Violets and Other Tales
A >> Alice Ruth Moore >> Violets and Other TalesVIOLETS AND OTHER TALES
by
ALICE RUTH MOORE
Copyright 1895
by the Monthly Review
All rights reserved
To my friend of November 5th, 1892
INTRODUCTION.
In this day when the world is fairly teeming with books,--good books,
books written with a motive, books inculcating morals, books teaching
lessons,--it seems almost a piece of presumption too great for endurance
to foist another upon the market. There is scarcely room in the literary
world for amateurs and maiden efforts; the very worthiest are sometimes
poorly repaid for their best efforts. Yet, another one is offered the
public, a maiden effort,--a little thing with absolutely nothing to
commend it, that seeks to do nothing more than amuse.
Many of these sketches and verses have appeared in print before, in
newspapers and a magazine or two; many are seeing the light of day for
the first time. If perchance this collection of idle thoughts may serve
to while away an hour or two, or lift for a brief space the load of care
from someone's mind, their purpose has been served--the author is
satisfied.
A. R. M.
CONTENTS.
VIOLETS, 13
THREE THOUGHTS, 18
THE WOMAN, 21
TEN MINUTES' MUSING, 29
A PLAINT, 35
IN UNCONSCIOUSNESS, 36
TITEE, 44
ANARCHY ALLEY, 56
IMPRESSIONS, 63
SALAMMBO, 65
LEGEND OF THE NEWSPAPER, 72
A CARNIVAL JANGLE, 76
PAUL TO VIRGINIA (Fin de Siecle), 83
THE MAIDEN'S DREAM, 85
IN MEMORIAM, 93
A STORY OF VENGEANCE, 93
AT BAY ST. LOUIS, 106
NEW YEAR'S DAY, 108
UNKNOWN LIFE OF JESUS CHRIST, 110
IN OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, 122
FAREWELL! 138
LITTLE MISS SOPHIE, 140
IF I HAD KNOWN! 154
CHALMETTE, 155
AT EVENTIDE, 159
THE IDLER, 166
LOVE AND THE BUTTERFLY, 168
THE BEE-MAN, 169
AMID THE ROSES, 176
PREFACE.
These fugitive pieces are launched upon the tide of public opinion to
sink or swim upon their merit. They will float for a while, but whether
they will reach the haven of popularity depends upon their enduring
qualities. Some will surely perish, many will reach some port, but time
alone will tell if any shall successfully breast the ocean of thought
and plant its standard upon the summit of fame.
When one enters the domain of authorship, she places herself at the
mercy of critics. Were she as sure of being commended by the best and
most intelligent of her readers, as she is sure of being condemned by
the worst and most ignorant, there would still be a thrill of pleasure
in all criticism, for the satisfaction of having received the praise of
the first would compensate for the harshness of the latter. Just
criticism is wholesome and never wounds the sensibilities of the true
author, for it saves her from the danger of an excess of pride which is
the greatest foe to individual progress, while it spurs her on to
loftier flights and nobler deeds. A poor writer is bad, but a poor
critic is worse, therefore, unjust criticism should never ruffle the
temper of its victim. The author of these pages belongs to that type of
the "brave new woman who scorns to sigh," but feels that she has
something to say, and says it to the best of her ability, and leaves the
verdict in the hands of the public. She gives to the reader her best
thoughts and leaves him to accept or reject as merit may manifest
itself. No author is under contract to please her readers at all times,
nor can she hope to control the sentiments of all of them at any time,
therefore, the obligation is reciprocal, for the fame she receives is
due to the pleasure she affords.
The author of these fugitive pieces is young, just on the threshold of
life, and with the daring audacity of youth makes assertions and gives
decisions which she may reverse as time mellows her opinions, and the
realities of life force aside the theories of youth, and prosy facts
obscure the memory of that happy time when the heart overflowing
with----
"The joy
Of young ideas painted on the mind,
In the warm glowing colors Fancy spreads
On objects, not yet known, when all is new,
And all is lovely."
There is much in this book that is good; much that is crude; some that
is poor: but all give that assurance of something great and noble when
the bud of promise, now unfolding its petals in the morning glow of
light, will have matured into that fuller growth of blossoming flower
ere the noonday sun passes its zenith. May the hope thus engendered by
this first attempt reach its fruition, and may the energy displayed by
one so young meet the reward it merits from an approving public.
SYLVANIE F. WILLIAMS.
VIOLETS.
I.
"And she tied a bunch of violets with a tress of her pretty brown hair."
She sat in the yellow glow of the lamplight softly humming these words.
It was Easter evening, and the newly risen spring world was slowly
sinking to a gentle, rosy, opalescent slumber, sweetly tired of the joy
which had pervaded it all day. For in the dawn of the perfect morn, it
had arisen, stretched out its arms in glorious happiness to greet the
Saviour and said its hallelujahs, merrily trilling out carols of bird,
and organ and flower-song. But the evening had come, and rest.
There was a letter lying on the table, it read:
"Dear, I send you this little bunch of flowers as my Easter token.
Perhaps you may not be able to read their meaning, so I'll tell you.
Violets, you know, are my favorite flowers. Dear, little, human-faced
things! They seem always as if about to whisper a love-word; and then
they signify that thought which passes always between you and me. The
orange blossoms--you know their meaning; the little pinks are the
flowers you love; the evergreen leaf is the symbol of the endurance of
our affection; the tube-roses I put in, because once when you kissed and
pressed me close in your arms, I had a bunch of tube-roses on my bosom,
and the heavy fragrance of their crushed loveliness has always lived in
my memory. The violets and pinks are from a bunch I wore to-day, and
when kneeling at the altar, during communion, did I sin, dear, when I
thought of you? The tube-roses and orange-blossoms I wore Friday night;
you always wished for a lock of my hair, so I'll tie these flowers with
them--but there, it is not stable enough; let me wrap them with a bit of
ribbon, pale blue, from that little dress I wore last winter to the
dance, when we had such a long, sweet talk in that forgotten nook. You
always loved that dress, it fell in such soft ruffles away from the
throat and bosom,--you called me your little forget-me-not, that night.
I laid the flowers away for awhile in our favorite book,--Byron--just at
the poem we loved best, and now I send them to you. Keep them always in
remembrance of me, and if aught should occur to separate us, press these
flowers to your lips, and I will be with you in spirit, permeating your
heart with unutterable love and happiness."
II.
It is Easter again. As of old, the joyous bells clang out the glad news
of the resurrection. The giddy, dancing sunbeams laugh riotously in
field and street; birds carol their sweet twitterings everywhere, and
the heavy perfume of flowers scents the golden atmosphere with inspiring
fragrance. One long, golden sunbeam steals silently into the
white-curtained window of a quiet room, and lay athwart a sleeping face.
Cold, pale, still, its fair, young face pressed against the satin-lined
casket. Slender, white fingers, idle now, they that had never known
rest; locked softly over a bunch of violets; violets and tube-roses in
her soft, brown hair, violets in the bosom of her long, white gown;
violets and tube-roses and orange-blossoms banked everywhere, until the
air was filled with the ascending souls of the human flowers. Some
whispered that a broken heart had ceased to flutter in that still, young
form, and that it was a mercy for the soul to ascend on the slender
sunbeam. To-day she kneels at the throne of heaven, where one year ago
she had communed at an earthly altar.
III.
Far away in a distant city, a man, carelessly looking among some
papers, turned over a faded bunch of flowers tied with a blue ribbon
and a lock of hair. He paused meditatively awhile, then turning to the
regal-looking woman lounging before the fire, he asked:
"Wife, did you ever send me these?"
She raised her great, black eyes to his with a gesture of ineffable
disdain, and replied languidly:
"You know very well I can't bear flowers. How could I ever send such
sentimental trash to any one? Throw them into the fire."
And the Easter bells chimed a solemn requiem as the flames slowly licked
up the faded violets. Was it merely fancy on the wife's part, or did the
husband really sigh,--a long, quivering breath of remembrance?
THREE THOUGHTS.
FIRST.
How few of us
In all the world's great, ceaseless struggling strife,
Go to our work with gladsome, buoyant step,
And love it for its sake, whate'er it be.
Because it is a labor, or, mayhap,
Some sweet, peculiar art of God's own gift;
And not the promise of the world's slow smile
of recognition, or of mammon's gilded grasp.
Alas, how few, in inspiration's dazzling flash,
Or spiritual sense of world's beyond the dome
Of circling blue around this weary earth,
Can bask, and know the God-given grace
Of genius' fire that flows and permeates
The virgin mind alone; the soul in which
The love of earth hath tainted not.
The love of art and art alone.
SECOND.
"Who dares stand forth?" the monarch cried,
"Amid the throng, and dare to give
Their aid, and bid this wretch to live?
I pledge my faith and crown beside,
A woeful plight, a sorry sight,
This outcast from all God-given grace.
What, ho! in all, no friendly face,
No helping hand to stay his plight?
St. Peter's name be pledged for aye,
The man's accursed, that is true;
But ho, he suffers. None of you
Will mercy show, or pity sigh?"
Strong men drew back, and lordly train
Did slowly file from monarch's look,
Whose lips curled scorn. But from a nook
A voice cried out, "Though he has slain
That which I loved the best on earth,
Yet will I tend him till he dies,
I can be brave." A woman's eyes
Gazed fearlessly into his own.
THIRD.
When all the world has grown full cold to thee,
And man--proud pygmy--shrugs all scornfully,
And bitter, blinding tears flow gushing forth,
Because of thine own sorrows and poor plight,
Then turn ye swift to nature's page,
And read there passions, immeasurably far
Greater than thine own in all their littleness.
For nature has her sorrows and her joys,
As all the piled-up mountains and low vales
Will silently attest--and hang thy head
In dire confusion, for having dared
To moan at thine own miseries
When God and nature suffer silently.
THE WOMAN.
The literary manager of the club arose, cleared his throat, adjusted his
cravat, fixed his eyes sternly upon the young man, and in a sonorous
voice, a little marred by his habitual lisp, asked: "Mr. ----, will you
please tell us your opinion upon the question, whether woman's chances
for matrimony are increased or decreased when she becomes man's equal as
a wage earner?"
The secretary adjusted her eye-glass, and held her pencil alertly poised
above her book, ready to note which side Mr. ---- took. Mr. ----
fidgeted, pulled himself together with a violent jerk, and finally spoke
his mind. Someone else did likewise, also someone else, then the women
interposed, and jumped on the men, the men retaliated, a wordy war
ensued, and the whole matter ended by nothing being decided, pro or
con--generally the case in wordy discussions. _Moi?_ Well, I sawed wood
and said nothing, but all the while there was forming in my mind, no, I
won't say forming, it was there already. It was this, _Why should
well-salaried women marry?_ Take the average working-woman of to-day.
She works from five to ten hours a day, doing extra night work,
sometimes, of course. Her work over, she goes home or to her
boarding-house, as the case may be. Her meals are prepared for her, she
has no household cares upon her shoulders, no troublesome dinners to
prepare for a fault-finding husband, no fretful children to try her
patience, no petty bread and meat economies to adjust. She has her
cares, her money-troubles, her debts, and her scrimpings, it is true,
but they only make her independent, instead of reducing her to a dead
level of despair. Her day's work ends at the office, school, factory or
store; the rest of the time is hers, undisturbed by the restless going
to and fro of housewifely cares, and she can employ it in mental or
social diversions. She does not incessantly rely upon the whims of a
cross man to take her to such amusements as she desires. In this
nineteenth century she is free to go where she pleases--provided it be
in a moral atmosphere--without comment. Theatres, concerts, lectures,
and the lighter amusements of social affairs among her associates, are
open to her, and there she can go, see, and be seen, admire and be
admired, enjoy and be enjoyed, without a single harrowing thought of the
baby's milk or the husband's coffee.
Her earnings are her own, indisputably, unreservedly, undividedly. She
knows to a certainty just how much she can spend, how well she can
dress, how far her earnings will go. If there is a dress, a book, a bit
of music, a bunch of flowers, or a bit of furniture that she wants, she
can get it, and there is no need of asking anyone's advice, or gently
hinting to John that Mrs. So and So has a lovely new hat, and there is
one ever so much prettier and cheaper down at Thus & Co.'s. To an
independent spirit there is a certain sense of humiliation and wounded
pride in asking for money, be it five cents or five hundred dollars. The
working woman knows no such pang; she has but to question her account
and all is over. In the summer she takes her savings of the winter,
packs her trunk and takes a trip more or less extensive, and there is
none to say her nay,--nothing to bother her save the accumulation of her
own baggage. There is an independent, happy, free-and-easy swing about
the motion of her life. Her mind is constantly being broadened by
contact with the world in its working clothes; in her leisure moments by
the better thoughts of dead and living men which she meets in her
applications to books and periodicals; in her vacations, by her studies
of nature, or it may be other communities than her own. The freedom
which she enjoys she does not trespass upon, for if she did not learn at
school she has acquired since habits of strong self-reliance,
self-support, earnest thinking, deep discriminations, and firmly
believes that the most perfect liberty is that state in which humanity
conforms itself to and obeys strictly, without deviation, those laws
which are best fitted for their mutual self-advancement.
And so your independent working woman of to day comes as near being
ideal in her equable self poise as can be imagined. So why should she
hasten to give this liberty up in exchange for a serfdom, sweet
sometimes, it is true, but which too often becomes galling and
unendurable.
It is not marriage that I decry, for I don't think any really sane
person would do this, but it is this wholesale marrying of girls in
their teens, this rushing into an unknown plane of life to avoid work.
Avoid work! What housewife dares call a moment her own?
Marriages might be made in Heaven, but too often they are consummated
right here on earth, based on a desire to possess the physical
attractions of the woman by the man, pretty much as a child desires a
toy, and an innate love of man, a wild desire not to be ridiculed by the
foolish as an "old maid," and a certain delicate shrinking from the work
of the world--laziness is a good name for it--by the woman. The
attraction of mind to mind, the ability of one to compliment the lights
and shadows in the other, the capacity of either to fulfil the duties of
wife or husband--these do not enter into the contract. That is why we
have divorce courts.
And so our independent woman in every year of her full, rich,
well-rounded life, gaining fresh knowledge and experience, learning
humanity, and particularly that portion of it which is the other gender,
so well as to avoid clay-footed idols, and finally when she does consent
to bear the yoke upon her shoulders, does so with perhaps less romance
and glamor than her younger scoffing sisters, but with an assurance of
solid and more lasting happiness. Why should she have hastened this;
was aught lost by the delay?
"They say" that men don't admire this type of woman, that they prefer
the soft, dainty, winning, mindless creature who cuddles into men's
arms, agrees to everything they say, and looks upon them as a race of
gods turned loose upon this earth for the edification of womankind.
Well, may be so, but there is one thing positive, they certainly respect
the independent one, and admire her, too, even if it is at a distance,
and that in itself is something. As to the other part, no matter how
sensible a woman is on other questions, when she falls in love she is
fool enough to believe her adored one a veritable Solomon. Cuddling?
Well, she may preside over conventions, brandish her umbrella at board
meetings, tramp the streets soliciting subscriptions, wield the blue
pencil in an editorial sanctum, hammer a type-writer, smear her nose
with ink from a galley full of pied type, lead infant ideas through the
tortuous mazes of c-a-t and r-a-t, plead at the bar, or wield the
scalpel in a dissecting room, yet when the right moment comes, she will
sink as gracefully into his manly embrace, throw her arms as lovingly
around his neck, and cuddle as warmly and sweetly to his bosom as her
little sister who has done nothing else but think, dream, and practice
for that hour. It comes natural, you see.
TEN MINUTES' MUSING.
There was a terrible noise in the school-yard at intermission; peeping
out the windows the boys could be seen huddled in an immense bunch, in
the middle of the yard. It looked like a fight, a mob, a
knock-down,--anything, so we rushed out to the door hastily, fearfully,
ready to scold, punish, console, frown, bind up broken heads or drag
wounded forms from the melee as the case might be. Nearly every boy in
the school was in that seething, swarming mass, and those who weren't
were standing around on the edges, screaming and throwing up their hats
in hilarious excitement. It was a mob, a fearful mob, but a mob
apparently with a vigorous and well-defined purpose. It was a mob that
screamed and howled, and kicked, and yelled, and shouted, and perspired,
and squirmed, and wriggled, and pushed, and threatened, and poured
itself all seemingly upon some central object. It was a mob that had an
aim, that was determined to accomplish that aim, even though the whole
azure expanse of sky fell upon them. It was a mob with set muscles,
straining like whip-cords, eyes on that central object and with heads
inward and sturdy legs outward, like prairie horses reversed in a
battle. The cheerers and hat throwers on the outside were mirthful, but
the mob was not; it howled, but howled without any cachinnation; it
struggled for mastery. Some fell and were trampled over, some weaker
ones were even tossed in the air, but the mob never deigned to trouble
itself about such trivialities. It was an interesting, nervous whole,
with divers parts of separate vitality.
In alarm I looked about for the principal. He was standing at a safe
distance with his hands in his pockets watching the seething mass with a
broad smile. At sight of my perplexed expression some one was about to
venture an explanation, when there was a wild yell, a sudden vehement
disintegration of the mass, a mighty rush and clutch at a dark object
bobbing in the air--and the mist cleared from my intellect--as I
realized it all--football.
Did you ever stop to see the analogy between a game of football and the
interesting little game called life which we play every day? There is
one, far-fetched as it may seem, though, for that matter, life's game,
being one of desperate chances and strategic moves, is analogous to
anything.
But, if we could get out of ourselves and soar above the world, far
enough to view the mass beneath in its daily struggles, and near enough
the hearts of the people to feel the throbs beneath their boldly
carried exteriors, the whole would seem naught but such a maddening rush
and senseless-looking crushing. "We are but children of a larger growth"
after all, and our ceaseless pursuing after the baubles of this earth
are but the struggles for precedence in the business play-ground.
The football is money. See how the mass rushes after it! Everyone so
intent upon his pursuit until all else dwindles into a ridiculous
nonentity. The weaker ones go down in the mad pursuit, and are
unmercifully trampled upon, but no matter, what is the difference if the
foremost win the coveted prize and carry it off. See the big boy in
front, he with iron grip, and determined, compressed lips? That boy is a
type of the big, merciless man, the Gradgrind of the latter century. His
face is set towards the ball, and even though he may crush a dozen small
boys, he'll make his way through the mob and come out triumphant. And
he'll be the victor longer than anyone else, in spite of the envy and
fighting and pushing about him.
To an observer, alike unintelligent about the rules of a football game,
and the conditions which govern the barter and exchange and fluctuations
of the world's money market, there is as much difference between the
sight of a mass of boys on a play-ground losing their equilibrium over a
spheroid of rubber and a mass of men losing their coolness and temper
and mental and nervous balance on change as there is between a pine
sapling and a mighty forest king--merely a difference of age. The
mighty, seething, intensely concentrated mass in its emphatic tendency
to one point is the same, in the utter disregard of mental and physical
welfare. The momentary triumphs of transitory possessions impress a
casual looker-on with the same fearful idea--that the human race, after
all, is savage to the core, and cultivates its savagery in an inflated
happiness at own nearness to perfection.
But the bell clangs sharply, the overheated, nervous, tingling boys
fall into line, and the sudden transition from massing disorder to
military precision cuts short the ten minutes' musing.
A PLAINT.
Dear God, 'tis hard, so awful hard to lose
The one we love, and see him go afar,
With scarce one thought of aching hearts behind,
Nor wistful eyes, nor outstretched yearning hands.
Chide not, dear God, if surging thoughts arise.
And bitter questionings of love and fate,
But rather give my weary heart thy rest,
And turn the sad, dark memories into sweet.
Dear God, I fain my loved one were anear,
But since thou will'st that happy thence he'll be,
I send him forth, and back I'll choke the grief
Rebellious rises in my lonely heart.
I pray thee, God, my loved one joy to bring;
I dare not hope that joy will be with me,
But ah, dear God, one boon I crave of thee,
That he shall ne'er forget his hours with me.
IN UNCONSCIOUSNESS.
There was a big booming in my ears, great heavy iron bells that swung
to-and-fro on either side, and sent out deafening reverberations that
steeped the senses in a musical melody of sonorous sound; to-and-fro,
backward and forward, yet ever receding in a gradually widening circle,
monotonous, mournful, weird, suffusing the soul with an unutterable
sadness, as images of wailing processions, of weeping, empty-armed
women, and widowed maidens flashed through the mind, and settled on the
soul with a crushing, o'er-pressing weight of sorrow.