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diff --git a/6500-h/6500-h.htm b/6500-h/6500-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..eb21386 --- /dev/null +++ b/6500-h/6500-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2678 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Log-Cabin Lady + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 2em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + pre { font-family: Times; font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Log-Cabin Lady, An Anonymous +Autobiography, by Unknown + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Log-Cabin Lady, An Anonymous Autobiography + +Author: Unknown + +Release Date: September 27, 2006 [EBook #6500] +Last Updated: March 9, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOG-CABIN LADY *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE LOG-CABIN LADY + </h1> + <h2> + An Anonymous Autobiography + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> + <img src="images/frontis.jpg" width="100%" alt="Frontispiece " /> + </div> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> + <img src="images/titlepage.jpg" width="100%" alt="Titlepage " /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> THE LOG-CABIN LADY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> V. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>Illustrations</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkimage-0001"> Frontispiece </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkimage-0002"> Titlepage </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkimage-0003"> My First Formal Dinner in France </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linktea"> They served tea to the King </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkimage-0004"> Her Expensive Party Was a Dismal Failure </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE LOG-CABIN LADY + </h1> + <h2> + An Anonymous Autobiography + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PREFACE + </h2> + <p> + The story of The Log-Cabin Lady is one of the annals of America. It is a + moving record of the conquest of self-consciousness and fear through + mastery of manners and customs. It has been written by one who has not + sacrificed the strength and honesty of her pioneer girlhood, but who added + to these qualities that graciousness and charm which have given her + distinction on two continents. + </p> + <p> + I have been asked to tell how the story of The Log-Cabin Lady came to be + written. At a luncheon given at the Colony Club in 1920, I was invited to + talk about Madame Curie. There were, at that table, a group of important + women. + </p> + <p> + When I had finished the story of the great scientist, whose service to + humanity was halted by lack of laboratory equipment, and of the very + radium which she had herself discovered, one guest asked: “Why do you + spend your life with a woman's magazine when you could do big work like + serving Madame Curie?” “I believe,” I replied, “that a woman's magazine is + one of the biggest services that can be rendered in this country.” + </p> + <p> + My challenge was met with scorn by one of the women upon whose education + and accomplishments a fortune had been spent. “It is stupid,” she said, + “to print articles about bringing up children and furnishing houses, + setting tables and feeding families—or whether it is good form for + the host to suggest another service at the dinner table.” + </p> + <p> + “There are twenty million homes in America,” I answered. “Only eight per + cent of these have servants in them. In the other ninety-two per cent the + women do their own housework; bring up their own children, and take an + active part in the life and growth of America. They are the people who + help make this country the great nation that it is.” + </p> + <p> + After luncheon one of the guests, a woman of great social prominence, + distinguished both in her own country and abroad, asked me to drive + downtown with her. When we entered her car she said, with much feeling—“You + must go on with the thing you are doing.” + </p> + <p> + Believing she referred to the Curie campaign, I replied that I had + committed myself to the work and could not abandon it. “I was not + referring to the Curie campaign,” she replied, “but to the Delineator. You + are right; it is of vital importance to serve the great masses of people. + I know. It will probably surprise you to learn that when I was fourteen + years old I had never seen a table napkin. My family were pioneers in the + Northwest and were struggling for mere existence. There was no time for + the niceties of life. And yet, people like my family and myself are worth + serving and saving. I have known what it means to lie awake all night, + suffering with shame because of some stupid social blunder which had made + me appear ridiculous before my husband's family or his friends.” + </p> + <p> + This was a most amazing statement from a woman known socially on two + continents, and famed for her savoir faire. There were tears in her eyes + when she made her confession. She was stirred by a very real and deep + emotion. It had been years, she said, since the old recollections had come + back to her, but she had been moved by my plea for service to home women + and to the great mass of ordinary American people. + </p> + <p> + She told me that while living abroad she had often met American girls—intelligent + women, well bred, the finest stuff in the world—who suffered under a + disadvantage, because they lacked a little training in the social + amenities. + </p> + <p> + “It has been a satisfaction and a compensation to me,” she added, “to be + able sometimes to serve these fellow country-women of mine.” + </p> + <p> + And right there was born the idea which culminated in the writing of this + little book. I suggested that a million women could be helped by the + publishing of her own story. + </p> + <p> + The thought was abhorrent to her. Her experience was something she had + never voiced in words. It would be too intimate a discussion of herself + and her family. She was sure her relatives would bitterly oppose such a + confession. + </p> + <p> + It took nearly a year to persuade this remarkable woman to put down on + paper, from her recollections and from her old letters home, this simple + story of a fine American life. She consented finally to write fragments of + her life, anonymously. We were pledged not to reveal her identity. A few + changes in geography and time were made in her manuscript, but otherwise + the story is true to life, laden with adventure, spirit and the American + philosophy. She has refused to accept any remuneration for the magazine + publication or for royalties on the book rights. The money accruing from + her labor is being set aside in The Central Union Trust Company of New + York City as a trust fund to be used in some charitable work. She has + given her book to the public solely because she believes that it contains + a helpful message for other women, It is the gracious gift of a woman who + has a deep and passionate love for her country, and a tender + responsiveness to the needs of her own sex. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MARIE M. MELONEY. +</pre> + <p> + September 1, 1922. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LOG-CABIN LADY + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I. + </h2> + <p> + I was born in a log cabin. I came to my pioneer mother in one of + Wisconsin's bitterest winters. + </p> + <p> + Twenty-one years later I was sailing for England, the wife of a diplomat + who was one of Boston's wealthy and aristocratic sons. + </p> + <p> + The road between—well, let it speak for itself. Merely to set this + story on paper opens old wounds, deep, but mercifully healed these many + years. Yet, if other women may find here comfort and illumination and a + certain philosophy, I am glad, and I shall feel repaid. + </p> + <p> + The first thing I remember is being grateful for windows. I was three + years old. My mother had set me to play on a mattress carefully placed in + the one ray of sunlight streaming through the one glass window of our log + cabin. Baby as I was, I had ached in the agonizing cold of a pioneer + winter. Lying there, warmed by that blessed sunshine, I was suddenly aware + of wonder and joy and gratitude. It was gratitude for glass, which could + keep out the biting cold and let in the warm sun. + </p> + <p> + To this day windows give me pleasure. My father was a school-teacher from + New England, where his family had taught the three R's and the American + Constitution since the days of Ben Franklin's study club. My mother was + the daughter of a hardworking Scotch immigrant. Father's family set store + on ancestry. Mother's side was more practical. + </p> + <p> + The year before my birth these two young people started West in a prairie + schooner to stake a homestead claim. Father's sea-man's chest held a + dictionary, Bancroft's History of the United States, several books of + mathematics, Plutarch's Lives, a history of Massachusetts, a leather-bound + file of Civil War records, Thackeray's “Vanity Fair”, Shakespeare in two + volumes, and the “Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” My mother took a Bible. + </p> + <p> + I can still quote pages from every one of those books. Until I was + fourteen I saw no others, except a primer, homemade, to teach me my + letters. Because “Vanity Fair” contained simpler words than the others, it + was given me first; so at the age of seven I was spelling out pages of the + immortal Becky. + </p> + <p> + My mother did not approve, but father laughed and protested that the child + might as well begin with good things. + </p> + <p> + After mother's eighth and last baby, she lay ill for a year. The care of + the children fell principally on my young shoulders. One day I found her + crying. + </p> + <p> + “Mary,” she said, with a tenderness that was rare, “if I die, you must + take care of all your brothers and sisters. You will be the only woman + within eighteen miles.” + </p> + <p> + I was ten years old. + </p> + <p> + That night and many other nights I lay awake, trembling at the possibility + of being left the only woman within eighteen miles. + </p> + <p> + But mother did not die. I must have been a sturdy child; for, with the + little help father and his homestead partner could spare, I kept that home + going until she was strong again. + </p> + <p> + Every fall the shoemaker made his rounds through the country, reaching our + place last, for beyond us lay only virgin forest and wild beasts. His + visit thrilled us more than the arrival of any king to-day. We had been + cut off from the world for months. The shoemaker brought news from + neighbors eighteen, forty, sixty, even a hundred and fifty miles away. + Usually he brought a few newspapers too, treasured afterward for months. + He remained, a royal guest, for many days, until all the family was shod. + </p> + <p> + Up to my tenth birthday we could not afford the newspaper subscription. + But after that times were a little better, and the Boston Transcript began + to come at irregular intervals. It formed our only tie with civilization, + except for the occasional purely personal letter from “back home.” + </p> + <p> + When I was fourteen three tremendous events had marked my life: sunlight + through a window-pane; the logrolling on the river when father added two + rooms to our cabin; and the night I thought mother would die and leave me + the only woman in eighteen miles. + </p> + <p> + But the fourth event was the most tremendous. One night father hurried in + without even waiting to unload or water his team. He seemed excited, and + handed my mother a letter. Our Great-Aunt Martha had willed father her + household goods and personal belongings and a modest sum that to us was a + fortune. Some one back East “awaited his instructions.” Followed many + discussions, but in the end my mother gained her way. Great-Aunt Martha's + house goods were sold at auction. Father, however, insisted that her + “personal belongings” be shipped to Wisconsin. + </p> + <p> + After a long, long wait, one day father and I rose at daybreak and rode + thirty-six miles in a springless wagon, over ranchmen's roads (“the + giant's vertebrae,” Jim Hill's men called it) to the nearest express + station, returning with a trunk and two packing cases. It was a solemn + moment when the first box was opened. Then mother gave a cry of delight. + Sheets and bedspreads edged with lace! Real linen pillowcases with + crocheted edgings. Soft woolen blankets and bright handmade quilts. Two + heavy, lustrous table-cloths and two dozen napkins, one white set hemmed, + and one red-and-white, bordered with a soft fringe. + </p> + <p> + What the world calls wealth has come to me in after years. Nothing ever + equaled in my eyes the priceless value of Great-Aunt Martha's “personal + belongings.” + </p> + <p> + I was in a seventh heaven of delight. My father picked up the books and + began to read, paying no attention to our ecstasies over dresses and + ribbons, the boxful of laces, or the little shell-covered case holding a + few ornaments in gold and silver and jet. + </p> + <p> + We women did not stop until we had explored every corner of that trunk and + the two packing boxes. Then I picked up a napkin. + </p> + <p> + “What are these for?” I asked curiously. + </p> + <p> + My father slammed his book shut. I had never seen such a look on his face. + </p> + <p> + “How old are you, Mary?” he demanded suddenly. + </p> + <p> + I told him that I was going on fifteen. + </p> + <p> + “And you never saw a table napkin?” + </p> + <p> + His tone was bitter and accusing. I did n't understand—how could I? + Father began to talk, his words growing more and more bitter. Mother + defended herself hotly. To-day I know that justice was on her side. But in + that first adolescent self-consciousness my sympathies were all with + father. Mother had neglected us—she had not taught us to use table + napkins! Becky Sharp used them. People in history used them. I felt sure + that Great-Aunt Martha would have been horrified, even in heaven, to learn + I had never even seen a table napkin. + </p> + <p> + Our parents' quarrel dimmed the ecstasy of the “personal belongings.” From + that time we used napkins and a table-cloth on Sundays—that is, when + any one remembered it was Sunday. + </p> + <p> + Great-Aunt Martha's napkins opened up a new world for me, and they + strengthened father's determination to give his children an education. The + September before I reached seventeen, we persuaded mother to let me go to + Madison and study for a half year. + </p> + <p> + So great was my eagerness to learn from books, that I had given no thought + to people. Madison, my first town, showed me that my clothes were homemade + and tacky. Other girls wore store shoes and what seemed to me beautifully + made dresses. I was a backwoods gawk. I hated myself and our home. + </p> + <p> + With many cautions, father had intrusted eighty dollars to me for the half + year's expenses. I took the money and bought my first pair of buttoned + shoes and a store dress with nine gores and stylish mutton-leg sleeves! It + was poor stuff, not warm enough for winter, and, together with a new coat + and hat, made a large hole in my funds. + </p> + <p> + I found work in a kindly family, where, in return for taking care of an + old lady, I received room and board and two dollars a week. Four hours of + my day were left for school. + </p> + <p> + The following February brought me an appointment as teacher in a district + school, at eighteen dollars a month and “turnabout” boarding in farmers' + families. + </p> + <p> + The next two years were spent teaching and attending school in Madison. + When I was twenty, a gift from father added to my savings and made + possible the realization of one of my dreams. I went East for a special + summer course. + </p> + <p> + No tubes shuttled under the Hudson in those days. From the ferry-boat I + was suddenly dazzled with the vision of a towering gold dome rising above + the four and five-story structures. The New York World building was then + the tallest in the world. To me it was also the most stupendous. + </p> + <p> + Impulsively I turned to a man leaning on the ferry-boat railing beside me. + “Is n't that the most wonderful thing in the world?” I gasped. + </p> + <p> + “Not quite,” he answered, and looked at me. His look made me + uncomfortable. I could have spoken to any stranger in Madison without + embarrassment. It took me about twenty years to understand why a plain, + middle-aged woman may chat with a strange man anywhere on earth, while the + same conversation cheapens a good-looking young girl. + </p> + <p> + That summer I met my future husband. He was doing research work at + Columbia, and we ran across each other constantly in the library. I fairly + lived there, for I found myself, for the first time, among a wealth of + books, and I read everything—autobiographies, histories, and novels + good and bad. + </p> + <p> + Tom's family and most of his friends were out of town for July and August. + I had never met any one like him, and he had never dreamed of any one like + me. We were friends in a week and sweethearts in a month. + </p> + <p> + Instead of joining his family, Tom stayed in New York and showed me the + town. He took me to my first plays. Even now I know that “If I Were King” + and “The Idol's Eye”, with Frank Daniels, were good. + </p> + <p> + One day we went driving in an open carriage—his. It was upholstered + in soft fawn color, the coachman wore fawn-colored livery, and the horses + were beautiful. I was very happy. When we reached my boarding house again, + I jumped out. I was used to hopping from spring wagons. + </p> + <p> + “Please don't do that again, Mary,” reproved Tom, very gently. “You might + hurt yourself.” That amused me, until a look from the coachman suddenly + conveyed to me that I had made a <i>faux pas</i>. Not long after I hurried + off a street car ahead of Tom. This time he said nothing, but I have not + forgotten the look on his face. + </p> + <p> + Over our marvelous meals in marvelous restaurants Tom delighted to get me + started about home. Great-Aunt Martha's “personal belongings” amused him + hugely. He never tired of the visiting shoemaker, nor of the carpenter who + declared indignantly that if we wore decent clothes we wouldn't need our + bench seats planed smooth. But some things I never told—about the + table napkins, for instance. + </p> + <p> + We were married in September. Our honeymoon we spent fishing and “roughing + it” in the Canadian wilds. I felt at home and blissful. I could cook and + fish and make a bed in the open as well as any man. It was heaven; but it + left me entirely unprepared for the world I was about to enter. + </p> + <p> + Not once did Tom say: “Mary, we do this [or that] in our family.” He was + too happy, and I suppose he never thought of it. As for me, I wasted no + worry on his family. They would be kind and sympathetic and simple, like + Tom. They would love me and I would love them. + </p> + <p> + The day after we returned from Canada to New York I spent looking over + Tom's “personal belongings”—as great a revelation as Aunt Martha's. + His richly bound books, his beautiful furniture, his pictures—everything + was perfect. That night Tom made an announcement: “The family gets home + to-night, and they will come to call to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don't we go to the station to meet them?” I suggested. + </p> + <p> + To-day I appreciate better than I could then the gentle tact with which + Tom told me his family was strong on “good form”, and that the husband's + family calls on the bride first. My husband's family came, and I realized + that I was a mere baby in a new world—a complicated and not very + friendly world, at that. Though they never put it into words, they made me + understand, in their cruel, polite way, that Tom was the hope of the + family, and his sudden marriage to a stranger had been a great shock, if + not more. + </p> + <p> + The beautiful ease of my husband's women-folk filled me with admiration + and despair. I felt guilty of something. I was queer. Their voices, the + intonation, even the tilt of their chins, seemed to stamp these new + “in-laws” as aristocrats of another race. Yet the same old New England + stock that sired their ancestors produced my father's fathers. + </p> + <p> + Theirs had stayed in Boston, and had had time to teach their children + grace and refinement and subtleties. Mine fought for their existence in a + new country. And when men and women fight for existence life becomes very + simple. + </p> + <p> + I felt only my own misery that day. Now I realize that the meeting between + Tom's mother and his wife was a mutual misery. I was crude. No doubt, to + her, I seemed even common. With every one except Tom I seemed awkward and + stupid. Poor mother-in-law! + </p> + <p> + When she rose to go, I saw her to her carriage. She was extremely + insistent that I should not. But this was Tom's mother, and I was + determined to leave no friendly act undone. At home it would have been an + offense not to see the company to their wagon. Even in Madison we would + have escorted a caller to his carriage. + </p> + <p> + Again it was the coachman who with one chill look warned me that I had + sinned. + </p> + <p> + Before Tom came home that afternoon he called on his mother, so no + explanations from me were necessary. He knew it all, and doubtless much + more than had escaped me. Like the princely gentleman he always was, the + poor boy tried to soften that after-noon's blows by saying social customs + were stupid and artificial and I knew all the important things in life. + The other few little things and habits of his world he could easily tell + me. + </p> + <p> + Few—and little! There were thousands, and they loomed bigger each + day. Moreover, Tom did not tell me. Either, manlike, he forgot, or he was + afraid of hurting my feelings. + </p> + <p> + One of the few things Tom did tell me I was forever forgetting. Napkins + belonged to Sundays at home, and they were not washed often. It was a + long-standing habit, to save back-breaking work for mother, to fold my + napkin neatly after meals. Unlearning that and acquiring the custom of + mussing up one's napkin and leaving it carelessly on the table was the + meanest work of my life. + </p> + <p> + Interesting guests came to Tom's house, and I would grow absorbed in their + talk. Not until we were leaving the table would I realize that my napkin + lay neatly folded and squared in the midst of casually rumpled heaps. + </p> + <p> + One night, years later, I sat between Jim Hill and Senator Bailey of Texas + at a dinner. Both men folded their napkins. I loved them for it. + </p> + <p> + During that first year Tom made up a little theater party for a classmate + who had just married a Philadelphia girl. With memories of Ben Franklin, + William Penn, Liberty Bell, and all the grand old characters of the City + of brotherly Love, I looked forward eagerly to making a new friend. + </p> + <p> + The Philadelphian was even more languid than Tom's mother. She chopped her + words and there were no r's in her English. I tried to break the ice by + talking of the traditions of her city. She was bored. She knew only + Philadelphia's social register. Just to play tit for tat, twice during the + evening I quoted from “Julius Caesar”—and scored! + </p> + <p> + We had just settled down in old Martin's Restaurant for after-theater + supper when two tall gentlemen entered the room. + </p> + <p> + “There's Tom Platt and Chauncey Depew,” remarked Tom's friend casually. + </p> + <p> + United States senators are important people in Wisconsin—at least, + they were when I was young. If a senator visited our community, everybody + turned out. I knew much of both these men, and Tom had often spoken warmly + of Depew. As they approached our table, Tom and his friend both stood up. + Thrilled, I rose hastily. My eyes were too busy to see Tom's face, and I + did not realize until afterward that the only other woman had remained + coolly seated. + </p> + <p> + On our way home, Tom told me, in his gentle way, never to rise from a + dining table to acknowledge an introduction even to a woman—or a + senator. That night a tormenting devil with the face of the other woman + kept me awake. For the first time since my marriage I felt homesick for + the prairies. + </p> + <p> + And then we were invited to visit Tom's Aunt Elizabeth in Boston and meet + the whole family. I was sick with dread. I begged Tom to tell me some of + the things I should and should not do. + </p> + <p> + “Be your own sweet self and they 'll love you,” he promised, kissing me. + He meant it, dear soul; but I knew better. + </p> + <p> + From the very first minute, Tom's Aunt Elizabeth made me conscious of her + disapproval. In after years I won the old lady's affection and real + respect, but I never spent a completely happy hour in her presence. + </p> + <p> + The night we arrived she gave me a formal dinner. Some dozen additional + guests dropped in later, and I was bewildered by new faces and strange + names. Later in the evening I noticed a distinguished-looking middle-aged + gentleman standing alone just outside the drawing-room door. Hurrying out, + I invited him to come in. He inquired courteously if there was anything he + could do for me. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed,” I assured him. “Come in and talk to me.” He looked shy and + surprised. I insisted. Then Tom's aunt called me and, drawing me hastily + into a corner, demanded why I was inviting a servant into her + drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + “Servant! He looks like a senator,” I protested. “He's dressed exactly + like every other man at the party and he looks twice as important as most + of them.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn't you notice he addressed you as 'Madam'?” pursued Aunt Elizabeth. + </p> + <p> + “But it 's perfectly proper to call a married woman 'Madam.' Foreigners + always do,” I defended. + </p> + <p> + “Can't you tell a servant when you see one?” inquired the old lady icily. + </p> + <p> + I begged to know how one could. All Boston was summed up in her answer: + “You are supposed to know the other people.” + </p> + <p> + Tom's wife could have drowned in a thimble. + </p> + <p> + The third day of our visit, we were at the dinner table, when I saw Aunt + Elizabeth's face change—for the worse. Her head went up higher and + her upper lip drew longer. Finally she turned to me. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you cut your meat like a dog's dinner?” she snapped. + </p> + <p> + Tom's protesting exclamation did not stop her. + </p> + <p> + I laid my knife and fork on my plate and folded my hands in my lap to hide + their trembling. + </p> + <p> + Time may dim many hurts, but with the last flicker of intelligence I shall + remember that scene. Even then, in a flash, I saw the symbolism of it. + </p> + <p> + On one side—rare mahogany, shining silver, deft servants, napkins to + rumple, leisure for the niceties of life. On the other hand—a log + cabin, my tired mother with new babies always coming, father slaving to + homestead a claim and push civilization a little farther over our American + continent. + </p> + <p> + A great tenderness for my parents filled my heart and overflowed in my + eyes. I have, I confess, had moments of bitterness toward them. But that + was not one of them. + </p> + <p> + “I think I can tell you,” I answered, as quietly as I could. “It 's very + simple. I was the first baby, and mother cut up my food for me. After a + while she cut up food for two babies. By the time the third came, I had to + do my own cutting. Naturally, I did it just as mother had. Then I began to + help cut up food for the other babies. It 's a baby habit. And I must now + learn to cut one bite at a time like a civilized grown person.” + </p> + <p> + Even Aunt Elizabeth was silenced. But Tom rose from the table, swearing. + My father would not have permitted a cowpuncher to use such language + before my mother. But I loved Tom for it. + </p> + <p> + However, I did not sleep that night. Next morning Tom's Aunt Elizabeth + apologized, and for Back Bay was really unbending. + </p> + <p> + Some days later we returned to New York, and I thought my troubles were + over for a time. But the first night Tom came home full of excitement. He + had been appointed to the diplomatic corps, and we were to sail for + England within a month! + </p> + <p> + The news struck chill terror to my heart. With so much still to learn in + my native America, what on earth should I do in English society? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II. + </h2> + <p> + More than two months passed after the night my husband announced his + foreign appointment before we sailed for England. + </p> + <p> + I planned to study and to have long talks with him about the customs of + fashionable and diplomatic Europe, but alas! I reckoned without the + friends and pretended friends who claim the time of a man of Tom's + importance. Besides, he and I had so many other things to discuss. + </p> + <p> + So the sailing time approached, and then he announced that we were to be + presented at court! I was thrilled half with fear and half with joy. + </p> + <p> + I remembered from my reading of history that some of England's kings had + not spoken English and that French had been the court language. I visited + a bookstore and purchased what was recommended as an easy road to French, + and spent all morning learning to say, “l'orange est un fruit.” I read the + instructions for placing the tongue and puckering the lips and repeated + les and las until I was dizzy. Then I looked through our bookcases for a + life of Benjamin Franklin. I knew he had gone to court and “played with + queens.” + </p> + <p> + But the great statesman-author-orator gave me no guide to correct form or + English social customs. Instead I grew so interested in the history of his + work in England and France and in his inspiring achievement in obtaining + recognition and credit for the United States that dinner time arrived + before I realized I had not discovered what language was spoken at court, + nor what one talked about, nor if one talked at all. + </p> + <p> + Tom roared when I made my confession. With his boyish good humor he + promised to answer all my questions on board ship. + </p> + <p> + So, without a care in those delicious days that followed, I wandered down + Sixth Avenue to New York's then most correct shops, buying clothes and + clothes and clothes. I bought practical and impractical gifts for the + twins back in Wisconsin and for all the family and those good friends who + had helped me through Madison. + </p> + <p> + The week before we sailed my husband said, out of a clear sky: “Be sure + you have the right clothes, Mary. The English are a conservative lot.” + Suddenly I was conscious again that I did not know the essential things + the wife of a diplomat ought to know—what to wear and when, a + million and one tremendous social trifles. + </p> + <p> + The moment our magnificent liner left the dock I heaved a sigh of relief. + Tom would be mine for two whole weeks, and all the questions I had saved + up would be answered. That evening he announced: “We don't dress for + dinner the first night out.” + </p> + <p> + “Dress for dinner?” I asked. “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + And then very gently he gave me my first lesson. I had never seen anything + bigger than a ferry-boat. How could I guess that even on an ocean liner we + did not leave formality behind? The “party dresses”, so carefully + selected, the long, rich velvet cape I had thought outrageously + extravagant, and the satin slippers and the suede—I had packed them + all carefully in the trunk and sent them to the hold of the ship. But, + with the aid of a little cash, the steward finally produced my treasure + trunk, and thereafter I dressed for dinner. + </p> + <p> + The two weeks I had expected my husband to give me held no quiet hours. + There is no such thing, except when one is seasick, as being alone aboard + a ship. Tom was popular, good at cards and deck games, always ready to + play. And the fourth day out I was too ill to worry about the customs at + the Court of St. James. + </p> + <p> + It was not until just before we reached England that I began to feel + myself again. I stood on deck, thrilled with the tall ships and the + steamers, the fishing smacks and the smaller craft in Southampton harbor. + </p> + <p> + “What will be the first thing you do in London?” somebody asked me. + </p> + <p> + “Go to Mayfair to find the home of Becky Sharp,” I answered. Becky Sharp + was as much a part of English history to me as Henry VIII or Anne Boleyn + or William the Conqueror. When my husband and I were alone he said: “I + think they have picked out No. 21 Curzon Street as the house where Becky + Sharp is supposed to have lived. But what a funny thing for you to want to + see first!” + </p> + <p> + I remembered what old Lord Steyne had said to Becky: “You poor little + earthen pipkin. You want to swim down the stream with great copper + kettles. All women are alike. Everybody is striving for what is not worth + the having.” + </p> + <p> + I was quite sure I did not want to drift down the stream with copper + kettles. I only wanted to be with Tom, to see England with him, to enjoy + Dr. Johnson's haunts, to go to the “Cheddar Cheese” and the Strand, to + Waterloo Bridge, and down the road the Romans built before England was + England. + </p> + <p> + I wanted to see the world without the world seeing me. In my heart was no + desire to be a copper kettle. But I had been cast into the stream, and + down it I must go, like a little fungus holding to the biggest copper + kettle I knew. + </p> + <p> + I told my husband this. It was the first time he had been really irritated + with me. “Why do you worry about these things?” he protested. “You have a + good head and a good education. You are the loveliest woman in England. Be + your own natural self and the English will love you.” But I remembered + another occasion when he had told me to be my own natural sweet self. + </p> + <p> + “How about what happened to Becky?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + Tom went into a rage. “Why do you insist on comparing yourself with that + little ———!” The word he used was an ugly one. I did not + speak to him again until after we had passed the government inspectors. + </p> + <p> + I shall never forget my first day in London, the old, quiet city where + everybody seemed so comfortable and easy-going. There was no show, no + pretense. The people in the shops and on the street bore the earmarks of + thrift. I understood where New England got its spirit. + </p> + <p> + The first morning at the Alexandra Hotel, Tom fell naturally into the + European habit of having coffee and fruit and a roll brought to his bed. I + wanted to go down to the dining room. My husband said it was not done and + I would be lonesome. The days of ranch life had taught me to get up with + the chickens. But it was not done in London. The second morning the early + sun was too much for me. I dressed, left the hotel, and walked for several + hours before a perfect servant brought shining plates and marmalade, fruit + and coffee to my big husky football player's bedside. I have lived many + years in Europe, but I have never grown used to having breakfast brought + to my room. + </p> + <p> + That second rainy morning Tom left me alone with the promise of being back + for luncheon. I picked up a London morning paper and glanced at the + personal column. I have read it every day since when I could get hold of + the London Times. All of human nature and the ups and downs of man are + there, from secondhand lace to the mortgaged jewels of broken-down + nobility, from sporting games and tickets for sale to relatives wanted, + and those mysterious, suggestive, unsigned messages from home or to home. + I read the news of the war. We in America did not know there was a war. + But Greece and Crete were at each other's throats, and Turkey was standing + waiting to crowd the little ancient nation into Armenia or off the map. + There was the Indian famine—We did not talk about it at home, but it + had first place in the London paper. And the Queen's birthday,—it + was to be celebrated by feeding the poor of East London and paying the + debts of the hospitals. There was something so humane, so kindly, so + civilized about it all! “I love England,” I said, and that first + impression balanced the scale many a time later when I did not love her. + </p> + <p> + The third or fourth day brought an invitation to dine at a famous house on + Grosvenor Square—with a duke! + </p> + <p> + I pestered my husband with questions. What should I wear? What should I + talk about? He just laughed. + </p> + <p> + The paper had reported a “levee ordered by the queen”, describing the + gowns and jewels worn by the ladies. + </p> + <p> + I had little jewelry—a diamond ring, which Tom gave me before we + were married, a bracelet, two brooches, and a string of gold beads, which + were fashionable in America. I put them all on with my best bib and + tucker. When we were dressed, Tom gave me one look and said, “Why do you + wear all that junk?” I took off one of the brooches and the string of gold + beads. + </p> + <p> + When our carriage drew up to the house on Grosvenor Square, liveried + servants stood at each side of the door, liveried servants guided us + inside. There was a gold carpet, paintings of ladies and gentlemen in + gorgeous attire, and murals and tapestries in the marble halls. But I + quickly forgot all of this grandeur listening to the names of guests being + called off as they entered the drawing-room: Mr. Gladstone and Mrs. + Gladstone, Lord Rosebery and the Marquis of Salisbury, Mrs. Humphry Ward, + looking fatter and older than I had expected, officers, colonels, + viscounts, and ladies, and then Tom and Mary—but they were not + called off that way. I wanted to meet Mr. Gladstone, and hoped I might + even be near him at dinner; but I sat between a colonel and a young + captain of the Scots Greys. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gladstone was on the other side of the table. It was a huge table, + more than five feet wide and very long. My husband was somewhere out of + sight at the other end. Mr. Gladstone mentioned the fund being raised for + the victims of the Paris Opera Comique fire. It is good form to be silent + in the presence of death, especially when death is colossal, and the + English never fail to follow good form. There was a sudden lull at our end + of the table. + </p> + <p> + It was I who broke that silence. I was touched by the generosity of + England, and said so. Since my arrival I had daily noted that England was + giving to India, sending relief to Greece and Armenia, raising a fund for + the fire sufferers, and celebrating the Queen's Jubilee by feeding the + poor. I addressed my look and my admiring words to Mr. Gladstone. + </p> + <p> + Either my sincerity or the embarrassment he knew would follow my disregard + of “the thing that is done” moved Mr. Gladstone's sympathy. He smiled + across the table at me and answered, “I am so glad you see these good + points of England.” It was about the most gracious thing that was ever + done to me in my life. In England it is bad form to speak across the + table. One speaks to one's neighbor on the right or to one's neighbor on + the left; but the line across the table is foreign soil and must not be + shouted across. + </p> + <p> + That night my husband said: “I forgot to tell you. They never talk across + the table in England.” I chided him, and with some cause. I had soon + discovered that in England, as in America, it was not enough to be “my own + natural self.” But I came to love Mr. Gladstone. Long after that I told + him the story of Mrs. Grant, who, when an awkward young man had broken one + of her priceless Sevres after-dinner coffee cups, dropped hers on the + floor to meet him on the same level. “Any woman who, to put any one at + ease, will break a priceless Sevres cup is heroic,” I said. His answer, + though flippant, was pleasant: “Any man who would not smile across the + table at a lovely woman is a fool.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gladstone always wore a flower in his button-hole, a big, loose collar + that never fitted, a floppy black necktie, and trousers that needed a + valet's attention. He was the greatest combination of propriety and utter + disregard of conventions I had ever seen. + </p> + <p> + The event next in importance to a presentation at court was a tea at which + the tea planter Sir Thomas Lipton was one of the guests. He was not Sir + Thomas then, but was very much in the limelight, having contributed + twenty-five thousand pounds to the fund collected by the Princess of Wales + to feed the poor of London in commemoration of Queen Victoria's Diamond + Jubilee. + </p> + <p> + The Earl of Lathom, then the Lord Chamberlain, who looked like Santa Claus + and smiled like Andrew Carnegie, was among the guests; so were Mr. and + Mrs. Gladstone. Since the night he had talked to me across the table I + always felt that Mr. Gladstone was my best friend in England. He had a + sense of humor, so I said: “Is there anything pointed in asking the tea + king to a tea?” That amused Gladstone. He could not forgive Lipton parting + his hair in the middle. + </p> + <p> + That night I repeated my joke to Tom. Instead of smiling, he said: “That's + not the way to get on in England. It 's too Becky Sharpish.” + </p> + <p> + And then came the day of the queen's salon. Victoria did not often have + audiences, the Prince of Wales or some other member of the royal family + usually holding levees and receiving presentations in her name. + </p> + <p> + Tom had warned me that there were certain clothes to be worn at a + presentation. I asked one of my American friends at the embassy, who + directed me to a hairdresser—the most important thing, it seemed, + being one's head. She told me also to wear full evening dress, with long + white gloves, and to remove the glove of the right hand. + </p> + <p> + The hairdresser asked about my jewels. Remembering what Tom had said about + “junk”, I said I would wear no jewels. She was horrified, I would have to + wear some, she insisted, if only a necklace of pearls. She tactfully + suggested that if my jewels had not arrived I could rent them from Mr. + Somebody on the Strand. It was frequently done, she said, by foreigners. + </p> + <p> + My friend at the embassy was politely surprised that Tom's wife would + think of renting real or imitation jewels. In the end I insisted upon + going without jewels. I had the required plumes in my hair, and the veil + that was correct form at court, and my lovely evening gown and + pearl-embroidered slippers, which were to me like Cinderella's at the + ball. + </p> + <p> + Before I left the hotel I asked Tom to look at me critically. I was still + young—very young, very much in love, and unacquainted with the ways + of the world, and so heaven came down into my heart when Tom took me into + his arms and, kissing me, said: “There was never such a lovely queen.” + </p> + <p> + It was about three o'clock when we reached the Pimlico entrance. Guards + were on duty, and men who looked like princes or very important personages + in costume, white stockings, black pumps, buckles, breeches, and gay + coats, stood at the door. Inside the hall a gold carpet stretched to the + marble stairs. It was a wonderful place, and I wanted to stop and look. I + was conscious of being a “rubber-neck.” I might never see another palace + again. + </p> + <p> + We were guided up wonderful stairs and led into a sumptuous room, where, + with the other guests, we waited for the arrival of the queen and the + royal family. No one does anything or says anything at a salon. A + “drawing-room” is a sacred rite in England. It is recorded on the first + page of the news, taking precedence over wars, decisions of supreme + courts, famines, and international controversies. Her Majesty receives. To + the Englishman, to be presented at court is to be set up in England as + class, to be worshiped by those who have not been in the presence of the + queen, and to pay a little more to the butcher and milliner. + </p> + <p> + I should have loved that “drawing-room” if I could have avoided the + presentation. It was an impressive picture—the queen with a face + like a royal coin, a fine, generous forehead and beautiful nose, her + intelligent and kindly eyes, her ample figure, her dignity come from long, + long years of rule. Back of her the Prince of Wales and the Prime + Minister, who in later years I found myself always comparing to little Mr. + Carnegie, the Viscount Curzon with his royal look, and in the foreground + Sir S. Ponsonby-Fane, in white silk stockings, pumps and buckles, with + sword and gold lace, and high-collared swallow-tailed coat. I admired the + queen's black moire dress, her headdress of priceless lace, her diamonds, + her high-necked dress held together with more diamonds, and her black + gloves, in striking contrast to our own. I was enjoying the picture. + </p> + <p> + Then my name was called. + </p> + <p> + I had been thinking such kindly things of England—Mr. Balfour + fighting for general education; Mr. Gladstone struggling to make England + push Turkey back and save Greece; all England raising money for the fire + sufferers of Paris and the Indian famine. What a humanitarian race they + were! I felt as pro-England as any of the satellites in that room, and + almost as much awed. But back of it all was a natural United States + be-natural-as-you-were-born impulse. Neither Back Bay Boston nor Tom's + Philadelphia friends had been able to repress it. When my name was called + and I stepped up, I made the little bow I had practised for hours the day + before and that morning; and then, as I looked into the eyes of the queen, + I held out my hand! It was the instinctive action of a free-born American. + </p> + <p> + I have realized in the years since what a real queen she was. Smiling, she + extended her hand—but not to be touched. It was a little wave, a + little imitation of my own impulsive outstretching to a friend; then her + eyes went to the next person, and I was on my way, having been presented + at court and done what “is not done” in England. + </p> + <p> + Tom's mission in England was important. He had friends, and there were + distinguished people in England who regarded him and his family of + sufficient value to “take us aboard.” They were most gracious and kindly. + But Tom's eyes were not smiling. + </p> + <p> + That night my husband said some very frank things to me. His position, and + even the credit of our country to some extent, depended upon our conduct. + He did not say he was ashamed of me, and in my heart I do not think he + was; but he regretted that I had not been trained in the little things + upon which England put so much weight. He suggested my employing a social + secretary. + </p> + <p> + “What I need, Tom,” I said, “is a teacher. You have told me these customs + are not important. They are important. I need some one to teach them to + me, and I propose to get a teacher.” + </p> + <p> + In the personal columns of the Times I had read this advertisement: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'A lady of aristocratic birth and social training + desires to be of service to a good-paying guest.' +</pre> + <p> + I swallowed my pride and answered it. I was not her paying guest, but I + employed this Scotch lady of aristocratic birth and social experience. + </p> + <p> + On the first day at luncheon, which we ate privately in my apartment, she + said: “In England a knife is held as you hold a pen, the handle coming up + above the thumb and between the thumb and first finger.” My sense of humor + permitted me to ask, after trying it once, “What do you do when the meat + is tough?” The Scotch aristocrat never smiled. “It is n't,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + I was humiliated and a little soul-sick before that luncheon ended. I had + been told to break each bite of my bread; a lady never bites a piece of + bread. I had been told to use a knife to separate my fish, when I had + learned, oh, so carefully, in America to eat fish with a fork and a piece + of bread. I might have laughed about it all had not so much been at stake, + even Tom's respect. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III. + </h2> + <p> + The Scotch lady of aristocratic birth and social experience lived with me + one terrible week. On the seventh day I came home from shopping with + presents for the twins back in Wisconsin. A day or so earlier, while my + mentor was out of the room, I had asked the chef waiter of our floor about + himself and his family, and found that his family too included twins. So + with the present for my family I also brought some for his. + </p> + <p> + Mr. MacLeod, the member of Parliament from Scotland, and Lord Lansdowne + happened to be calling when I arrived, and Tom and the Scotch lady were + there. The chef waiter was taking the coats of the gentlemen callers. I + received the guests, acknowledged the introductions, and then, as I + removed my own coat, I handed him the little package. + </p> + <p> + When we were alone the Scotch lady turned to me. “In England,” she said, + “ladies never converse with their servants, particularly in the presence + of guests.” + </p> + <p> + Then she sealed her doom. “Ladies never make gifts to their servants,” she + added. “Their secretaries, housekeepers, or companions disburse their + bounty.” + </p> + <p> + I remembered the old U. S. A. An American chef waiter might hope to be the + father of a President. On the ranch I had cooked for men of less education + and much worse manners than this domestic who brought my athletic + husband's breakfast to his bedside and who happened to be the proud father + of twins. + </p> + <p> + I would learn table manners from an English lady of aristocratic birth and + social experience; but when it came to the human act of a little gift to a + faithful servant, I declared my American independence. + </p> + <p> + I was homesick for Wisconsin, homesick for real and simple people. I + wanted to go home! That night Tom and I had our first real quarrel, and it + was over my dismissal of the Scotch lady of aristocratic birth. Life + became intolerable for a while. I dragged through days of bitter + homesickness. Nothing seemed real. No one seemed sincere. Life was a + stage. Everybody seemed to be acting a part and speaking their pieces with + guttural voices. Even my husband's voice sounded different—or else I + realized for the first time that Boston apes London English. Tom had + learned his mother tongue in Boston, and now suddenly he seemed like a + foreigner to me simply because he spoke like these other foreigners. The + sun went out of my heaven. I was dumb with loneliness and sick with the + fear of lost faith. Could it be that my husband was affecting these + English mannerisms? Certainly he seemed at home in England, while I seemed + to be adrift, alone in an arctic ocean. + </p> + <p> + I had no friend in England, and more and more my husband's special work + was engrossing him. When we were together I felt tongue-tied. He had tried + to be gentle with me; but I was strange in this world of his, and lonely + and sensitive. I had dreamed so much of this world, and now that I was in + it, it was false and petty. I longed for the United States, for my + Northwest, for my hills and wide, far plains. I wanted to meet somebody + from Madison who smiled like a friend. + </p> + <p> + One day Tom looked at me searchingly, and said I must be ill. + </p> + <p> + I confessed to a little homesickness. Tom became very attentive. He took + me sightseeing. We lunched at the quaint inn where Dickens found his + inspiration for “Pickwick Papers” and where the literary lights of London + foregathered and still foregather for luncheon. We sat in one of the cozy + little stalls—just Tom and I. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly it swept over me that life had gone all wrong. Here was a dream + come true, and no joy in my heart. Tom asked me for my thoughts. I told + him, quite frankly, I was thinking of home. I was thinking of mother in + her cotton house dress with her knitted shawl around her shoulders, of + father in his jeans and high boots tramping over the range with the men; I + saw the cow and the pigs and the chickens, the smelly corral and the water + hole, the twins trying to rub each other's face in the mud. And I was + thinking—Tom would n't fit into my world, and I could not belong to + his. That was the second time I heard Tom swear. He wanted to know what + kind of a snob I thought he was. He'd be as much at home with dad on the + ranch as he was in London. “The fault is with you,” he said. “You 're not + adaptable, and you don't try to be.” + </p> + <p> + Tom did n't understand. He never did. In all the years together, which he + made so rich and happy, Tom never understood how hard and bitter a school + was that first year of my married life. But Tom did try to give me a good + time in London. He took me to interesting places and we were entertained + by a number of people, mostly ponderous and stupid. Tom did not suggest + that we entertain in our turn. I think he felt I was not ready for it, + although even in after years, when we talked frankly about many things, he + would never admit this. + </p> + <p> + I shall never forget my first week-end party in England. I was not well, + and Tom, manlike, felt sure the change, a trip down to Essex and new + people, would do me good. The thought of the country and a visit with some + good simple country folk appealed to me too, so I packed the bags and met + Tom at Victoria Station at eleven o'clock. Alas! It is a far cry from a + Montana ranch to a gentleman's estate in England! My vision of a quiet + visit “down on a farm” vanished the minute we stepped off the train. + Liveried coachmen collected our baggage. They seemed to be discussing + something; then I heard Tom say: “I guess that 's all. I 'll wire back for + the rest of it.” + </p> + <p> + We were led to a handsome cart drawn by a fine tandem team, and Tom and I + were alone for a minute. + </p> + <p> + “My God, Mary!” he burst out, “didn't you bring any clothes for us?” + </p> + <p> + “I certainly have,” I retorted, sure I was in the right this time. “Your + nightshirt and my nightgown; your toilet articles and mine; a change of + underclothes; a clean shirt and two collars for you, and my new striped + silk waist.” + </p> + <p> + I shall never forget Tom's expression. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know where we are going?” he groaned. “To one of the grandest + houses in England! Oh, Lord! I ought to have told you. You 'll need all + the clothes you have down here. And—and a valet and maid will unpack + the bags—oh, hell!” After more of the same kind of talk, he began to + cook up some yarn to tell the valet. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly all that is free-born in me rose to the surface. “Is it the thing + for gentlemen to be afraid of the valet?” I asked my husband. “Does a + servant regulate your life and set your standards?” + </p> + <p> + Tom was quiet for several moments; then he took my hand and said very + earnestly: “Mary, don't you ever lose your respect for the real things. It + will save both of us.” After a while he added: “Just the same, I 'll have + to lie out of this baggage hole.” + </p> + <p> + He did, in a very casual, laughing way—such a positive set of lies + that I marveled and began to wonder how much of Tom was acting and how + much was real. + </p> + <p> + Tom went back to London on the next train, and reached the “farm” with our + baggage before it was time to dress for the eight-o'clock dinner. + </p> + <p> + The dinner was long and stupid. After dinner the women went into the + drawing-room and gossiped about politics and personalities until the men + joined them, when they sat down to cards. I did not know how to play + cards, and so was left with a garrulous old woman who had eaten and drunk + over-much. + </p> + <p> + It had been a long day for me. I was ill and tired. Suddenly sleep began + to overpower me. I batted my eyes to keep them open. I tried looking at + the crystal lights, but my leaden eyes could not face them. The constant + drone of that old woman was putting me to sleep. I tried to say a few + words now and then to wake myself. I felt myself slipping. Once my head + dropped and came up with a jerk. I watched the great French clock. Its + hands did not seem to move. I looked at Tom. He was absorbed in his game. + I could not endure it another minute. I went over and said good night to + my hostess who had spoken to me only once since my arrival. + </p> + <p> + Drowsy as I was, I noticed she seemed surprised. “Oh, no,” I told her; “I + am not ill, only very sleepy.” + </p> + <p> + How good my pillow felt! + </p> + <p> + The next morning Tom was cross. I had made a <i>faux pas</i>. I had shown + I was bored and peeved and had gone to bed before the hostess indicated it + was bedtime. It “was n't done” in England. + </p> + <p> + “What do you do if you can't keep awake?” I asked. “You slip out quietly, + go to your room ask a maid to call you after you have had forty winks, + then you go back and pretend you are having a good time,” said Tom. + </p> + <p> + There were some bitter hours after we got back to London. But Tom won, and + I promised to get a companion. Then there came into my life the most + wonderful of friends. She was the widow of a British Army officer who had + been killed in India, and her only child was dead. She was a woman of + education and heart; she understood my needs, all of them, and I + interested her. She had seen great suffering; she had a deep feeling for + humanity and an honest desire to be of use in the world. In the English + register my companion was listed as the Honorable Evelyn, but we quickly + got down to Mary and Eve. We loved each other. Eve went to France with us + a few months later. She made me talk French with her. My first formal + dinner in France was a pleasant surprise. It was like a great family party—not + dull and quiet like the English dinner, and ever so much more fun. + Everybody participated. If there was one lion at the table, everybody + shared him. + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> + <img src="images/p060.jpg" width="100%" + alt="p060.jpg My First Formal Dinner in France " /> + </div> + <p> + There is something in being born on a silken couch. Nothing surprises you. + You are at ease anywhere in the world. Eve fitted into Paris as naturally + as in her native London, I began to feel at home there myself. It was a + city of happy people—care free, natural, sympathetic. There was a + lack of restraint which, after the oppressive dignity of London, was a + rare treat. No one was critical. Every one accepted my halting and faulty + French without ridicule or condescension. The amiability and the + friendliness of the French people thawed my heart and began to lift me out + of my slough of homesickness. Happiness came back to me. + </p> + <p> + There had been hours in England when only the knowledge that a woman's + rarest gift was coming to me, and that Tom was proud and happy about it, + kept me from running away—back to the simple life of my own United + States. + </p> + <p> + I was homesick for mother. Babies were a mystery to me, although I had + helped mother with all of hers. We had buried three of them in homemade + coffins—pioneering is a ruthless scythe, and only the fit survive. I + began to understand my mother and the glory in the character which never + faltered, although she was alone and life had been hard. How could I whine + when I had Tom and a good friend—and life was like a playground? + </p> + <p> + I loved the French. They regard life with a frankness which sometimes + shocked my reserved Boston husband. He never accepted intimacy. The + restraint of old England was still in his blood. The free winds of the + prairie had swept it from mine. + </p> + <p> + My new friends in Paris discovered my happy secret. It was my + all-absorbing thought, and I was delighted to be able to discuss it + frankly. Motherhood is the great and natural event in the life of a woman + in France, and no one makes a secret of it. I was very happy in Paris. And + then—Tom had to go to Vienna. + </p> + <p> + Not even Tom, Eve, and the promised baby could make me happy there. In all + the world I had seen no place where the line of class distinction was so + closely drawn, where social customs were so rigid and court forms so + sacred, as at the Austrian capital. Learning the social customs of Vienna + seemed as endless as counting the pebbles on the beach—and about as + useful. The clock regulated our habits in Vienna. Up to eleven o'clock + certain attire was proper. If your watch stopped you were sure to break a + social law. I once saw a distinguished diplomat in distress because he + found himself at an official function at eleven-thirty with a black tie—or + without one, I have forgotten which! + </p> + <p> + At first it offended me to receive an invitation—or a command—to + appear at a formal function, with an accompanying slip telling exactly + what to wear. Then I laughed about it. + </p> + <p> + Finally I rebelled. On the plea of ill health, I made Tom do the social + honors for me, while Eve and I did the museums and the galleries and the + music fetes. Years later I went back to Vienna, and I did not discredit my + country. But I never loved the city. I enjoyed its art, its fascinating + shops, its picturesque streets and people, and its beautiful women. But + for me Vienna has the faults of France and England, the poverty and + arrogance of London, and the frivolity of Paris, without their redeeming + qualities. + </p> + <p> + So I was glad to return to England. The second day in London, Tom took me + to an exhibition important in the art world, or at least in the official + life of London. Everybody who was somebody was there. I saw the Princess + of Wales and the Marquis of Salisbury, who was then Secretary of State for + Foreign Affairs. I saw Mr. Balfour, so handsome and gracious that I + refused to believe there had ever been cause to call him “Bloody Balfour.” + There was something kingly about him—yet he was simply Mr. Balfour. + Years afterward I realized that to know Mr. Balfour is either to worship + him or hate him. No one takes the middle course. I had begun to have a + beautiful time that afternoon. + </p> + <p> + I felt happy, acutely conscious of my blessings and of one coming blessing + in particular. Mr. Gladstone joined us, and Sir Henry Irving came over to + speak to Eve. She told him I had just said that England had a mold for + handsome men. Irving was interesting and striking, though certainly not + handsome; but he took the compliment to himself, smiled, bowed his thanks, + and said: + </p> + <p> + “And America for beautiful women.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gladstone, too, could indulge in small talk. “You should have seen her + rosy cheeks before she went to the Continent,” he said, and added kindly + that I looked very tired and should go down to Hawarden Castle and rest. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” I explained happily, “it is n't that—I 'm not tired. It is + such a happy reason!” I felt Eve gasp. Mr. Gladstone opened his kind eyes + very wide, and his heavy chin settled down in his collar. It was the last + bad break I made. But it was a blessing to me, for it robbed all social + form of terror. For the first time, I realized that custom is merely a + matter of geography. One takes off one's shoes to enter the presence of + the ruler of Persia. One wears a black tie until eleven o'clock in Vienna—or + does n't. One uses fish knives in England until he dines with royalty—then + one must manage with a fork and a piece of bread. One dresses for dinner + always, and waits for the hostess to say it is time, and speaks only to + one's neighbor at table. In France one guest speaks to any or all of the + others; all one's friends extend congratulations if a baby is coming; one + shares all his joys with friends. But in England nobody must know, and + everybody must be surprised. No one ever speaks of himself in England. + They are sensitive about everything personal. But there is an underground + and very perfect system by which everything about everybody is known and + noised about and discussed with everybody except the person in question. + It is a mysterious and elaborate hypocrisy. + </p> + <p> + With the aid of Eve, I made a thorough study of the geography of social + customs. I learned the ways of Europe, of the Orient, and of South + America. It is easier to understand races if one understands the + psychology of their customs. I realized that social amenities are too + often neglected in America, and our manners sometimes truthfully called + crude. But I told myself with pride that our truly cultivated people will + not tolerate a social form that is not based on human, kindly instincts. + It was not until the World War flooded Europe with American boys and girls + that I realized the glory of our social standards and the great need to + have our own people understand those standards. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV. + </h2> + <p> + Fear is the destroyer of peace. I knew no peace until I learned not to be + afraid of conventions. The three most wretched years in my life might + easily have been avoided by a little training at home or at school. + </p> + <p> + I realize now the unhappiness of those first years of my married life. I + was awkward and ill at ease in a world that valued social poise above + knowledge. From my childhood I had loved honest, sincere people. After my + marriage I met distinguished men and women, even a few who might be called + great; but they, too, had their affectations and petty vanities. Being + young, I judged them harshly because they set what I considered too much + store upon absurd conventions. + </p> + <p> + In the course of my travels since, I have come to realize that social + customs are a simple matter of geography! What is proper in England is bad + form in France, and many customs that were correct in Vienna would be + intolerable in Spain. In the formal circles of Vienna no one spoke to + anybody without an introduction. In Spain there was a more subtle and + truly aristocratic standard. The assumption was that anybody one met in + the home of one's host was desirable, and it was courtesy, therefore, to + begin a conversation with any guest. This is the attitude also in parts of + France. + </p> + <p> + But in those first months I had not acquired my philosophy. I lived + through homesick days, and some that were hard and bitter. I stayed with + Tom that first year only because I was too bewildered to take any + initiative, and because I kept hoping that things would right themselves + and I would wake out of my nightmare. My baby came in the second year, and + then I could not go home. The simple life of my own people slipped very, + very far away. We made a hurried trip back to the United States that + summer, but Tom would not consent to my going West. His own family wanted + to see our baby, and they decided that the little fellow had traveled + enough and should not be subjected to the hardships of a cross-country + train trip. So Tom sent for mother and the twins to come to us, and they + arrived at the Waldorf Hotel, where we were staying. Dear, simple mother, + in her terrible clothes, and the twins, got up with more thought for + economy than for beauty! I shopped extravagantly with them. The youngsters + wanted to see everything in New York; but mother, despite all of those + hard, lonely years in our rough country and the many interesting things + for her to do and see in New York—mother wanted nothing better than + to stay with the baby. + </p> + <p> + With all the children she had brought into this world one might think she + had seen enough of babies. But she adored my little son. How near she + seemed to me then! How hungry I had been for her, without realizing it! I + felt that she loved my baby boy as she had never loved me or any of her + own children. And I understood why mother never had had time to love her + own babies. In the struggle for existence of those hard years she had + never had a minute to indulge in the pure joy of having her baby. I sat + watching her with her first grandchild, so sweet in his exquisite + hand-sewn little clothes, and suddenly I found myself crying hysterically. + </p> + <p> + Mother was very dear to me from that day. Later in this chronicle I want + to give a chapter to my mother and what we both suffered during this + period of her visit to New York, for it marked the climax of my own + development. When mother and the children started off on their return trip + to the West, Tom sent them flowers and candy and fruit. He had already + generously put financial worry away from my family for all time, but I + knew that he was a little ashamed of some of mother's crudities. I + wondered why I did not feel ashamed. I was very, very glad I did not. It + gave me something tangible to cling to—a sure consciousness of + power, that comes of knowing one possesses the true pride to rise above + the opinions of other people. + </p> + <p> + I would have given my life, that day, to be able to assure my family that + material security which they owed to my husband, who neither loved nor + understood them. I looked down the years and saw myself crushed by a + burden of indebtedness to a man I felt I no longer loved. Only mother's + grateful, simple happiness eased my hurt. I had never approached my + mother, but I knew now that if her natural dignity and great, kind heart + had been given the advantages that the women in my husband's family took + as a matter of course, she would have been superior to them all. Yet they + barely tolerated mother—no more. + </p> + <p> + I longed to go home to my own warm, hearty, open West. I stood on the + ferry after they had gone, thinking that, if my family were not so deeply + indebted to my husband, I would leave him. I suppose I did not really mean + that thought, but it made me unhappy. I felt disloyal and dishonest. + Finally I told Tom. There was a scene; but from that day he began to + understand me, and things were better. A few days later we came home from + a dinner party, and, after going to the baby's room for a minute, Tom + asked me to stay and talk. But he did not talk. For a long time he sat + smoking and thinking. I knew he had something on his mind, and I waited. + Finally I realized that he was embarrassed. + </p> + <p> + “Can I help? Is it something I have done that has embarrassed you?” I + asked. + </p> + <p> + That was many years ago, but I can never forget the look Tom gave me. It + held all the love of our courtship and something besides that I had never + seen in his face before. + </p> + <p> + “For God's sake, never say that to me again!” he cried. “Embarrassed me! I + am proud of you—you never can know how proud. I was sitting here + trying to think how to tell you something my mother said about you, and + just what it means.” + </p> + <p> + His mother! My heart dropped. His mother had never said anything about me, + excepting criticism. I had been a bitter disappointment to her. Whatever + she said would be politely cruel—at best, a damning with faint + praise. + </p> + <p> + “She said,” my husband went on, “that she is very happy in our marriage, + completely satisfied, and that she has come to be proud of you. I don't + know how to tell you just what that means.” + </p> + <p> + I knew. I knew his mother could have given me no higher praise. I had + learned what to her were the essentials; I had cultivated the manner she + placed above price. But the realization brought self-distrust. Had I lost + my honesty and sincerity? + </p> + <p> + Tom went on to tell me that his mother had particularly admired my + attitude toward my own mother, and the manner in which I met every little + failing of hers. She felt I had a sense of true values in people, and that + the simplicity and sureness with which I had met this situation was the + essence of good breeding. + </p> + <p> + I had not thought it possible that Tom's mother could understand my + feeling for my mother and my honest pride in her real worth. Perhaps, I + reflected, I had been unjust to my mother-in-law. I knew what a shock I + had been to her in the early days of our marriage, and I knew only too + well that even Tom had often regretted my ignorance of social usages. + </p> + <p> + They are simple customs, and should be taught in every school in America, + but I had not learned them. I was happy that night and for days afterward. + </p> + <p> + Then we went back to Europe. Tom knew people on the steamer to whom I took + a dislike. They were bold and even vulgar, and Tom admitted that he did + not admire them. I made up my mind we should avoid them. The next + afternoon I found Tom and that group walking the deck arm in arm, chatting + affably. When we were alone, I asked Tom how he could do it. I know now + that a man cannot hold an official position like Tom's and ignore + politically important people. But he only said rather carelessly, and with + a laugh, that it was one of the prices a man pays for public office. + </p> + <p> + After that I noticed that my husband was known to nearly every one. He had + a glad hand and a smile for the public—because it was the public. I + watched to see if he had a slightly different smile for the people of Back + Bay and his own particular social class; sometimes I thought he had, and + it made me a little soul-sick. + </p> + <p> + I longed for a home for my baby and a few friends I could love and really + enjoy. I was not fitted to be the wife of a public man. It was the poverty + and crudeness of my youth that had made me intolerant. One of the big + lessons life has taught me is that people can be amiable, tolerant, and + even friendly, and still be sincere. The pleasantry of social relations + among the civilized peoples of the earth is a mere garment we wear for our + own protection and to cover our feelings. It is the oil of the machinery + of life. I have found that men and women who take part in the big work of + the earth wear that garment of civility and graciousness, and yet have + their strong friendships and even their bitter enmities. + </p> + <p> + But I did not understand this when we went back to Europe. I only knew + that my husband was amiable to people he did not like, and I questioned + how deep his affection for me went. How much of his kindness to me was + just the easiest way and the manner of a gentleman? + </p> + <p> + A hard and bare youth had made me supersensitive and suspicious and + narrow. I wanted to measure other people by the standards of my own + primitive years. Out on the frontier we had judged life in the rough. + Courage and truth were the essentials. A man fought his enemies out in the + open, and made no compromises. There was nothing easy in life, no smooth + rhythm. And I tried to drag forward with me, as I went, the bold ethics of + the frontier. I resented good manners because I believed they were a cloak + of hypocrisy. + </p> + <p> + A few months after we returned to Europe the shadow of death crossed our + path, swiftly and terribly. My little son died. Other babies came to us + later, but that first little boy had brought more into my life than all + the rest of the world could ever give. He had restored my faith in life, + my hope, and for a while was all my joy. + </p> + <p> + People were kind, but I felt that many called merely because it was “good + form”—“the thing to do.” Bitterness was creeping into my heart. + </p> + <p> + Yet why should it not be “the thing to do” to call on a bereaved mother? + It is a gesture of humanity. Tom seemed very far away. I felt that his + pride was hurt, perhaps his vanity; for he had boasted of the little + fellow and loved to show him off. How little I understood! + </p> + <p> + I bring myself to tell these intimate things because there is a lesson in + them for other women—because I resent that any free-born American + citizen should be handicapped by lacking so small and easily acquired a + possession as poise, poise that comes with knowledge of the simple rules + of the social game. It is my hope that this honest confession of my own + feelings, due directly to lack of training, may help other women, and + particularly other mothers whose children are now in the plastic years. + </p> + <p> + It was my utter lack of appreciation of manners and customs in my + husband's class that estranged me from Tom. I was resentful and + antagonistic merely because I was different. + </p> + <p> + My husband was suffering even as I was suffering; but no one realized it, + least of all myself. Every one was especially kind to me, because I was a + woman. People are rarely attentive and tender with men when loss comes. + Men are supposed to be strong and self-controlled; their hearts are rated + as a little less deep and tender than the hearts of women; yet when men + are truly hurt they need love and care even as little children. + </p> + <p> + A month after the baby's death, Tom and I were walking along the + Embankment in London one Saturday afternoon, when we met a small girl + carrying a little child. The baby was too tired to walk any farther; it + was dirty, and was crying bitterly. Tom stopped, spoke to the girl, and + offered to carry the baby, who soon quieted down on Tom's shoulder. At the + end of that walk Tom's light summer suit was ruined. I expected him to + turn with some trivial, jesting remark, but he said nothing. I looked at + him and saw that his face was set and hard and his eyes wet. Without + looking at me, he said: “Don't speak to me now.” + </p> + <p> + That moment of silence revealed to me my husband's character better than + months of talking. + </p> + <p> + The next day my husband came to me and said: “Mary, I have asked for a + leave of absence. We are going back to the United States. We are going out + West to have a visit with your family.” + </p> + <p> + Two years before I had believed that Tom would not fit into my Northwest. + But in twenty-four hours Tom and my father were old pals. He was as much + at home with mother and the children as I, and all the neighbors liked + him. He was interested in everything on the ranch, and even in the + small-town life of the village. He interested father in putting modern + equipment on the ranch. He went hunting with the men, played games with + the children, visited the little district schoolhouse, and found joy in + buying gifts for the youngsters. When mother made a big platter full of + taffy, he pulled as enthusiastically as a boy. As I stood at the corral, + one day, and watched Tom with my youngest brother, I remembered him at the + court of St. James, and I began to understand. + </p> + <p> + Tom was natural. It was just a part of him to be kindly and gracious to + everybody. I had never seen him angry with men of his own type, but I saw + him furious enough to commit murder when a man on the ranch tied up a dog + and beat her for running away. In after years I saw Tom angry with men of + his own class; I saw him waging long, bitter fights against public men who + had betrayed public trust. Something barbaric in me was satisfied that my + kind, gently bred man was one with the men of my own tribe, who fought man + and beast and the elements to take civilization farther west. + </p> + <p> + Almost a generation slipped by between that visit to the West and the next + scene in my life of which I shall write. Many things of personal and of + national importance happened meantime, but they have nothing to do with + this message to women. I was in France when the World War began. I had + been in Vienna again, and in England at regular intervals. I had learned + to accept life as I found it, and to get much joy out of living. Sometimes + I chafed a little under the demands of social life and needless + formalities, but I accepted them as inevitable. + </p> + <p> + Then the world was torn in two. The earth dripped in blood and sorrow. + Life became more difficult than on the frontier, and more elemental. I was + present, in the first year of the war, in a house where the King and Queen + of the Belgians were guests, where great generals and great statesmen had + gathered on great and earnest and desperate business. I was only an + onlooker, and I noticed what every one else was too absorbed to see. As + the evening progressed, I realized that pomp and ceremony had died with + the youth of France. King, generals, statesmen met as human men pitting + their wits against one another, desperately struggling to find a way out + of the hell into which they were falling. + </p> + <p> + Twice the king rose to his feet, and no one else stood. They were all too + deep in the terrible question of war. + </p> + <p> + When the meeting was over and the guests of the house ready to retire, the + little queen said very quietly: “Madam, may not my husband and I occupy + this room together? It is very kind of you to arrange two suites for us, + but I am sure there are many guests here to-night—and, anyway, I + prefer to be near him.” + </p> + <p> + The war had done that. Who would expect a queen to think of the problems + of housing guests, even a great queen? And the war had made the king not + the king, but her man, very near and very dear. + </p> + <p> + Many other conventions I saw die by the way as the war progressed. Then + America came in. + </p> + <p> + There is a temptation to talk about America in the war, but, after all, + that has no bearing on my story. Soon after the United States entered, + American men and women began to arrive in Europe in great numbers. I met + them everywhere; sight-seeing, in offices, at universities, at embassies + and consulates. I met them and loved them and suffered for them. + </p> + <p> + I was proud of something they brought to France that France needed, and I + have no doubt that many of them took back to America something from France + that we need. + </p> + <p> + For pure mental quality and courage, no people on earth could match what + the American girls took to France. It was the finest stuff in the world. + They knew how to meet hardship without grumbling. They knew how to run a + kitchen and see that hungry men were fed. They knew how to nurse, to run + telephones, automobiles—anything that needed to be done. Some failed + and fell by the wayside, but they were the smallest possible percentage. + </p> + <p> + Those American girls knew how to do everything—almost everything. + </p> + <p> + Two wonderful girls, one who ran a telephone for the army and another in + the “Y,” both from the Middle West, were at headquarters the day the King + and Queen of the Belgians arrived. With others they were sent to serve + tea, and they served it. The “Y” girl, taking a young captain whose + presence made her eyes glisten to her Majesty, said: + </p> + <p> + “Captain Blank, meet the queen.” + </p> + <p> + And the queen, holding out her hand, and never batting an eye to show that + all the conventions had been thrown to the winds, said: + </p> + <p> + “Captain, I am very happy to meet you.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="linktea" id="linktea"></a> <br /> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> + <img alt="frontis (123K)" src="images/frontis.jpg" width="100%" /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p> + They served tea—served it to the king, the queen, the general of the + American army, and other important people. There was cake besides tea, and + it was not easy to drink tea and eat cake standing. The telephone girl + insisted that General Pershing must sit down. The king was standing, and + of course, General Pershing continued to do the same. + </p> + <p> + “Will you sit down?” said another girl to the king. “There are plenty of + chairs.” + </p> + <p> + That girl had done her job in France—a job of which many a man might + have been proud—and on her left breast she wore a military medal for + valor. The king touched the medal, smiled at her, and said he was glad + there were plenty of chairs, for he knew places where there were not. + </p> + <p> + But General Pershing and his cake still bothered the little Illinois girl, + who went back at him again and asked him to sit down and enjoy his cake. + The king indicated to the general to be seated. + </p> + <p> + No one but General Pershing would have known what to do between the rule + to stand when a king stands and the rule to obey the order of the king. He + gracefully placed his plate on the side of a table, half seated himself on + it, which was a compromise, and went on enjoying himself. The king sat + down. + </p> + <p> + If any one had told that girl the sacredness of the convention she had + ignored, she would have suffered as keenly as I had suffered in my youth. + It was such a simple thing to learn; yet who in the middle of a war would + think of stopping to run a class in etiquette? The point is that any girl + capable of crossing half the world to do a big job and a hard one in a + foreign land should have been given the opportunity to learn the rules of + social intercourse. + </p> + <p> + I saw some American girls and men on official occasions at private houses + and at official functions. They were clever, attractive, fascinating; but + when they came to the end of their visit, they rose to go, and then stood + talking, talking, talking. They did not know exactly how to get away. They + did not want to be abrupt nor appear to be glad to leave. + </p> + <p> + It would have been so simple for some one to say to them: “One of the + first rules in social life is to get up and go when you are at the end of + your visit.” + </p> + <p> + I was in Paris when Marshal Joffre gave the American Ambassador, Mr. + Sharp, the gold oak leaves as a token of France's veneration for America. + There were young girls around us who did not hesitate to comment on + everybody there. One little New Jersey girl insisted rather audibly that + Clemenceau looked like the old watchman on their block; and a boy, a young + officer, complained that General Foch “had not won as many decorations as + General Bliss and General Pershing.” Some youngsters asked high officers + for souvenirs. Many French people perhaps did worse, but it hurt me to see + even a few of our own splendid young people guilty of such crudities, + because our American youth is so fine at heart. + </p> + <p> + When the great artist Rodin died, I went to the public ceremony held in + his memory. Suddenly I realized that America and France each had something + left that war had not destroyed. A young American art student, who had + given up his career for his uniform, and was invalided back in Paris minus + an arm, stood very near me. As he turned to Colonel House I heard him say: + </p> + <p> + “Rodin's going is another battle lost.” + </p> + <p> + It was typical of the American quality of which we have cause to boast—the + fineness of heart that is in our young people. + </p> + <p> + The day of the armistice in France, those of us who are older stood + looking on and realizing that all class distinctions, all race, age, and + pursuits, had been wiped off the map. People were just people. There was a + complete abandon. I am not a young woman, but I was caught up by the fury + of the crowd, and swept along singing, laughing, weeping. Young soldiers + passing would reach out to touch my hand, sometimes to kiss me. + </p> + <p> + That night I believed that the war had broken down many of our barriers; + that all foolish customs had died; that the terrific price paid in human + blood and human suffering had at least left a world honest with itself, + simple and ready for good comradeship; that men were measured by manliness + and women by ideals. It was a part of the armistice day fervor, but I + believed it. + </p> + <p> + And then I came home and went to Newport. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V. + </h2> + <p> + Just before I came home to America in the Spring of 1919, I went to Essex + for a week-end in one of those splendid old estates which are the pride of + England. + </p> + <p> + It was not my first visit, but I was awed anew by the immensity of the + place, its culture and wealth which seemed to have existed always, its + aged power and pride. Whole lives had been woven into its window curtains + and priceless rugs; centuries of art lived in the great tapestries; + successive generations of great artists had painted the ancestors of the + present owner. + </p> + <p> + All three sons of that house went into the war. One never returned from + Egypt, another is buried in Flanders. Only the youngest returned. + </p> + <p> + At first glance the smooth life seemed unchanged in the proud old house. + But before sundown of my first day there, I knew that life had put its + acid test to the shield and proved it pure gold. + </p> + <p> + War taxes had fallen heavily on the estate and it was to be leased to an + American. Until then, the castle was a home to less fortunate buddies of + the owner's sons. + </p> + <p> + But these were not the tests I mean, neither these nor the courage and the + poise of that family in the face of their terrible loss, nor their effort + to make every one happy and comfortable. + </p> + <p> + It was an incident at tea time that opened my eyes. The youngest son, now + the only son, came in from a cross-country tramp and brought with him a + pleasant faced young woman whom he introduced as “one of my pals in the + war.” + </p> + <p> + That was enough. Lady R. greeted her as one of the royal blood. The girl + was the daughter of a Manchester plumber. She had done her bit, and it had + been a hard bit, in the war, and now she was stenographer in a near-by + village. Later in the afternoon the story came out. She had been clerk in + the Q. M. corps and after her brother's death she asked for service near + the front, something hard. She got it. The mules in the supply and + ammunition trains must be fed and it was her job to get hay to a certain + division. The girl had ten motor trucks to handle and twenty men, three of + them noncommissioned officers. + </p> + <p> + After four days, during which trucks had disappeared and mules gone unfed, + she asked the colonel for the rank of first sergeant, with only enlisted + men under her. + </p> + <p> + Her first official orders were: All trucks must stay together. If one + breaks down, the others will stop and help. + </p> + <p> + The second day of her new command, she met our young host, who needed a + truck to move supplies and tried to commandeer one of hers. When she + refused, he ordered her. He was a captain. + </p> + <p> + “I am under orders to get those ten loads of hay to the mules,” was her + reply. + </p> + <p> + “What will you do if I just take one of them?” asked the captain. + </p> + <p> + “You won't,” said the girl confidently. + </p> + <p> + “I must get a truck,” he insisted. “What can you do about it if I take one + of yours?” + </p> + <p> + “England needs men,” she answered. “But if you made it necessary I'd have + to shoot you. If the mules are n't fed, you and other men can't fight. If + you were fit to be a captain, you'd know that.” + </p> + <p> + The young captain told the story himself and his family enjoyed it, + evidently admiring the Manchester lassie, who sat there as red as a poppy. + They did not bend to the plumber's daughter, nor seem to try to lift her + to the altars of their ancient hall. + </p> + <p> + Every one met on new ground, a ground where human beings had faced death + together. It was sign of a new fellowship, too deep and fine for even a + fish knife to sever. There was no consciousness of ancient class. There + was only to-day and to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + It was the America I love—that spirit. The best America—valuing + a human being for personal worth. Then I sailed for home. I went to + Newport, to the Atlantic coast resorts. They were all the same. + </p> + <p> + The world had changed but not my own country. + </p> + <p> + I saw more show of wealth, more extravagance, more carelessness, more + reckless morals than ever before, and—horrible to contemplate—springing + up in the new world, the narrow social standards which war had torn from + the old. + </p> + <p> + Social lines tightened. Men who had been overwhelmingly welcome while they + wore shoulder straps were now rated according to bank accounts or + “family.” The “doughboy shavetail”, a hero before the armistice, or the + aviator who held the stage until November eleventh, once he put on his + serge suit and went back to selling insurance or keeping books, became a + nodding acquaintance, sometimes not even that. + </p> + <p> + I was heartsick. I thought often of those splendid men I had met in France + and of the girls who poured tea for the King of the Belgians. I wondered + if any one back home was “just nodding” to them. + </p> + <p> + Everywhere was the blatant show of new wealth. + </p> + <p> + New money always glitters. I saw it in cars with aluminum hoods and gold + fittings, diamonds big as birds' eggs, ermine coats in the daytime—jeweled + heels at night. + </p> + <p> + Bad breeding plus new money shouted from every street corner. At private + dinners, I ate foods that I knew were served merely because they were + expensive, glutton feasts with twice as much as any one could eat with + comfort. + </p> + <p> + One day I went to market—the kind of a market to which my mother + would have gone—and I saw women whose husbands labored hard, + scorning to buy any but porterhouse steaks—merely because + porterhouse steak stood for prosperity. + </p> + <p> + In Washington I met a new kind of American, a type that has sprung up + suddenly like an evil toadstool. It is a fungous disease that spreads. + Some hangs from old American stock, some dangles from recent plantings, + all of it is snobbish and offensive. It wears foreign clothes and affects + foreign ways, sometimes even foreign accents. It chops and mumbles its + words like English servants who speak their language badly. Some of this + is acquired at fashionable finishing schools or from foreign secretaries + and servants. These new Americans try to appear superior and distinctive + by scorning all things American. They want English chintzes in their + homes, French brocades and Italian silks and do not even know that some of + these very textiles from America have won prizes in Europe since 1912. An + American manufacturer told me he has to stamp his cretonne “English style + print” to sell it in this country. + </p> + <p> + This new species of American apes royalty. It goes in for crests. It may + have made its money in gum shoes or chewing tobacco, but it hires a + genealogist to dig up a shield. Fine, if you are entitled to a crest. But + fake genealogists will cook up a coat for the price. + </p> + <p> + There are crests on the motor-cars, crests on the stationery, on the + silver, the toilet articles—there are sometimes even crests on the + servants' buttons and on linen and underclothes! + </p> + <p> + Fake crests are the first step down, and like all lies they lead to other + lies. The next step is ancestors. + </p> + <p> + Selling and painting ancestors is another business which thrives around + New York, Philadelphia, and Washington. And the public swallows it. They + swallow each other's ancestors. Even old families take these new + descendants as a matter of course. + </p> + <p> + One of these new Americans recently gave a large feast in Washington with + every out-of-season delicacy in profusion. The only simple thing in the + house was the mind of the hostess. That night it was a tangled skein. + </p> + <p> + I saw she was worried. Her house was full of potentates, the wives of two + cabinet officers, and Mrs. Coolidge. She left the room twice after the + dinner hour had arrived, and it was late when dinner was finally + announced. + </p> + <p> + Later in the evening one of the servants whispered to the hostess that she + was wanted on the telephone—the State Department. + </p> + <p> + She returned to the drawing-room looking as if she had just heard of a + death in the family. The guests began considerately to leave. + </p> + <p> + Her expensive party was a dismal failure. As I have known her husband for + years, I asked if I could be of any use. + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> + <img src="images/p104.jpg" width="100%" + alt="p104.jpg Her Expensive Party Was a Dismal Failure " /> + </div> + <p> + “It 's too late, now,” he said. “She had the Princess Bibesco and the + Princess Lubomirska here and the wife of the Vice President, and she + didn't know the precedence they took. She held up dinner half an hour + trying to get the State Department and now they tell her she guessed + wrong. It 's a tragedy to her.” + </p> + <p> + I confess I did not feel very sorry for that woman. I remembered my little + Indiana girl who introduced the captain to the Queen of Belgium. + </p> + <p> + I began to feel as if all America were like the De Morgan jingle: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Great fleas have little fleas + On their backs to bite 'em, + And little fleas have lesser fleas + And so ad infinitum.” + </pre> + <p> + Then I took a trip across the continent, stopping off in Indiana to see my + little Y friends. It was like a bath for my soul. Brains count out West. + Anybody who tries to show off is snubbed. + </p> + <p> + You must do something to be anything in the Middle West; just to have + something doesn't count. You don't list your ancestors as you must in + Virginia or the Carolinas, but to feel self-respecting you must do + something. + </p> + <p> + I was happy to renew my wartime friendships. Those who have not shared a + great work or a greater tragedy will not understand these bonds. + </p> + <p> + The same young friend who served tea to the king took me to a musicale. + She wore her war medal. One of the guests, a lady from Virginia who claims + four coats of arms, was impressed by the girl's medal and the fact that + she had entertained the king. + </p> + <p> + The girl had married since the war, a fine young Irish lawyer, with a + family name which once belonged to a king but which, since hard times hit + the old sod, has been a butt for song and jest. + </p> + <p> + The name did not impress the lady from Virginia. “You have such an + interesting face,” she said. “What was your name before your marriage?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it was much less interesting than my husband's,” answered my young Y + friend, and lifting the conversation out of the personal she asked, “Have + you read Mr. Keynes' 'The Economic Consequences of the Peace?'” + </p> + <p> + “I had n't read it myself,” she confided to me later, “but it was the + first new book I could think of!” + </p> + <p> + That is good American manners and what the French call savoir faire. + </p> + <p> + The Far West still keeps the American inheritance of open hearted + hospitality and its provincialism. The West has inherited some of the + finest virtues of our country, and if it is not bitten by Back Bay, + Philadelphia, Virginia, or Charleston, it will grow up into its mother's + finest child. + </p> + <p> + “No church west of Chicago, no God west of Denver,” we used to hear when I + was a child. But to-day, the churches are part of the community and even + men go. People in the West do not seem to go to church merely out of + respect for the devil and a conscience complex, but because they like to. + Churches and schools are important places in the West. + </p> + <p> + President Harding has said that he hopes more and more people will learn + to want to pray in a closet alone with God. There are many people like + that in our Middle West. I say this, because I hope it may help other + American women who love their country to fight for honesty and purpose in + our national life, and for tolerance and respect for the simple things in + our private lives. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Log-Cabin Lady, An Anonymous +Autobiography, by Unknown + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOG-CABIN LADY *** + +***** This file should be named 6500-h.htm or 6500-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/6/5/0/6500/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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