” says he.

Says I: “Josiah, you must; you are almost delerious.” Says I: “You are a swearin’, Josiah! be calm!”

“Wall, I tell you agin that I won’t be calm; and I tell you agin, _dummit_! there now! _dummit_!”

Oh! how my pardner did look, how his axent did sound, as he uttered them fearful and profane words. And then before I could put in a soothin’ word to soothe him, Danks spoke right out, and says he:

“You promised to take ’em for all summer, and if you don’t I won’t pay you a cent for their board, and you can’t make me.”

Here Josiah turned as white as a white milk-pail, and groaned to that extent that I thought he was a goin’ to faint away.