Читать книгу Josiah Allen's Wife as a P. A. and P. I - Marietta Holley - Страница 9

Table of Contents

As I mentioned, more formally Josiah’s brother’s wife had come to live with us. My opinion is she is most a natural fool; howsumever, bein’ one of the relations on his side, I haint told her what I think of her, but bear with her as I would wish the relations on my side to be bore with by Josiah. How long she will live with us, that I don’t know. But she haint no place to go to, and we can’t turn her out of doors; so it looks dark to me, for it is a considerable sized tribulation, that I don’t deny; fools was always dretful wearin’ to me. But I don’t ort to call her a fool, and wouldn’t say it where it would git out, for the world. But she don’t know no more’n the law’l allow, that I will contend for boldly with my last breath.

But if her principles was as hefty as cast-iron, and her intellect as bright as it is t’other way—if it was bright as day—she would be a sort of a drawback to happiness—anybody would, whether it was a he or a she. Home is a Eden jest large enough to hold Adam and Eve and the family, and when a stranger enters its gate to camp down therein for life with you, a sort of a cold chill comes in with ’em. You may like ’em, and wish ’em well, and do the best you can with ’em, but you feel kinder choked up, and bound down; there is a sort of a tightness to it; you can’t for your life feel so loose and soarin’ as you did when you was alone with Josiah and the childern.

But I am determined to put up with her and do the best I can. She hadn’t no home, and was a comin’ on the town, so Josiah thought for the sake of Tim—that was his brother—it was our duty to take her in and do for her. And truly Duty’s apron strings are the only ones we can cling to with perfect safety. Inclination sometimes wears a far more shining apron, and her glitterin’ strings flutter down before you invitingly, and you feel as if you must leggo of Duty, and lay holt of ’em. But my friends, safety is not there; her strings are thin, and slazy, and liable to fall to pieces any minute. But hang on to Duty’s apron strings boldly and blindly, get a good holt and have no fear; let her draw you over rough pathways, through dark valleys, up the mounting side, and through the deep waters; don’t be afraid, but hang on. The string won’t break with you, and the country she will lead you into is one that can’t be bettered.

Her first husband was Josiah’s only brother. He died a few years after they were married, and then she married to another man, David Doodle by name and a shiftless creeter by nater—but good lookin’, so I hearn. Howsumever, I don’t know nothin’ about it only by hearsay, for I never laid eyes on none of the lot till she come on to us for a home. They lived out to the Ohio. But she fairly worships that Doodle to this day, talks about him day and night. I haint heerd her say a dozen words about Josiah’s brother Timothy, though they say he was a likely man, and a good provider, and did well by her. Left her a good farm, all paid for, and Doodle run through it; and five cows and two horses; and Doodle run through them, and a colt.

DAVID DOODLE.

But she don’t seem to remember that she ever had no such husband as Timothy Allen, which I know makes it the more wearin’ onto Josiah, though he don’t complain. But he thought a sight of Tim—they used to sleep together when they was children, and heads that lay on the same mother’s bosom, can’t git so fur apart but what memory will unite ’em. They got separated when they grew up; Tim went to the Ohio to live, as I say, but still, when Josiah’s thoughts git to travelin’, as thoughts will,—I never see such critters to be on the go all the time—they take him back to the old trundle-bed, and Tim.

But she don’t mention brother Timothy only when Josiah asks her about him. But Doodle! I can truly say without lyin’ that if ever a human bein’ got sick of any thing on earth, I got sick of Doodle, sick enough of him. Bein’ shet up in the house with her I sense it more than Josiah does. It is Doodle in the morning, and Doodle at noon, and Doodle at night, and Doodle between meals; and if she talks in her sleep—which she is quite a case to—it is about Doodle. I don’t complain to Josiah much, knowin’ it will only make his road the harder; but I told Thomas Jefferson one day, after she had jest finished a story about her and Doodle that took her the biggest part of the forenoon, for the particulars that she will put in about nothin’, is enough to make any body sweat in the middle of winter. She had went and lay down in her room after she got through; and good land! I should think she would want to—I should think she would have felt tuckered out. And I says to Thomas Jefferson—and I sithed as I said it:

“It does seem as if Doodle will be the death of me.” And I sithed again several times.

“Wall,” says he, “if he should, I will write a handsome piece of poetry on it;” says he, “Alf Tennyson and Shakespeare have written some pretty fair pieces, but mine shall

“Beat the hull caboodle,

And the burden of the him shall be,

That mother died of Doodle.”

I stopped sithin’ then, and I says to him in real severe tones, “You needn’t laugh Thomas J., I’d love to see you try it one day.” Says I, “You and your father bein’ outdoors all day, when you come in for a few minutes to your meals, her stiddy stream of talk is as good as a circus to you, sunthin’ on the plan of a side show. But you be shet up with it all day long, day after day, and week after week, and then see how you would feel in your mind; then see how the name of Doodle would sound in your ear.”

But I try to do the best I can with her. As I said, how long she will stay with us I don’t know. But I don’t s’pose there is any hopes of her marryin’ again. When she first came to live with us, I did think—to tell the plain truth—that she would marry again if she got a chance. I thought I see symptoms of it. But it wasn’t but a few days after that that I give up the hope, for she told me that it wasn’t no ways likely that she should ever marry again. She talks a sight about Doodle’s face, always calls it his ‘linement’, says it is printed on her heart, and it haint no ways likely that she will ever see another linement, that will look to her as good as Mr. Doodle’s linement.

I declare for’t, sometimes when she is goin’ on, I have to call on the martyrs in my own mind almost wildly, call on every one I ever heerd of, to keep my principles stiddy, and keep me from sayin’ sunthin’ I should be sorry for. Sometimes when she is goin’ on for hours about “Doodle and his linement” and so forth, I set opposite to her with my knittin’ work in my hand, with no trace on the outside, of the almost fearful tempest goin’ on inside of me. There I’ll be, a bindin’ off my heel, or seamin’ two and one, or toein’ off, as the case may be; calm as a summer mornin’ on the outside, but on the inside I am a sayin’ over to myself in silent but almost piercin’ tones of soul agony:

“John Rogers! Smithfield! nine children, one at the breast! Grid-irons! thum-screws! and so 4th, and so 4th!” It has a dretful good effect on me, I think over what these men endured for principle, and I will say to myself:

“Josiah Allen’s wife, has not your heart almost burnt up within you a thinkin’ of these martyrs? Have you not in rapped moments had longin’s of the sole to be a martyr also? Lofty principle may boy the soul up triumphant, but there can’t be anybody burnt up without smartin’, and fire was jest as hot in them days as it is now, and no hotter. If David Doodle is the stake on which you are to be offered up, be calm Samantha—be calm.”

WIDDER DOODLE.

So I would be a talkin’ to myself, and so she would be a goin’ on, and though I have suffered pangs that can’t be expressed about, my principles have grown more hefty from day to day. I begun to look more lofty in mean, and sometimes I have been that boyed up by hard principle, that jest to see what heights a human mind could git up on to, while the body was yet on the ground, I would begin myself about Doodle. And so, speakin’ in a martyr way, the Widder Doodle was not made in vain.

She is a small boneded woman, dretful softly lookin’; and truly, her looks don’t belie her, for she seems to me that soft, that if she should bump her head, I don’t see what is to hinder it from flattin’ right out like a piece of putty. I guess she was pretty good lookin’ in her day; on no other grounds can I account for it, that two men ever took after her. Her eyes are round as blue beads, and sort of surprised lookin’, she is light complected, and her mouth is dretful puckered up and drawed down. Josiah can’t bear her looks—he has told me so in confidence a number of times—but I told him I have seen wimmen that looked worse; and I have.

“I have seen them that looked far better,” says he.

“Who Josiah?” says I.

Says he, “Father Smith’s daughter, Samantha.”

Josiah thinks a sight of me, it seems to grow on him; and with me also, it is ditto and the same.

“THE VOYAGE OF LIFE.”

When two souls set out in married life, a sailin’ out on the sea of True Love, they must expect to steer at first through rocks, and get tangled in the sea weed, the rocks of opposing wills, and the sea weed of selfishness. And before they get the hang of the boat it will go contrary, squalls will rise and most upset it, and they’ll hist up the wrong sails and tighten the wrong ropes and act like fools generally. And they’ll be sick, very; and will sometimes look back with regret to the lonesome, but peaceful shores they have left, and wish they hadn’t never sot out.

But if they’ll be patient and steer their boat straight and wise, a calmer sea is ahead, deeper waters of trust and calm affection, in which their boat will sail onwards first rate. They’ll git past the biggest heft of the rocks, and git the nack of sailin’ round the ones that are left so’s not to hit ’em nigh so often, and the sea weed, unbeknown to them, will kinder drizzle out, and disappear mostly.

I don’t have to correct Josiah near so much as I used to, though occasionally, when I know I am in the right, I set up my authority, and will be minded; and he hisen. I never see a couple yet, whether they’d own it or not, but what would have their little spats; but good land! if they love each other they git right over it, and it is all fair weather again. The little breeze clears the air, and the sun will shine out again clear as pure water, and bright as a dollar.

Sister Doodle, (Josiah thought it was best to call her so some of the time, he thought it would seem more friendly) she says, the widder does, that she never see a couple live together any happier and agreabler than me and Josiah live together. She told me it reminded her dretfully of her married life with Doodle. (Josiah had cooed at me a very little that mornin’—not much, for he knows I don’t encourage it in him.)

Truly Doodle is her theme, but I hold firm.

She was a helpin’ me wash my dishes, and she begun: how much Josiah and I reminded her of her and Doodle.

Says she—“Nobody knows how much that man thought of me; he would say sometimes in the winter when we would wake up in the mornin’: ‘My dear Dolly,’—he used to call me that, though my name is Nabby, but he said I put him in mind so of a doll, that he couldn’t help callin’ me so—‘My dear Dolly,’ he’d say, ‘I have been a dreamin’ about you.’

“‘Have you Mr. Doodle?’ says I.

“‘Yes,’ says he, ‘I have been a dreamin’ how much I love you, and how pretty you are—jest as pretty as a pink posy.’ Them was Mr. Doodle’ses very words: ‘a pink posy.’

“I’d say,—‘Oh shaw, Mr. Doodle, I guess you are tryin’ to foolish me.’

“Says he—‘I haint, I dremp it.’ And then there would come such a sweet smile all over his linement, and he would say:

“‘Dolly, I love to dream about you.’

“‘Do you, Mr. Doodle?’ says I.

“‘Yes,’ says he, ‘and it seems jest as if I want to go to sleep and have another nap, jest a purpose to dream about you.’

LOVE’S DREAM.

“And so I would git up and cut the kindlin’ wood, and build the fire, and feed the cows, and go round the house a gettin’ breakfast, as still as a mice so’s not to disturb him, and he’d lay and sleep till I got the coffee turned out, then he’d git up and tell me his dream. It would be all about how pretty I was, and how much he loved me and how he would die for my sake any time to keep the wind from blowin’ too hard onto me. And he would eat jest as hearty and enjoy himself dretfully. Oh! we took a sight of comfort together, me and Mr. Doodle did. And I can’t never forget him; I can’t never marry again, his linement is so stamped onto my memory. Oh, no, I can’t never forgit his linement; no other man’s linement can be to me what his linement was.”

She stopped a minute to ask me where she should set the dishes she had wiped, and I was glad of the respit, though I knew it would be but a short one. And I was right, for in settin’ up the dishes, she see a little milk pitcher that belonged to my first set of dishes; there was a woman painted onto it, and that set her to goin’ again. Truly, there is nothin’ on the face of the earth, or in the sky above, but what reminds her, in some way, of Doodle. I have known the risin’ sun to set her to goin’, and the fire-shovel, and the dust-pan. She held the pitcher pensively in her hand a minute or two, and then she says:

“This picture looks as I did, when I married Mr. Doodle. I was dretful pretty, so he used to tell me; too pretty to have any hardships put onto me, so he used to say. There was considerable talk about wimmen’s votin’, about that time, and he said there wasn’t money enough in the world to tempt him to let his Dolly vote. Anything so wearin’ as that, he said he should protect me from as long as he had a breath left in his body. He used to git dretful excited about it, he thought so much of me. He said it would ‘wear a woman right out; and how should I feel,’ says he, ‘to see my Dolly wore out.’

“He couldn’t use to bear to have me go a visitin’, either. He said talkin’ with neighborin’ wimmen’ was wearin’ too, and to have to come home and git supper for him after dark; he said he couldn’t bear to see me do it. He never was no hand to pick up a supper, and I always had to come home and git his supper by candle light—meat vittles; he always had to have jest what he wanted to eat, or it made him sick, he was one of that kind—give him the palsy. He never had the palsy, but he always said that all that kep’ him from it, was havin’ jest what he wanted to eat, jest at the time he wanted it; and so he would lay down on the lounge while I got his supper ready. I’d have to begin at the very beginning, for he never was one of the men that could hang over the tea-kettle, or git up potatoes, or anything of that sort; and I’d most always have to build up the fire, for he thought it wasn’t a man’s place to do such things. He was a dretful hand to want everybody to keep their place; that was one reason why he felt so strong about wimmen’s votin’. He had a deep, sound mind, my Doodle did. But, as I said, he’d lay on the lounge and worry so about its bein’ too much for me; that, ruther than make him feel so bad, I give up visitin’ almost entirely. But he never worried about that, so much as he did about votin’; it seemed as if the thought of that almost killed him. He said that with my health, (I didn’t enjoy very good health then) I wouldn’t stand it a year; I would wilt right down under it. Oh! how much that man did think of me!

PRETTY HANDS AND EYES.

“When I would be a workin’ in the garden, (I took all the care of the garden,) or when I would be a pickin’ up chips—we was kinder bothered for wood—he’d set out on the back piazza with his paper, the Evenin’ Grippher—awful strong paper against wimmen’s rights—and as I would be a bringin’ my chips in, (we had a old bushel basket that I used,) he would look up from his paper and say to me,—‘Oh, them pretty little hands, how cunning they look, a quirling round the basket handles; and oh, them pretty little eyes; what should I do if it wasn’t for my Dolly? And how should I feel if them pretty little eyes was a lookin’ at the pole?’ Says he, ‘It would kill me Dolly; it would use me right up.’

HELPING CHURN.

“And then, when I would be a churnin’—we had a good deal of cream, and the butter come awful hard; sometimes it would take me most all day and lame my back for a week—and when I would be a churnin’, he would be so good to me to help me pass away the time. He would set in his rockin’ chair—I cushioned it a purpose for him—and he would set and read the Evenin’ Grippher to me; sometimes he would read it clear through before I would fetch the butter; beautiful arguments there would be in it ag’inst wimmen’s rights. I used to know the Editor was jest another such a man as my Mr. Doodle was, and I would wonder how any livin’ woman could stand out ag’inst such arguments, they proved right out so strong that votin’ would be too much for the weaker sect, and that men wouldn’t feel nigh so tender and reverential towards ’em, as they did now.

“We wasn’t very well off in them days, for Mr. Doodle was obliged to mortgage the farm I brought him when we was married, and it was all we could do to keep up the money due on the mortgage, and father wouldn’t help us much; he said we must work for a livin’, jest as he did; and the farm kinder run down, for Mr. Doodle said he couldn’t go out to work and leave me for a hull day, he worshiped me so; so we let out the place on shares, and I took in work a good deal. When I was a workin’, Mr. Doodle would set and look at me for hours and hours, with a sweet smile on his linement, and tell me how delicate and pretty I was and how much he thought of me, and how he would die and be skinned—have his hide took completely off of him—before he’d let me vote, or have any other hardship put on me. Oh! what a sight of comfort me and Mr. Doodle did take together; and when I think how he died, and was a corpse—and he was a corpse jest as quick as he was dead, Mr. Doodle was—oh how I do feel. I can’t never forget him, his linement is so stamped onto my memory. I never can forget his linement, never.”

And so she’ll go on from hour to hour, and from day to day, about Doodle and Wimmen’s Rights—Wimmen’s Rights and Doodle; drivin’ ahead of her a drove of particulars, far, far more numerous than was ever heerd of in Jonesville, or the world; and I—inwardly callin’ on the name of John Rogers—hear her go on, and don’t call Doodle all to nothin’, or argue with her on Wimmen’s Rights. My mean is calm and noble; I am nerved almost completely up by principle; and then, it is dretful wrenchin’ to the arm to hit hard blows ag’inst nothin’.

Truly, if anybody don’t know anything, you can’t git any sense out of ’em. You might jest as well go to reckonin’ up a hull row of orts, expectin’ to have ’em amount to sunthin’. Ort times ort is ort, and nothin’ else; and ort from ort leaves nothin’ every time, and nothin to carry; and you may add up ort after ort, all day, and you wont have nothin’ but a ort to fall back on. And so with the Widder Doodle, you may pump her mind till the day of pancakes, (as a profane poet observes,) and you wont git anything but a ort out of it,—speakin’ in a ’rithmatic way.

Not that she is to blame for it, come to look at it in a reasonable and scientific sense. All figgers in life can’t count up the same way. There’s them that count one,—made so; got a little common sense unbeknown to them. Then there’s some that double on that, and count two,—more sense, and can’t help it; and all the way up to nine; and then there is the orts—made orts entirely unbeknown to them; and so, why should figgers seven, or eight, or even nine, boast themselves over the orts.

Truly, we all have abundant reason to be humble, and feel a humiliatin’ feelin’. The biggest figgers in this life don’t count up any too high, don’t know any too much. And all the figgers put together, big and little mingled in with orts, all make up a curious sum that our heads haint strong enough to figger out straight. It is a sum that is bein’ worked out by a strong mind above our’n, and we can’t see the answer yet, none on us.

0000000000

0000000000

—————

0000000000