Chapter 6

"You're getting thin; you find success in art Is not a thing so easy as you fancied. Five years you've worked at what you modestly Esteem your specialty. Your specialty! As if a woman could have more than one,-- And that--maternity! I do not speak Of the six years you gave your art before You strove to make it pay. Methinks you see Your efforts are a failure. What's the end Of all your toil? Not enough money saved For the redemption of your pawned piano! Truly a cheerful prospect is before you: To hear your views would edify me greatly."

"Yes, I am thinner than I was; but then I can afford to be--so that's not much. As for success--if we must measure that By the financial rule, 'tis small, I grant you. Yes, I have toiled, and lived laborious days, And little can I show in evidence; And sometimes--sometimes, I am sick at heart, And almost lose my faith in woman's power To paint a rose, or even to mend a stocking, As well as man can do. What would you have?"

"Now you speak reason. Let me see you act it! Abandon this wild frenzy of the hour, That would leave woman free to go all ways A man may go! Why, look you, even in art, Most epicene of all pursuits in life, How man leaves woman always far behind! Give up your foolish striving; and let Nature And the world's order have their way with you."

"Small as the pittance is, yet I could earn More, ten times, by my brush than by my needle."

"Ah! woman's sphere is that of the affections. Ambition spoils her--spoils her as a woman."

"Spoils her for whom?"

"For man."

"Then woman's errand Is not, like man's, self-culture, self-advancement, But she must simply qualify herself To be a mate for man: no obligation Resting on man to qualify himself To be a mate for woman?"

"Ay, the man Lives in the intellect; the woman's life Is that of the affections, the emotions; And her anatomy is proof of it."

"So have I often heard, but do not see. Some women have I known, who could endure Surgical scenes which many a strong man Would faint at. We have had this dubious talk Of woman's sphere far back as history goes: 'Tis time now it were proved: let actions prove it; Let free experience, education prove it! Why is it that the vilest drudgeries Are put on woman, if her sphere be that Of the affections only, the emotions? _He_ represents the intellect, and _she_ The affections only! Is it always so? Let Malibran, or Mary Somerville, De Stael, Browning, Stanton, Stowe, Bonheur, Stand forth as proof of that cool platitude. Use other arguments, if me you'd move. Besides, I see not that your system makes Any provision for that numerous class To whom the affections are an Eden closed,-- The women who are single and compelled To drudge for a precarious livelihood! What of _their_ sphere? What of the sphere of those Who do not, by the sewing of a shirt, Earn a meal's cost? Go tell them, when they venture On an employment social custom makes Peculiarly a man's,--that they become Unwomanly! Go make them smile at that,-- Smile if they've not forgotten how to smile."

"I see that you're befogged, my little woman, Chasing this ignis fatuus of the day! Leave it, and settle down as woman should. What has been always, must be to the end. Always has woman been subordinate In mind, in body, and in power, to man. Let rhetoricians rave, and theorists Spin their fine webs,--bow you to holy Nature, And plant your feet upon the eternal fact."

"The little lifetime of the human race You call--eternity! The other day One of these old eternal wrongs was ended Rather abruptly; yet good people thought 'Twas impious to doubt it was eternal. Because abuses have existed always, May we not prove they are abuses still? If for antiquity you plead, why not Tell us the harem is the rule of nature, The one solution of the woman problem?"

"Does not St. Paul--"

"Excuse me. Beg no questions. St. Paul to you may be infallible, But Science is so unaccommodating, If not irreverent, she'll not accept His ipse dixit as an axiom. Here, in our civilized society, Is an increasing host of single women Who do not find the means of livelihood In the employments you call feminine. What shall be done? And my reply is this: Let every honest calling be as proper For woman as for man; throw open all Varieties of labor, skilled or rough, To woman's choice and woman's competition. Let _her_ decide the question of the fitness. Let her rake hay, or pitch it, if she'd rather Do that than scrub a floor or wash and iron. And, above all, let her equality Be barred not at the ballot-box; endow her With all the rights a citizen can claim; Give her the suffrage;[7] let her have--by right And not by courtesy--a voice in shaping The laws and institutions of the land. And then, if after centuries of trial, All shall turn out a fallacy, a failure, The social scheme will readjust itself On the old basis, and the world shall be The wiser for the great experiment."

"But is sex nothing? Shall we recognize No bounds that Nature clearly has defined, Saying, with no uncertain tone, to one, Do this, and to the other, Do thou that? The rearing of young children and the care Of households,--can we doubt where these belong? Woman is but the complement of man And not a monstrous contrariety. Co-worker she, but no competitor!"

"All true, and no one doubts it! But why doubt That perfect freedom is the best condition For bringing out all that is best in woman As well as man? Free culture, free occasion, Higher responsibility, will make A higher type of femininity, Ay, of maternal femininity,-- Not derogate from that which now we have, And which, through laws and limitations old, Is artificial, morbid, and distort, Except where Nature works in spite of all. 'Woman is but the complement of man!' Granted. But why stop there? And why not add, Man, too, is but the complement of woman? And both are free! And Nature never meant, For either, harder rule than that of Love, Intelligent, and willing as the sun."

"Ah! were men angels, women something more, Your plan might work; but now, in married life, _One_ must be absolute; and who can doubt That Nature points unerringly to man?"

"Then Nature's pointing is not always heeded. Marriage should be a partnership of equals: But now the theory would seem to be, Man's laws must keep the weaker sex in order! Man must do all the thinking, even for woman! I don't believe it; woman, too, can think, Give her the training and the means of knowledge. 'O no!' cries man, 'the household and the child Must claim her energies; and all her training Must be to qualify the wife and mother: For one force loses when another gains, Since Nature is a very strict accountant; And what you give the thinker or the artist, You borrow from the mother and the wife.' With equal truth, why not object to man That what he gives the judge or politician He borrows from the husband and the father? The wife and mother best are qualified When you allow the woman breadth of culture, Give her an interest in all that makes The human being's welfare, and a voice In laws affecting her for good or ill. To 'suckle fools and chronicle small beer' Is not the whole intent of womanhood. Even of maternity 'tis not the height To produce many children, but to have Such as may be a blessing to their kind. Let it be woman's pure prerogative, Free and unswayed by man's imperious pleasure (Which now too often is her only law), To rule herself by her own highest instincts, As her own sense of duty may approve,-- Holding that law for her as paramount Which may best harmonize her whole of nature, Educe her individuality, Not by evading or profaning Nature,[8] But by a self-development entire."

"Enough, enough! Let us split hairs no longer! You hold a crumpled letter in your hand; You know the writer; you esteem, respect him; And you've had time to question your own heart. What does it say? You blush,--you hesitate,-- That's a good symptom. Now just hear me out: If culture is your aim, how opportune A chance is this! Affluence, leisure, study! Would you help others? He will help you do it. Is health an object? Soon, exempt from care, Or cheered by travel, shall you see restored Your early bloom and freshness. Would you find In love a new and higher life? You start! Now what's the matter? Do not be a fool,-- A sentimentalist, forever groping After the unattainable, the cloudy. Come, be a little practical; consider Your present state: look on that row of nails Recipient of your wardrobe; see that bonnet, All out of fashion by at least a month; That rusty water-proof you call a cloak; Those boots with the uneven heels; that pair Of woollen gloves; this whole absurd array, Where watchful Neatness battles Poverty, But does not win the victory. Look there! Would not a house on the great avenue Be better than these beggarly surroundings? Since you're heart-free, why not at once say Yes?"

"Sweet fluent tempter, there you hit the mark! Heart-free am I, and 'tis because of that You're not entirely irresistible. Your plea is simply that which lends excuse To the poor cyprian whom we pass in scorn. I've done my utmost to persuade myself That I might love this man,--in time might love: But all my arguments, enforced by yours, Do not persuade me. I must give it up!"

Never was No administered more gently Or more decisively than in her answer To the proposal in the crumpled letter.

* * * * *

Musing before a picture Linda sat. "In my poor little range of art," thought she, "I feel an expert's confidence; I know These things are unexcelled; and yet why is it They do not bring their value? Come, I'll try Something more difficult,--put all my skill, Knowledge, and work into one little piece." Bravely she strove: it was a simple scene, But with accessories as yet untried, And done in oil with microscopic care; An open window with a distant landscape, And on the window-sill a vase of flowers. It was a triumph, and she knew it was. "Come, little housekeeper," she said to Rachel, "We'll go and seek our fortune." So she put Under her arm the picture, and they went To show it to the dealer who had bought Most of her works. But on her way she met A clerk of the establishment, who said: "Come into Taylor's here and take an ice; I'd like to tell you something for your good."

When they all three were seated, Brown began: "You may not see me at the store again; For a ship's cousin wants my place, and so, With little ceremony, I'm dismissed. Now, if you've no objection, tell me what The old man gave you for that composition In which a bird--a humming-bird, I think-- Follows a child who has a bunch of flowers." "Yes, I remember. Well, 'twas fifteen dollars." "Whew! He said fifty. Is it possible? You've seen the chromo copy, I suppose?" "The chromo? I've seen nothing of a chromo. Never has my consent been given to publish!" "That's little to the purpose, it would seem. A hundred thousand copies have been sold Of all your pieces, first and last. You stare?" A light broke in on Linda. All at once The mystery that hung upon her strivings Lay solved; the cloud was lifted; and she saw That all this while she had not weighed her talents In a false balance; had not been the dupe Of her own aspirations and desires. With eyes elate and hope up-springing fresh In her glad heart, she cried, "And are you sure?" "'Tis easily confirmed. Go ask the printer; Only my number is below the mark."

From Brown, then, Linda got particulars, Showing 'twas not a random utterance. "'Tis strange," she said, "that I've not seen the chromos At the shop windows."--"Only recently," Said he, "have they been sold here in the city; The market has been chiefly at the West. The old man thought it policy, perhaps, To do it on the sly, lest you should know. Well, well, in that bald head of his he has A mine!" Then Linda struck the bell, and said: "This is my entertainment, Mr. Brown; Please let me pay for it." And Brown's "O no" Was not so wholly irresistible That Linda did not have her way in this. They parted.

"Why, Miss Percival," said Rachel, "You look precisely as you did that day You fired the pistol in the woods,--you do! I watched your eye, and knew you would not fail." "'Tis to bring down a different sort of game, We now go forth."--"But you forget your pistol." "This time we shall not need one. Did I not Say we were going forth to seek our fortune? Well, Rachel, my dear child, we've found it,--found it." "O, I'm so glad! (How rapidly you walk!) And shall we have the old piano back?" "Ay, that we shall! And you shall go to-morrow And take a present to the poor blind aunt And her old mother,--for they love you well." "A present! Why, Miss Percival, there's nothing I do so love to do as to make presents. I've made three in my lifetime; one a ring Of tortoise-shell; and one--"

But here they entered A picture-store. A man who stood alert, With thumbs hooked in the arm-holes of his vest, Advanced to welcome her. The "old man" he, Of Brown's narration; not so very old, However; not quite thirty-five, in fact. The capital which made his note so good Was a bald head; a head you could not question; A head which was a pledge of solvency, A warrant of respectability! The scalp all glossy; tufts above the ears! This head he cultivated carefully, And always took his hat off when he went To ask a discount or to clinch a bargain. "Ah! my young friend, Miss Percival," he cried, "You've something choice there, if I'm not mistaken." Linda took off the wrapper from her picture And showed it.

An expression of surprise Came to the "old man's" features; but he hid it By making of his hand a cylinder And looking through it, like a connoisseur. These were his exclamations: "Clever! Ay! Style somewhat new; landscape a shade too bright; The sky too blue, eh? Still a clever picture,-- One of your best. Shall we say twenty dollars?" Taking the picture, Linda said, "Good morning! I'm in a hurry now, and you'll excuse me." "Will you not leave it?"--"No, I'm not disposed To part with it at present."--"Thirty dollars Would be a high price for it, but to aid you I'll call it thirty."--"Could you not say fifty?" "You're joking with me now, Miss Percival." "Then we will end our pleasantry. Good by." "Stay! You want money: I shall be ashamed To let my partners know it, but to show How far I'll go for your encouragement-- Come! I'll say fifty dollars."

The "old man" Lowered his head, so that the burnished scalp Might strike her eye direct. Impenetrable To that appeal, Linda said: "I can get A hundred for it, I believe. Good day!" "Stop, stop! For some time our intent has been To make you a small present as a proof Of our regard; now will I merge it in A hundred dollars for the picture. Well?" "Nay, I would rather not accept a favor. I must go now,--will call again some day." Desperate the "old man" moved his head about In the most striking lights, and patted it Wildly at last, as if by that mute act To stay the unrelenting fugitive. In vain! She glided off, and Rachel with her. "Where now, Miss Percival?"--"To make a call Upon a lawyer for advice, my dear."

Thoughtfully Diggin listened to the case, So clearly stated that no part of it Was left to disentangle. "Let me look," He said, "at your new picture; our first step Shall be to fix the right of publication In you alone. Expect from me no praise,-- For I'm no judge of art. Fine points of law, Not fine points in a picture, have engaged My thoughts these twenty years. While you wait here, I'll send my clerk to copyright this painting. What shall we call it?"--"Call it, if you please, 'The Prospect of the Flowers.'"--"That will do. Entered according to--et cetera. Your name is--" "Linda Percival."--"I thought so. Here, Edward, go and take a copyright Out for this work, 'The Prospect of the Flowers.' First have it photographed, and then deposit The photographic copy with the Court."

Then Diggin paced the room awhile, and ran Through his lank hair his fingers nervously. At length his plan took shape; he stopped and said "You shall take back your picture to this dealer; Tell him 'tis not for sale, but get his promise To have it, for a fortnight, well displayed At his shop window. This he'll not refuse. Don't sell at any price. What's your address? Edward shall go with you: 'tis well to have A witness at this juncture. Write me down The printer's name Brown gave you. Ay, that's right. Now go; and if the picture is removed-- For purposes we'll not anticipate-- As it will be--we'll corner the 'old man,' And his bald head sha'n't save him. By the way, If you want money let me be your banker; I'm well content to risk a thousand dollars On the result of my experiment."

The picture was removed, as he foretold. Ten weeks went by; then Linda got it back. "It is the pleasant season," said the lawyer; "Here are three hundred dollars. You start back! Miss Linda, I shall charge you ten per cent On all you borrow. Oh! You do not like To be in debt. This is my risk, not yours. If I recover nothing, then no debt Shall be by you incurred,--so runs the bond! Truly, now, 'tis no sentimental loan: I trust another's solvency, not yours. At length you understand me,--you consent! Now do not go to work; but you and Rachel Go spend a long vacation at the seaside. You want repose and sunshine and pure air. Be in no hurry to return. The longer You're gone, the better. For a year at least We must keep dark. That puzzles you. No matter. Here, take my card, and should you any time Need money, do not hesitate to draw On me for funds. There! Not a word! Good by!"

In the cars, eastward bound! A clear, bright day After a rain-storm; and, on both sides, verdure; Trees waving salutations, waters gleaming. The brightness had its type in Linda's looks, As, with her little protegee, she sat And savored all the beauty, all the bloom. On the seat back of them, two gentlemen Chatted at intervals in tones which Linda Could hardly fail to hear, though little heeding. But now and then, almost unconsciously, She found herself attending to their prattle. Said Gossip Number One: "You see that veteran In the straw hat, and the young man beside him: Father and son are they. Old Lothian, Five months ago, was high among the trusted Of our chief bankers; Charles, his only son, By a maternal uncle's death enriched, Kept out of Wall Street; turned a stolid ear To all high-mounting schemes for doubling wealth, His taste inclining him to art and letters. But Lothian had a partner, Judd,--a scamp, As the result made evident; and Judd One day was missing; bonds, securities, And bills, deposits of confiding folk, Guardians, and widows, and old men retired, All had been gobbled up by Judd--converted Into hard cash--and Judd had disappeared. Despair for Lothian! a man whose word No legal form could make more absolute. Crushed, mortified, and rendered powerless, He could not breast the storm. The mental strain Threw him upon his bed, and there he lay Till Charles, from Italy in haste returning, Found his old sire emaciate and half dead From wounded honor. 'Come! no more of this!' Cried Charles; 'how happened it that you forgot You had a son? All shall be well, my father.' He paid off all the liabilities, And found himself without three thousand dollars Out of a fortune of at least a million. What shall we call him, imbecile or saint? His plan is now to set up as a teacher. Of such a teacher let each thrifty father Beware, or he may see his only son Turn out a poor enthusiast,--perhaps-- Who knows?--an advocate of woman's rights!"

Attracted by the story, Linda tried To get a sight of him, the simpleton; And, when she saw his face, it seemed to her Strangely familiar. Was it in a dream That she had once beheld it? Vain the attempt Of peering memory to fix the where And when of the encounter! Yet she knew That with it was allied a grateful thought. Then Rachel spoke and made the puzzle clear: "The man who sent us in his carriage home, That day you fainted,--don't you recollect?" "Ay, surely! 'tis the same. No dream-face that! Charles Lothian, is he? If his acts are folly, Then may I be a fool! Such fools are rare. How tender of his father he appears! I wonder where they're going."

When, at Springfield, Father and son got out, a sigh, or rather The ghost of one, and hardly audible, Escaped from Linda. Then Charles Lothian, While the cars waited, caught her eye, and bowed. So he remembered her! "Now that was odd. But the bell sounds; the locomotive puffs; The train moves on. Charles Lothian, good by! Eastward we go; away from you--away-- Never to meet again in this wide world;-- Like ships that in mid-ocean meet and part, To meet no more--O, nevermore--perchance!"

VI.

BY THE SEASIDE.

Borne swiftly to the North Cape of the Bay, Still on the wings of steam the travellers went; And tenderly the purple sunset smiled Upon their journey's end; a little cottage With oaks and pines behind it, and, before, High ocean crags, and under them the ocean, Unintercepted far as sight could reach! Foliage and waves! A combination rare Of lofty sylvan table-land, and then-- No barren strip to mar the interval-- The watery waste, the ever-changing main! Old Ocean, with a diadem of verdure Crowning the summit where his reach was stayed! The shore, a line of rocks precipitous, Piled on each other, leaving chasms profound, Into whose rifts the foamy waters rushed With gurgling roar, then flowed in runlets back Till the surge drove them furiously in, Shaking with thunderous bass the cloven granite! Yet to the earth-line of the tumbled cliffs The wild grass crept; the sweet-leafed bayberry Scented the briny air; the fern, the sumach, The prostrate juniper, the flowering thorn, The blueberry, the clinging blackberry, Tangled the fragrant sod; and in their midst The red rose bloomed, wet with the drifted spray. From the main shore cut off, and isolated By the invading, the circumfluent waves, A rock which time had made an island, spread With a small patch of brine-defying herbage, Is known as Norman's Woe; for, on this rock, Two hundred years ago, was Captain Norman, In his good ship from England, driven and wrecked In a wild storm, and every life was lost.