Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 7, No. 43, May, 1861 by Various

V >> Various >> Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 7, No. 43, May, 1861

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20

PINK AND BLUE.

Everybody knows that a _departing_ guest has the most to say. The touch
of the door-knob sends to his lips a thousand things which _must_ be
told. Is it strange, then, that old people, knowing they have "made out
their visit," and feeling themselves brimful of wisdom and experience,
should wish to speak from the fulness of their hearts to those whom they
must so shortly leave?

Nobody thinks it strange. The world expects it, and, as a general thing,
bears it patiently. Knowing how universal is this spirit of forbearance,
I should, perhaps, have forever held my peace, lest I might abuse
good-nature, had it not been for some circumstances which will be
related a little farther on.

My little place of business (I am the goldsmith of our village) has long
been the daily resort of several of my particular cronies. They are men
of good minds,--some of them quite literary; for we count, as belonging
to our set, the lawyer, the schoolmaster, the doctor, men of business,
men of no business, and sometimes even the minister. As may be supposed,
our discussions take a wide range: I can give no better notion of _how_
wide than to say that we discuss everything in the papers. Yesterday
was a snow-storm, but the meeting was held just the same. It was in the
afternoon. The schoolmaster came in late with a new magazine, from which
he read, now and then, for the general edification.

"Ah!" said he, "if this be true, we can all write for the papers."

"How's that?" we asked.

"Why, it says here, that, if the true experience of any human heart were
written, it would be worth more than the best tale ever invented."

It was a terribly stormy day. The snow came whirling against the two
windows of my shop, clinging to the outside, making it twilight within.
I had given up work; for my eyes are not what they were, and I have to
favor them. Nobody spoke for a while; all had been set to thinking.
Those few words had sent us all back, back, back, thirty, forty, fifty
years, to call up the past. We were gazing upon forms long since
perished, listening to voices long ago hushed forever. Could those forms
have been summoned before us, how crowded would have been my little
shop! Could those voices have been heard, how terrible the discord, the
cries of the wretched mingling with the shouts of the happy ones! There
was a dead silence. The past was being questioned. Would it reply?

At last some one said,--

"Try it."

"But," said another, "it would fill a whole book."

"Take up one branch, then; for instance, our--well, our courting-days.
Let each one tell how he won his wife."

"But shall we get any money by it?"

"To be sure we shall. Do you think people write for nothing? '_Worth
more_' are the very words used; 'worth more' _what?_ Money, of course."

"But what shall we do with all our money?"

"Buy a library for the use of us all. We will draw lots to see who shall
write first; and if he succeeds, the others can follow in order."

And thus we agreed.

I was rather sorry the lot fell upon me; for I was always bashful, and
never thought much of myself but once. I think my bashfulness was mostly
owing to my knowing myself to be not very good-looking. I believe that I
am not considered a bad-looking old man; indeed, people who remember me
at twenty-five say that I have grown handsome every year since.

I do not intend giving a description of myself at that age, but shall
confine myself principally to what was suggested by my friend, as above
mentioned,--namely, how I won my wife.

It is astonishing how a man may be deluded. Knowing, as I did, just the
facts in the case, regarding my face and figure, yet the last day of the
year 1817 found me in the full belief that I was quite a good-looking
and every way a desirable young man. This was the third article in my
creed. The second was, that Eleanor Sherman loved me; and the first,
that I loved her. It is curious how I became settled in the third
article by means of the second.

I had spent hours before my looking-glass, trying to make it give in
that I was good-looking. But never was a glass so set in its way. In
vain I used my best arguments, pleaded before it hour after hour,
re-brushed my hair, re-tied my cravat, smiled, bowed, and so forth, and
so forth. "Ill-looking and awkward!" was my only response. At last it
went so far as to intimate that I had, with all the rest, a _conceited_
look. This was not to be borne, and I withdrew in disgust. The
argument should be carried on in my own heart. Pure reasoning only was
trustworthy. Philosophers assured us that our senses were not to be
trusted. How easy and straightforward the mental process! "Eleanor loves
me; therefore I cannot look ill!"

It was on the last day of the year I have mentioned, that, just having,
for the fortieth time, arrived at the above conclusion, I prepared to go
forth upon the most delightful of all possible errands. All day I had
been dwelling upon it, wondering at what hour it would be most proper to
go. At three o'clock, I arrayed myself in my Sunday-clothes. I gave a
parting glance of triumph at my glass, and stepped briskly forth upon
the crispy snow. I met people well wrapped up, with mouth and nose
covered, and saw men leave working to thrash their hands. It must have
been cold, therefore; but I felt none of it.

Her house was half a mile distant. 'T was on a high bank a little back
from the road, of one story in front, and two at the sides. It was what
was called a single house; the front showed only two windows, with a
door near the corner. The sides were painted yellow, the front white,
with a green door. There was an orchard behind, and two poplar-trees
before it. The pathway up the bank was sprinkled with ashes. I had
frequently been as far as the door with her, evenings when I waited upon
her home; but I had never before approached the house by daylight,--that
is, any nearer than the road. I had never _said_ anything; it wasn't
time; but I had given her several little things, and had tried to be her
beau every way that I knew.

Before I began to notice her, I had never been about much with the
young folks,--partly because I was bashful, and partly because I was so
clumsy-looking. I was more in earnest, therefore, than if I had been
in the habit of running after the girls. After I began to like her,
I watched every motion,--at church, at evening meetings, at
singing-school; and a glance from her eye seemed to fall right upon my
heart. She had been very friendly and sociable with me, always thanked
me very prettily for what little trifles I gave her, and never refused
my company home. She would put her hand within my arm without a moment's
hesitation, chatting all the while, never seeming in the least to
suspect the shiver of joy which shot through my whole frame from the
little hand upon my coat-sleeve.

I had long been pondering in my mind, in my walks by day and my
lyings-down at night, what should be the next step, what _overt act_
I might commit; for something told me it was not yet time to _say_
anything.

What could have been more fortunate for my wishes, then, than the
project set on foot by the young people, of a grand sleighing-party on
New-Year's evening? They were mostly younger than myself, especially the
girls. Eleanor was but seventeen, I was twenty-three. But I determined
to join this party, and it was to invite Eleanor that I arrayed myself
and set forth, as above mentioned. It was a bold step for a bashful
man,--I mean now the _inviting_ part.

I had thought over, coming along, just what words I should use; but, as
I mounted the bank, I felt the words, ideas, and all, slipping out at
the ends of my fingers. If it had been a thickly settled place, I should
not have thought much about being watched; but, as there was only
one house in sight, I was sure that not a motion was lost, that my
proceedings would be duly reported, and discussed by the whole village.
All these considerations rendered my situation upon the stone step at
the front-door very peculiar.

I knew the family were in the back part of the house; for the shutters
of the front-room were tightly closed, as, indeed, they always were,
except on grand occasions. Nevertheless, knocking at the front-door
seemed the right thing to do, and I did it. With a terrible choking in
my throat, and wondering all the while _who_ would come to open, I did
it. I knocked three times. Nobody came. Peddlers, I had observed in like
cases, opened the outside door and knocked at the inner. I tried this
with no better result. I then ventured to open the inner door softly,
and with feelings of awe I stood alone in the spare-room.

By the light which streamed in through the holes in the tops of the
shutters I distinguished the green painted chairs backed up stiffly
against the wall, the striped homespun carpet, andirons crossed in the
fireplace, with shovel and tongs to match, the big Bible on the table
under the glass, a _waxwork_ on the high mahogany desk in the corner,
and a few shells and other ornaments upon the mantelshelf.

The terrible order and gloom oppressed me. I felt that it was no slight
thing to venture thus unbidden into the spare-room,--the room set apart
from common uses, and opened only on great occasions: evening-meetings,
weddings, or funerals. But, in the midst of all my tribulation, one
other thought would come,--I don't exactly like to tell it, but then
I believe I promised to keep nothing back;--well, then, if I must,--I
thought that this spare-room was the place where Eleanor would make up
the fire, when--when I was far enough along to come regularly every
Sunday night. With that thought my courage revived. I heard voices in
the next room, the pounding of a flat-iron, and a frequent step across
the floor. I gave a loud rap. The door opened, and Eleanor herself
appeared. She had on a spotted calico gown, with a string of gold beads
around her neck. She held in her hand a piece of fan coral. I felt
myself turning all colors, stammered, hesitated, and believed in my
heart that she would think me a fool. Very likely she did; for I really
suppose that she never, till then, thought that I _meant anything_.

She contrived, however, to pick out my meaning from the midst of the odd
words and parts of sentences offered her, and replied that she would let
me know that evening. As she did not invite me to the kitchen, the only
thing left me to do was to say good-afternoon and depart. I don't know
which were the queerest,--my feelings in going up or in coming down the
bank.

When fairly in the road, happening to glance back at the house, I saw
that one half of a shutter was open, and that a man was watching me. He
drew back before I could recognize him. That evening was singing-school.
That was why I went to invite Eleanor in the afternoon. I was afraid
some other fellow would ask her before school was out.

When I got there, I found all the young folks gathered about the stove.
Something was going on. I pressed in, and found Harry Harlow. He had
been gone a year at sea, and had arrived that forenoon in the stage from
Boston. They were all listening to his wonderful stories.

When school was over, I stepped up close to Eleanor and offered my arm.
She drew back a little, and handed me a small package. Harry stepped up
on the other side. She took his arm, and they went off slowly together.
I stood still a moment to watch them. When they turned the corner, I
went off alone. Confounded, wonder-struck, I plunged on through the
snow-drifts, seeing, feeling, knowing nothing but the package in my
hand. I found mother sitting by the fire. She and I lived together,--she
and I, and that was all. I knew I should find her with her little round
table drawn up to the fire, her work laid aside, and the Bible open. She
never went to bed with me out.

I didn't want to tell her. I wouldn't for the world, if I could have had
the opening of my package all to myself. She asked me if I had fastened
the back-door. I sat down by the fire and slowly undid the string. A
silver thimble fell on the bricks. There was also an artificial flower
made of feathers, a copy of verses headed "To a Pair of Bright Eyes,"
cut from the county newspaper, a cherry-colored neck-ribbon, a
smelling-bottle, and, at the bottom, a note. I knew well enough what was
in the note.

"MR. ALLEN,--

"I must decline your invitation to the sleigh-ride; and I hope you will
not be offended, if I ask you not to go about with me any more. I think
you are a very good young man, and, as an acquaintance, I like you very
much.

"Respectfully yours,

"ELEANOR SHERMAN.

"P.S.--With this note you will find the things you have given me."

I took the iron tongs which stood near, picked up the thimble and
dropped it into the midst of the hot coals, then the flower, then the
verses, then the ribbon, then the smelling-bottle, and would gladly have
added myself.

My mother and I were everything to each other. We two were all that
remained of a large family. I had always confided in her; but still I
was sorry that I had opened the package there. I might have taken it to
my chamber. But then she would have known, she _must_ have known from my
manner, that something was wrong with me. I think, on the whole, I was
glad to have her know the worst. I knew that my mother worshipped me;
but she was not one of those who let their feelings be seen on common
occasions. I gave her the note, and no more was needed. She tried to
comfort me, as mothers will; but I would not be comforted. It was my
first great heart-trouble, and I was weighed down beneath it. She drew
me towards her, I leaned my head upon her shoulder, and was not ashamed
that she knew of the hot tears upon my cheeks. At last I heard her
murmuring softly,--

"Oh, what shall I do? He is all I have, and he is so miserable! How can
I bear his sorrow?"

I think it was the recollection of these words which induced me
afterwards to hide my feelings, that she might not suffer on my account.

The next day was clear and bright. The sleighing was perfect. I was
miserable. I had not slept. I could not eat. I dared not go into the
village to encounter the jokes which I was certain awaited me there.
Early in the evening, just as the moon rose, I took my stand behind a
clump of trees, half-way up a hill, where I knew the sleighs must pass.

There I stood, feeling neither cold nor weariness, waiting, watching,
listening for the sleigh-bells. At last I heard them, first faintly,
then louder and louder, until they reached the bottom of the hill.
Slowly they came up, passing, one after another, by my hiding-place.
There were ten sleighs in all. She and Harry were in the fourth. The
moon shone full in their faces, and his looked just as I had often felt;
but I had never dared to show it as Harry did. I felt sure that he would
kiss her. A blue coverlet was wrapped around them, and he was tucking it
in on her side. The hill was steep just there, so that they were obliged
to move quite slowly. They were talking earnestly, and I heard my name.
I was not sure at first; but afterwards I knew.

"I never thought of his being in earnest before. He is a great deal
older than I, and I never thought that anybody so homely and awkward as
he could suppose"--

"Jingle, jingle, jingle," and that was all I heard. I held myself still,
watched the sleighs disappear, one after another, over the brow of the
hill, listened till the last note of the last bell was lost in the
distance, then turned and ran.

I ran as if I had left my misery behind, and every step were taking me
farther from it. But when I reached home, there it was, aching, aching
in my heart, just the same as before. And there it stayed. Even now, I
can hardly bear to think of those terrible days and nights. But for my
mother's sake I tried to seem cheerful, though I no longer went about
with the young folks. I applied myself closely to my business, sawed my
mother's wood for exercise, learned to paint, and read novels and poetry
for amusement.

Thus time passed on. The little boys began to call themselves young men,
and me an old _bach_; and into this character I contentedly settled
down. My wild oats, of which I had had but scant measure, I considered
sown. My sense of my own ill-looks became morbid. I hardly looked at a
female except my mother, lest she'd think that I "_could suppose_."
The old set were mostly married off. Eleanor married the young sailor.
People spoke of her as being high-tempered, as being extravagant,
spending in fine clothes the money he earned at the risk of his life. I
don't know that it made any difference to my feelings. It might. At the
time she turned me off, I think I should have married her, knowing she
had those faults. But she removed to the city, and by degrees time and
absence wore off the edge of my grief. My mother lost part of her little
property, and I was obliged to exert myself that she might miss none of
her accustomed comforts. She was a good mother, thoughtful and tender,
sympathizing not only in my troubles, but in my every-day pursuits, my
work, my books, my paintings.

When I was about thirty, Jane Wood came to live near us. Her mother and
young sister came with her. They rented a small house just across the
next field from us. Although ours, therefore, might have been considered
an infected neighborhood, yet I never supposed myself in the slightest
danger, because I had had the disease. Nevertheless, having an abiding
sense of my own ugliness, I should not have ventured into the immediate
presence of the Woods, _except_ on works of necessity and mercy.

The younger sister was taken very ill with the typhus fever. It was
customary, in our village, for the neighbors, in such cases, to be very
helpful. Mother was with them day and night, and, when she could not go
herself, used to send me to see if they wanted anything, for they had no
men-folks.

I seldom saw Jane, and when I did, I never looked at her. I mean, I did
not look her full in the face. It was to her mother that I made all my
offers of assistance.

This habit of shunning the society of all young females, and
particularly of the Wood girls, was by no means occasioned by any fears
in regard to my own safety. Far from it. I considered myself as one set
apart from all mankind,--set apart, and fenced in, by my own personal
disadvantages. The thought of my caring for a girl, or of being cared
for by a girl, never even occurred to me. "Taboo," so far as I was
concerned, was written upon them all. The marriage state I saw from afar
off. Beautiful and bright it looked in the distance, like the Promised
Land to true believers. Some visions I beheld of its beautiful angels
walking in shining robes; strains of its sweet melody were sometimes
wafted across the distance; but I might never enter there. It was no
land of promise to me. A gulf, dark and impassable, lay between. And
beside all this, as I have already intimated, I considered myself out of
danger. My life's lesson had been learned. I knew it by heart. What more
could be expected of me?

But, after all, we can't go right against our natures; and it is not the
nature of man to look upon the youthful and the elderly female exactly
in the same light. The feelings with which they are approached are
essentially different, whether he who approaches be seventeen or
seventy. Thus, in conversing with the old lady Wood, I was quite at
my ease. When the invalid began to get well, I often carried her nice
little messes, which my mother prepared, and was generally lucky enough
to find Mrs. Wood,--for I always went in at the back-door. She asked me,
one day, if I could lend Ellen something to read,--for she was then just
about well enough to amuse herself with a book, but not strong enough to
work. Now I always had (so my mother said) a kind and obliging way with
me, and had, besides, a great pride in my library. I was delighted that
anybody wanted to read my books, and hurried home to make a selection.

That very afternoon, I took over an armful. Nobody was in the kitchen;
so I sat down to wait. The door of the little keeping-room was open, and
I knew by their voices that some great discussion was going on. I tipped
over a cricket to make them aware of my presence. The door was opened
wide, and Mrs. Wood appeared.

"Now here is Mr. Allen," she exclaimed. "Let us get his opinion."

Then she took me in, where they were holding solemn council over a straw
bonnet and various colored ribbons. She introduced me to Ellen, whom I
had never before met. She was a merry-looking, black-eyed maiden, and
the roses were already blooming out again upon her cheeks. She was very
young,--not more than fifteen or sixteen.

"Now, Mr. Allen," said Jane, (she was not so bashful to me as I was to
her,) "let us have your opinion upon these trimmings. Remember, though,
that pink and blue can't go together."

She turned her face full upon me, and I looked straight into her eyes.
I really believe it was the first time I had done so. They were
beautifully blue, with long dark lashes. She had been a little excited
by the discussion, and her cheeks were like two roses. A strange
boldness came over me.

"How can I remember that," I answered, "when I see in your face that
pink and blue _do_ go together?"

Never, till within a few years, could I account for this sudden
boldness. I have now no doubt that I spoke by what spiritualists call
"impression." We were all surprised, and I most of all. Jane laughed,
and looked pinker than before. She would as soon have expected a
compliment from the town pump, and I felt it.

I knew nothing of bonnets, but I had studied painting, and was a judge
of colors. I made a selection, and could see that they were again
surprised at my good taste. I then offered my books, spoke of the
different authors, turned to what I thought might particularly please
them, and, before I knew it, was all aglow with the unusual excitement
of conversation. I saw that they were not without cultivation, and that
they had a quick appreciation of literary merit.

And thus an acquaintance commenced. I called often, for it seemed a
pleasant thing to do. As my excuse, I took with me my books, papers,
and all the new publications which reached me. I always thought they
appeared very glad to see me.

Being strangers in the place, they saw but little company, and it seemed
to be nothing more than my duty to call in now and then in a neighborly
way. I talked quite easily; for among books I felt at home. They talked
easily, too; for they (I say it in no ill-natured way) were women. They
began to consider my frequent calling as a matter of course, and always
smiled upon me when I entered. I felt that they congratulated themselves
upon finding me out. They had penetrated the ice, and found open sea
beyond. I speak of it in this way, because I afterwards overheard Ellen
joking her sister about discovering the Northwest Passage to my heart.

This was in the fall of the year, when the evenings were getting quite
long. They were fond of reading, but had not much time for it. I was
fond of reading, and had many long evenings at my disposal. It followed,
therefore, that I read aloud, while they worked. With the "Pink and
Blue" just opposite, I read evening after evening. At first I used to
look up frequently, to see how such and such a passage would strike her;
but one evening Ellen asked me, in a laughing, half-saucy sort of way,
why I didn't look at _her_ sometimes to see how _she_ liked things. This
made me color up; and Jane colored up, too. After that I kept my eyes on
my book; but I always knew when she stopped her work and raised her
head at the interesting parts, and always hoped she didn't see the red
flushes spreading over my face, and always wished, too, that she would
look away,--for, somehow, my voice would not go on smoothly.

Those red flushes were to myself most mysterious. Nevertheless, they
continued, and even appeared to be on the increase. At first, I felt
them only while reading; then, upon entering the room; and at last
they began to come before I got across the field. Still I felt no real
uneasiness, but, on the contrary, was glad I could be of so much use to
the family. Never before was the want of men-folks felt so little by a
family of women-folks. I did errands, split kindling, dug "tracks," (_i.
e._, paths in the snow,) and glued broken furniture.

I always thought of Jane as "Pink and Blue." Sometimes I thought from
her manner that she would a little rather I wouldn't come so often. I
thought she didn't look up at me so pleasantly as she used to at first,
and seemed a little stiff; but, as I had a majority in my favor, I
continued my visits. I always had one good look at her when I said
good-night; but it made the red come, so that I had to hurry out before
she saw. It seemed to me that her cheeks then looked pinker than ever,
and the two colors, pink and blue, seemed to mingle and float before my
eyes all the way home. "Pink and blue," "pink and blue." How those two
little words kept running in my head, and, I began to fear, in my heart
too!--for no sooner would I close my eyes at night than those delicate
pink cheeks and blue eyes would appear before me. They haunted my
dreams, and were all ready to greet me at waking.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20