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Title: The Seven Ages of Man
Author: Ralph Bergengren
Release date: February 16, 2013 [eBook #42110]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEVEN AGES
OF MAN ***
61. THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN
Books by
Ralph
Bergengren
The Perfect
Gentleman
The
Comforts of
Home
Each $1.00
—
For
Younger
Readers
Jane, Joseph
and John
Boxed, $3.00
The
SEVEN AGES of MAN
BY
RALPH BERGENGREN
63. CONTENTS
I.Baby, Baby 1
II.To be a Boy 17
III.On Meeting the Beloved 33
IV.This is a Father 47
V.On Being a Landlord 64
VI.Old Flies and Old Men 78
VII.The Olde, Olde, Very Olde Man94
64. I
BABY, BABY
In meeting a baby, one should behave as much as possible like a baby
one’s self. We cannot, of course, diminish our size, or exchange our
customary garments for baby-clothes; neither can we arrive in a
perambulator, and be conveyed in the arms, either of a parent or a
nursemaid, into the presence of the baby whom we are to meet. The best we
can do is to hang, as it were on the hatrack, our preconceived ideas of what
manner of behavior entertains a baby, as cooing, grimacing, tickling, and
the like, and model our deportment on the dignified but friendly reticence
that one baby evinces in meeting another.—Baby: his Friends and Foes.
OF the many questions that Mr. Boswell, at one time and another, asked
his friend, Dr. Johnson, I can hardly recall another more searching than one
that he himself describes as whimsical.
“I know not how so whimsical a thought came into my head,” says
Boswell, “but I asked, ‘If, sir, you were shut up in a castle, and a new-born
child with you, what would you do?’
“Johnson: Why, sir, I should not much like my company.
“Boswell: But would you take the trouble of rearing it?
“He seemed, as may be supposed, unwilling to pursue the subject: but,
upon my persevering in my question, replied, ‘Why, yes, sir, I would; but I
must have all conveniences. If I had no garden, I would make a shed on the
roof, and take it there for fresh air. I should feed it, and wash it much, and
with warm water, to please it, not with cold water, to give it pain.’
“Boswell: But, sir, does not heat relax?
“Johnson: Sir, you are not to imagine the water is to be very hot. I
would not coddle the child.”
It appears, too, that the Doctor had given some thought to the subject,
although never expecting to be a mother himself: his immediate insistence
upon fresh air promises well for the infant, and the frequency with which he
65. proposes to wash his little companion indicates that, so long as the water-
supply of the castle lasted, he would have done his part. A cow in the castle
seems to have been taken for granted; but, in 1769, even Dr. Johnson would
have known little or nothing about formulas, nor would it have occurred to
him to make a pasteurizing apparatus, as so many parents do nowadays, out
of a large tin pail and a pie-plate. Here the baby would have had to take his
eighteenth-century chance. And I wish, too, that he might have had a copy
of “The Baby’s Physical Culture Guide,” that modern compendium of
twenty-four exercises, by which a reasonably strongarmed mother may
strengthen and develop the infant’s tiny muscles; for I like to think of Dr.
Johnson exercising his innocent companion in his shed on the roof. “Sir,”
he says, “I do not much like my employment; but here we are, and we’ll
have to make the best of it.”
Such an experience, no doubt, would have been good for Dr. Johnson,
and good for the baby (if it survived). “That into which his little mind is to
develop,” says “The Baby’s Physical Culture Guide,” “is plastic—like a
wax record, ready to retain such impressions as are made upon it”; and on
this wax some, at least, of the impressions left by Dr. Johnson must have
been valuable. But on the real mystery of babyhood—the insoluble enigma
that the “Guide” can only in small measure dispose of by comparing the
rearing of an infant with the home-manufacture of a record for the
gramaphone—the experience would have thrown no light.
The Doctor, I dare say, would have written a paper on the feeding and
washing of infants, and later dictionaries of familiar quotation might
perhaps have been enriched by the phrase,“‘The baby is grandfather to the
man.’—Johnson.” But of this grandfather the man has no memory. His
babyhood is a past concerning which he is perforce silent, a time when it is
only by the report of others that he knows he was living. His little mind
seems to have been more than a little blank; and although gifted novelists
have set themselves the imaginative task of thinking and writing like
babies, none, in my reading, has ever plausibly succeeded. The best they
can do is to think and write like little adults. I recall, for example, the
honest effort of Miss May Sinclair, whom I greatly respect as an adult, to
see Mr. Olivier through the eyes of his baby daughter Mary. “Papa sat up,
broad and tall above the table, all by himself. He was dressed in black. One
long brown beard hung down in front of him and one short beard covered
his mouth. You knew he was smiling because his cheeks swelled high up in
66. his face, so that his eyes were squeezed into narrow, shining slits. When
they came out again, you saw scarlet specks and smears in their corners.” A
fearsome Papa!—and, although I have no way of knowing that fathers do
not present themselves in this futurist aspect to their helpless offspring, I am
glad to think otherwise. At all events a baby is, and must be, well used to
living in Brobdingnag.
It would be a surprising thing, if it were not so common, that a man
shows so little curiosity about this forgotten period of his life. But such
curiosity would be impossible to satisfy. Existing photographs of him at that
time are a disappointment: he seldom admits seeing any resemblance, and,
if he does, the likeness rarely, if ever, gives him any visible satisfaction. Nor
can anything of real and personal interest be found out by interviewing
those who then knew him. Of a hundred, nay, of a thousand or a million
babies,—and though I cannot speak as a woman, it seems to me (except,
perhaps, for a livelier interest and pleasure among them in their infant
appearance) that everything I am saying applies equally to babies of that
fascinating sex,—the trivial details observed by those who are nearest them
are practically identical. They thump their heads. They chew their fingers.
They try to feed their toes; and, sillier yet, they try to feed them with things
that are obviously inedible. And so forth. And so forth. If Dr. Johnson,
actually shut up in a castle, and a new-born child with him, had kept a
record, the result would have been very much like the records that mothers
now keep in what, unless I am mistaken, are called “Baby Books.” If
you’ve seen one Baby Book, as the cynical old man said about circuses,
you’ve seen all of ‘em.
Nor does any man take pleasure in preserving and reading over his own
Baby Book. Hercules, to be sure, might have been interested to read in his
mother’s handwriting,--“Tuesday. An eventful day. Two big, horrid Snakes
came in from the garden, and got in Darling’s cradle, frightening Nurse into
hysterics; but Darling only cooed and strangled them both with his dear,
strong little hands. He gets stronger and cunninger every day. When the
horrid Snakes were taken away from him, he cried and said, ‘Atta! Atta!’”
But Hercules was an exceptionally interesting baby; and the average
Baby Book records nothing that a grown man can regard with pride, and
much, if he has any sensitiveness at all, that must make him blush. Nothing
but respect for his mother, it is almost safe to say, would withhold him from
67. hurrying the incriminating document to the cellar, and cremating it in the
furnace.
For in the beginning Captain William Kidd, George Washington, Dr.
Johnson, the writer of this essay, and even the editor of the “Atlantic
Monthly,” looked and behaved very much alike. And so, for that matter, did
little Moll Cutpurse and little Susan B. Anthony. So far as anybody could
then have said, Captain Kidd might have become a thoughtful, law-abiding
essayist, and I a pirate, handicapped, indeed, by changed conditions of
maritime traffic, but unconscientiously doing my wicked best.
As the twig is bent, says the proverb, so is the tree inclined; but these
little twigs are bent already, and I humbly submit, with all respect to my
scientific friends, and their white mice and their guinea pigs, that where and
how it happened remains an insoluble mystery. Little as I know about
myself, I know that I am neither a white mouse nor a guinea pig. And this,
mark you, is no mere conceit. Scientists themselves have decided that when
babies, in that remote past when they first began really to interest their
parents, and the human mother, the most pathetic figure of that primitive
world, first began the personal and affectionate observation that was to
develop slowly, over millions of years, until it found expression in the first
Baby Book—scientists, themselves, I say, have decided that, then and there,
you and I, intelligent reader, began to differ essentially from every other
known kind of mammal. There appeared—oh, wonder!—something
psychical as well as physical about us; but where it came from, they cannot
tell us. “Natural selection,” so John Fiske once summed up this opinion,
“began to follow a new path and make psychical changes instead of
physical changes.” Little enough there seems to have been to start with;
little enough, indeed, there seems to be now—yet enough more to
encourage us to believe that Baby is a lot further along in the right direction
than he was a good many million years ago. And with this helpful
conviction, Baby himself, whether he will grow up to write essays or
commit picturesque murder, seems reasonably well satisfied. We solemn
adults, standing around the crib, may well admire, not so much the pinkness
and chubbiness of his toes, as the pinkness and chubbiness (if I may so
express it) of his simple satisfaction with the mere fact of existence, his
simple faith in the Universe. And when we think how impossible it is to
think of its beginning, we, too, may capture something of this infantile
optimism.
68. It is by no means impossible (though not susceptible of scientific proof)
that Baby may have a life of his own; and, if we may assume Hercules
weeping and saying, “Atta! Atta!”—because shrewd observers of babyhood
declare it to be characteristic of babies to say, “Atta! Atta!” when something
desirable, in this case two dead snakes, is removed from their range of
vision,—may we not assume also a universal language of babies, and a
place, such as it may be, from which they have emigrated? Here, indeed,
one follows M. Maeterlinck, except that, in his judgment, unborn babies
speak French. Such a theory is no help to the novelist, for in that case baby
Mary Olivier’s impressions of Mr. Olivier must be rendered in baby—a
language equally unknown to Miss Sinclair and to her readers. Babies have
been heard to say, for example, “Nja njan dada atta mama papaï attaï na-na-
na hatta meenĕ-meenĕ-meenĕ mŏmm mŏmma ao-u”—and who but another
baby knows whether this may not be speech? The assumption that this is an
effort to speak the language of the baby’s elders is academic, as, for that
matter, is the assumption that they are his elders. There may even be no
baby at all; for, as Schopenhauer has almost brusquely put it, “The
uneasiness that keeps the never-resting clock of metaphysics in motion, is
the consciousness that the non-existence of this world is just as possible as
its existence.” But this, I confess, is far too deep for me.
Baby, baby in your cot,
Are you there?—or are you not?
If you’re not, then what of me!
Baby, what and where are we?
For all practical purposes, however, Baby is sufficiently real—
substantial enough, indeed, as “The Baby’s Physical Culture Guide” shows
in Exercise 24, to be lifted by his little feet and stood on his little head; but,
mercifully adds the “Guide,” “do not hold Baby on his head very long.” For
all practical purposes we must, and do, assume our own existence. “Here
we are,” as I have imagined Dr. Johnson saying to his innocent new-born
comrade, “and we’ll have to make the best of it.” Nobody has thought of a
better way, or any other way at all, for us to get here; and the familiar
Biblical phrase, ‘born again,’ may perhaps be more literal than we are wont
to imagine, and apply to this world as well as the next. Baby himself may
just have been born again. That innocent-seeming and rather silly-sounding
69. monologue, which we flatter ourselves is an earnest attempt to imitate our
own speech,—“Nja njan dada atta mama papaï attaï na-na-na hatta meenĕ-
meenĕ-meeneĕ mŏmm mŏmma ao-u,”—may it not be the soliloquy of a
gentle philosopher, or, again, the confession of an out-and-out rascal,
talking to himself of his misdeeds, chuckling and cooing over them, indeed,
before he forgets them in this new state of being? May not Papa, waggishly
shaking his forefinger and saying, “You little rascal, you,” be speaking with
a truthfulness which, if known, would make him sick?
Meanwhile, as says “The Baby’s Physical Culture Guide,” “Don’t jerk
Baby round. Never rush through his exercises, but talk to him in a happy,
encouraging way. When he is able to talk he will be glad to tell you what
great, good fun he has been having.”
So speaks, I think, a mother’s imagination; in sober reality, even the
great good fun of Exercise 24 will be forgotten. Which is perhaps why,
although I have heard men wish they could again be children, I have never
heard any man say he would like to be a baby.
70. II
TO BE A BOY
I love dearly to watch the boys at their play. How gayly they pitch and
catch their baseball with their strong little hands! How blithely they run
from base to base! How merrily their voices come to me across the green;
for, although I cannot hear what they say, I know it expresses a young,
innocent joy in this big, good world. Yet even in this Garden there is a
Serpent, and one day two of the little innocents quarreled and came to
blows. A real fight! I soon hurried out and stopped that, but the sight of
their little faces distorted with rage, and one poor boy bleeding at the nose,
upset me for quite a time.—An Old Maid’s Window.
IN “The Boyhood of Great Men,” published by Harper and Brothers, in
1853, but now, I fear, very little read, it is told of Sir Isaac Newton that “An
accident first fired him to strive for distinction in the school-room. The boy
who was immediately above him in the class, after treating him with a
tyranny hard to bear, was cruel enough to kick him in the stomach, with a
severity that caused great pain. Newton resolved to have his revenge, but of
such a kind as was natural to his reasoning mind, even at that immature age.
He determined to excel his oppressor in their studies and lessons; and,
setting himself to the task with zeal and diligence, he never halted in his
course till he had found his way to the top of the class; thus exhibiting and
leaving a noble example to others of his years similarly situated. Doubtless,
after this, he would heartily forgive his crestfallen persecutor, who could
not but henceforth feel ashamed of his unmanly conduct, while Newton
would feel the proud consciousness of having done his duty after the
bravest and noblest fashion which it is in the power of man to adopt.”
We cannot all be Sir Isaac Newtons, and, although I may wish for a
passing moment that some sturdy little school-fellow had kicked me too in
the stomach, the resulting sequence of events would probably have been
different, and the world would have gained little or nothing by my natural
indignation. Having an impartial mind, I should like to know also why Sir
Isaac was kicked in the stomach, and what became afterward of the boy
71. who kicked him. As his fame grew in the world, the reflected glory of
having thus kicked Sir Isaac Newton in the stomach would presumably
have brightened in proportion, but, lacking other distinction, the kicker
served his evolutionary purpose and has now vanished.
But this much remains of him—that his little foot kicks also in the
stomach the widely accepted fallacy that boyhood is an age of unalloyed
gold, to which every man now and then looks back and vainly yearns to be
a boy again. “Oh! happy years!”—so sighed the poet Byron,—“once more,
who would not be a boy?” And so to-day, as one may at least deduce from
his general newspaper reading, sigh all the editors of all the newspapers in
the United States. Not, indeed, for a boyhood like Sir Isaac Newton’s, but
for the standard American boyhood, to which, in theory, every ageing
American looks back with tender reminiscence—that happy time when he
went barefooted, played “hookey” from school, fished in the running brook
with a bent pin for a hook, and swam, with other future bankers, merchants,
clerks, clergymen, physicians and surgeons, confidence-men, pickpockets,
authors, actors, burglars, etc., etc., in an old swimming-hole. The
democracy of the old swimming-hole is, in fact, the democracy of the
United States, naked and unashamed; and even in the midst of a wave of
crime (one might almost imagine), if the victim should say suddenly to the
hold-up man,—
“Oh, do you remember the ole swimmin’ hole,
And the hours we spent there together;
Where the oak and the chestnut o’ershadowed the
bowl,
And tempered the hot summer weather?
Ah, sweet were those hours together we spent
In innocent laughter and joy!
How little we knew at the time what it meant
To be just a boy—just a boy!”
—the hold-up man would drop his automatic gun, and the two would
dissolve on each other’s necks in a flood of sympathetic tears.
It is a pleasant and harmless fallacy, and I for one would not destroy it; I
am no such stickler for exactitude that I would take away from any man
72. whatever pleasure he may derive from thinking that he was once a barefoot
boy, even if circumstances were against him and his mother as adamant in
her refusal to let him go barefooted. But the fallacy is indestructible: the
symbols may not have been universal, but it is true enough of boyhood that
time then seems to be without limit; and this comfortable, unthinking sense
of immortality is what men have lost and would fain recover. One forgets
how cruelly slow moved the hands of the school-room clock through the
last, long, lingering, eternal fifteen minutes of the daily life-sentence. One
forgets how feverishly the seconds chased each other, faster than human
feet could follow, when one’s little self was late for school, and the clamor
of the distant bell ended in a solemn, ominous silence. Then was the
opportunity for stout heart to play “hookey,” and to lure the finny tribe with
a poor worm impaled on a bent pin; and that, in the opinion of all the
editors of all the newspapers in the United States, is what all of us always
did. But in the painful reality most of us, I think, tried to overtake those
feverish seconds, seeking indeed to outrun time, and somehow or other,
though the bell had stopped ringing, get unostentatiously into our little seats
before it stopped. And so we ran, and ran, and ran, lifting one leaden foot
after the other with hopeless determination, in a silent, nightmare world
where the road was made of glue and the very trees along the way turned
their leaves to watch us drag slowly by. Little respect we would have had
then for the poet Byron and his “Ah! happy years! once more, who would
not be a boy?”
But even when time seemed to stand still, or go too fast, we had no
consciousness that the complicated clock of our individual existence could
ever run down and stop; and so happily careless were we of this treasure,
that we often wished to be men! “When I was young,” says the author of
“The Boy’s Week-Day Book,”—another volume that is not read nowadays
as much as it used to be,—
I doubted not the time would come,
When grown to man’s estate,
That I would be a noble ‘squire,
And live among the great.
It was a proud, aspiring thought,
That should have been exiled:—
73. I wish I was more humble now
Than when I was a child.
I wonder what proud, aspiring thought Uncle Jones, as he called himself,
just then had in mind; but it was evidently no wish to be a boy again:
perhaps he meditated matrimony.
For my own part I cannot successfully wish to be a boy; I remain
impervious to all the efforts of all the editors of all the newspapers in the
United States to dim my eye; and there must be many another eye like
mine, or else it is unbelievably unique. I lean back in my chair, close my
undimmed eye, and do my best; but, contrary to all editorial expectation, I
can summon no desire to go barefooted, fish with a bent pin, or revisit the
old swimming-hole
Where the elm and the chestnut o’ershadowed the bowl,
And tempered the hot summer weather.
I prefer a beach and a bathing-suit and somebody my own age. Yet do not
think, shocked reader, that I am unsympathetic with youth. I am more
sympathetic—that is all—with my contemporaries; and the thought forces
itself upon me that boyhood is a narrow and conventional period, in which
my own desire to go without shoes was exactly similar to my mother’s
determination to wear a bustle. Equally anxious to follow the fashion of our
respective sets, neither understood the other; and I would no more have
worn a bustle than my mother would have gone barefooted. My father,
similarly thwarted in a single desire, would have cared less: his wider
interests—politics, business, family, the local and world gossip that
immersed him in his newspaper, art, literature, music, and the drama, to say
nothing of professional baseball and pugilism (in which, however, many
fathers and sons have a common interest)—would have absorbed his
disappointment.
But my narrower world, so to speak, was all feet. An unconventional
boy, as I think the most erudite student of boy-life and boy-psychology will
admit, is much more rare than an unconventional man; and even then his
unconventionality is likely to be imposed upon him “for his own good” by
well-meaning but tyrannical parents. “I have known boys,” wrote Uncle
Jones, observing but not comprehending this characteristic fact, “when
playing at ‘Hare and hounds’ and ‘Follow my leader,’ to scramble over
74. hedges, leap over brooks, and mount up precipices, in a manner which they
would not have dared to attempt, had it not been for the examples set them
by their school-fellows; but,” he adds, “I do not remember any instance of a
boy imitating another on account of his good temper, patience, forbearance,
principle, or piety.”
Naturally not. You and I, Uncle Jones, might be expected to imitate each
other’s good temper, patience, forbearance, principle, or piety,—though I do
not say that we would,—but from the point of view of a boy these virtues
are unconventional. Their practice shocks and disconcerts the observer. The
behavior of Sir Isaac Newton, when kicked in the stomach, was perfectly
scandalous.
And what is there, after all, in the life of a boy, that a man would find
interesting? Or that he may not do, if such is sufficiently his desire to
“make” the time for it, as he makes time for his adult pleasures, and if he is
not too old or too fat? He can spend his vacation at the old swimming-hole
—but he never does it. He can go barefooted whenever he wishes: his
mother can no longer prevent him. He can fish with a bent pin in the
porcelain bathtub,—adding a goldfish to make the pursuit more exciting,—
every morning before he takes his bath. He can chase butterflies; here and
there, indeed, a man makes a profession of it, and institutions of learning
call him an entomologist, and pay him much honor and a small salary.
Nobody forbids him to enlarge his mental horizon by reading the lives of
criminals and detectives; and I can myself direct him to many an
entertaining book, which is at once far worse and far better, morally and
artistically, than the sober narratives that Old Sleuth used to write by the
yard for boys to read by stealth. He can roll a hoop; in many cases it would
do him a world of good to roll it down to the office in the morning and back
home at night. If he can persuade other ageing men, wishful of renewed
boyhood, to join with him, he can play at marbles, tick, puss-in-the-corner,
hop-scotch, ring-taw, and “Hot beans ready buttered.” (Uncle Jones
mentions these games. I do not remember all of them myself, but “Hot
beans ready buttered” sounds especially interesting.) And where better than
in some green, quiet corner at the Country Club? And why, if you will raise
the question of conventionality, why more foolish than golf, or folk-
dancing?
But what he cannot do is to assume the boy’s unconsciousness of his
own mortality. What he cannot unload is his own consciousness of
75. responsibility to and for others. Life, in short, has provided the man with a
worrying company of creditors of whom the boy knows nothing—Creditor
Cost-of-Living, Creditor Ambition, Creditor Conscience, and Creditor
Death. And the boy is unmarried! It is even claimed by one philosopher of
my acquaintance that this is why men wish they were once more boys. I
grant the plausibility of this opinion; for the more a man is is devoted to his
wife and family, the more he is beset and worried by these troublesome
creditors, the more, one may reasonably argue, he feels the need of time to
meet his obligations, and is likely now and then to envy the boy his narrow,
conventional, but immortal-feeling life.
Uncle Jones misses, I think, this fundamental fact. He is always trying to
destroy the boy’s sense of immortality in this world by trying to persuade
him to read the Bible and prepare for immortality in the next. “When a boy
first begins his A B C,” says Uncle Jones, “it is terrible work for him for a
short time; yet how soon he gets over it, and begins to read! And, then, what
a pleasure to be able to read a good and pleasant book! Oh, it is worthwhile
to go through the trouble of learning to read fifty times over, to obtain the
advantage of reading the Bible.”
76. III
ON MEETING THE BELOVED
Now it is a quainte Oddity of thys State and Mysterie of Loue that youre
trew Louer combines the opposyte qualities of a deepe Humilitie and a
loftie Conceit of Hymselfe. For with respect to this, hys Mistresse, he
believes himself a most inferior Person, and as it were a mere Worme; yet if
he doth suspect her to regard any Man els as his Equal, he is consumed
with great Astonishment and raging Indignation, for this same Loue is a
great Destroyer of Common Sense in its Victimes. For he thinketh Hymselfe
inferior to her because he is her Louer, and superior to all Men els for the
same silly Reason.—Anatomie of Loue.
TO any sensitive man, not yet armored by the indifference that comes of
being married himself, there is cause for apprehension in the prospect of
meeting for the first time that person, male or female, whom somebody he
knows and loves has recently agreed to marry. The event, when it comes, is
unavoidable, nor is there any period in adult life when it may not happen, or
anybody we know so old that he or she may not occasion it. Fact is more
romantic, or at any rate remains romantic much later in life, than fiction.
Only the other day I read in the newspaper of a man of one hundred and
thirty-five years who had just subjected his little circle to this formality.
Very likely the newspaper exaggerated, but the case undermines the security
that one ordinarily feels in his relationship with the ageing.
Now it needs no argument that to be happy in the happiness of others is
an inexpensive pleasure and well worth cultivating. Other things being
equal, one should go dancing and singing to his first meeting with another’s
beloved. Bright-colored flowers, be she sixteen or sixty, should blossom, to
his imagination, from the granite curb along his way; and, though a foolish
convention may repress the song and dance, yet should he walk as if shod
with the most levitating heels ever made from the liveliest of live rubber,
and sing merrily in his heart.
77. But, thus to enter into the happiness of another, one must see and feel, as
if for himself, some good and sufficient reason for that happiness; and the
deep, insoluble mystery essential to all proper betrothals is that this good
and sufficient reason is not necessarily visible: these two are happy-mad,
and how shall anybody who is sane enter into their lunacy?
Mr. Harvey Todd, 2d,—to take the first name that comes to mind,—has
become engaged to Miss Margaret Lemon; Miss Lemon to Mr. Todd. Well
and good. Nature, which, for some reason that mankind has long curiously
and vainly sought to penetrate, wishes to continue the human race, is, one
may believe, reasonably well satisfied. It is one job among many. But the
satisfaction of Mr. Todd and Miss Lemon, if it could be put to such
haberdashery use, would girdle the Equator, and the ends, tied in a true
lover’s knot, would flutter beyond the farthest visible star. Men and women
have become engaged in the past; men and women will become engaged in
the future; but this engagement of Harvey Todd and Margaret Lemon is and
will ever remain unique—and so whoever is now called upon to appraise
one party to this wonder and congratulate the other, may well be troubled.
He is not so much afraid of what he may do and say,—for any man may
hope to achieve a hard, quick, almost sobbing pressure of the hand and a
few muttered words,—as of the way, in spite of himself, that he will look
when he does and says it; there, indeed, the amateur actor profits by his
hobby. There is, to be sure, the saving chance that Miss Lemon (or Mr.
Todd) may so pleasurably affect him that the ordeal will be less difficult
than he anticipates: there is even the rare chance that he may instantly and
completely agree with Mr. Todd’s estimate of Miss Lemon; but this is the
happy-madness itself, and certainly not desirable under the circumstances.
There is the possibility, even more rare and less desirable, that Miss Lemon,
seeing him for the first time, will instantly and completely prefer him to Mr.
Todd. There is the possibility that he may recoil with horror from Miss
Lemon (or Mr. Todd), or be recoiled from, or that both may recoil
simultaneously, falling over, figuratively, on their backs, and being picked
up and carried away unconscious, and in opposite directions, by surprised
onlookers. His whole nature may, in short, instinctively run toward, or away
from, the beloved; and between these extremes lies a gamut of intermediary
emotions, which at the moment he would hardly wish to uncover. This stiff
and geometrical smile, he asks himself at the worst, can it deceive
anybody? this hypocritical mutter of congratulation, does it proceed from
78. his own or an ice chest? Nor is he much relieved when Mr. Todd or Miss
Lemon, as the case may be, proves how genuine appeared his smile, how
sincere his mutter, by asking him in affectionate detail what he thinks of the
other—a procedure which should be legally forbidden the newly engaged,
under penalty of being refused a marriage license for at least ten years.
This state of mind in lovers, so important to those who are called upon to
meet the beloved for the first time, has engaged the attention of essayists,
conversationalists, and philosophers. “They fall at once,” wrote Stevenson,
“into that state in which another person becomes to us the very gist and
centre point of God’s creation, and demolishes our laborious theories with a
smile; in which our ideas are so bound up with the one master-thought, that
even the trivial cares of our own person become so many acts of devotion,
and the love of life itself is translated into a wish to remain in the same
world with so precious and desirable a fellow creature. And all the while
their acquaintances look on in stupor.”
“No, sir,” said Dr. Johnson, promptly improving Mr. Boswell’s milder
assertion that love is like being enlivened with champagne, “No, sir.
Admiration and love are like being intoxicated with champagne”—an
opinion, one hopes, that will not some day be made the basis of a nation-
wide campaign to prohibit falling in love.
“His friends,” said Ralph Waldo Emerson, “find in her a likeness to her
mother, or her sisters, or to persons not of her blood. The lover sees no
resemblance except to summer evenings and diamond mornings, to
rainbows and the song of birds.”
Mr. Todd and Miss Lemon (so like a rainbow) are impervious to any lack
of enthusiasm that you or I, dear, unselfish, sensitive reader, may fear to
exhibit when either leads us the other by the hand and says, “This is IT.”
Ours, if any, will be the suffering. It may even happen that Miss Lemon or
Mr. Todd—Mr. Todd or Miss Lemon beaming consent and approval—will
suggest that we call her (or him) Margaret (or Harvey).
Yet from another point of view, but this is a selfish one, apprehension is
justified in proportion to the sensitive man’s previous intimacy with the
individual whose beloved he is about to meet. For until that meeting is over,
“previous” is the word for it: whatever opinion the beloved may form of
him will determine the degree and manner of its continuance. If Miss
Lemon disapproves of him, though Mr. Todd has hitherto loved him as
79. Damon did Pythias, all is over; if Mr. Todd disapproves of him, though he
has known Miss Lemon from her perambulator, all is over. A pale ghost, he
may, in either case, sometimes hang his spectral hat in the Todd hallway,
and even extend his phantom legs under the Todd mahogany; but ALL IS
OVER. Divinely harmonious as they seem, these two will never agree to let
him try, however humbly and conscientiously, to cultivate the inexpensive
pleasure of being happy in their happiness. He becomes what no self-
respecting man can wish to be—a fly in the ointment. Most cases,
fortunately, are not so serious: he will be given a reasonable chance to make
a place for himself on this new plane to which Mr. Todd and Miss Lemon
have been translated; but it is always a question whether he can enter that
plane himself, or must hereafter be content with hearing from his former
friend through a medium. For he has not, as is so often gracefully but
emptily said on these trying occasions, been enriched by the acquisition of a
new friend: he has simply exchanged Miss Lemon or Mr. Todd (as the case
may be) for a composite, a Toddlemon or a Lemontodd—a few years will
show which. He must make the best he can of that composite. He who was
formerly described as (let us say) “my friend, Mr. Popp,” becomes, if he
becomes at all, “our friend, Mr. Popp”; and if ever he hears himself being
introduced as “Mr. Todd’s friend, Mr. Popp,” or as “Mrs. Todd’s friend, Mr.
Popp,” he had better go away as soon as politeness permits, and never come
back. Never.
I speak, of course, in generalities; for there are no rules immutably
governing all cases, and life is mellowed and beautified by shining, sensible
examples, in which Mr. Todd and Miss Lemon become one, yet realize that
in many respects, being human, they must still remain two; then, indeed, the
congratulator may actually be enriched by the acquisition of a new friend—
but not instantly, as one is enriched by the acquisition of a new hat. Yet it is
always the wiser part, in preparing to meet a beloved, to prepare for the
worst.
These are evidently the apprehensions of a bachelor, sensitive but not
unselfish; the mental attitude is different with a student, philosopher, and
idealist who, thinking not of himself, contemplates another’s marriage in
the calm, intelligent way, having as yet no beloved in which he can
contemplate his own. Such a one weighs. Such a one is conscious that, little
as he knows the beloved of Mr. Todd or Miss Lemon, there is grave danger
that Mr. Todd knows Miss Lemon, or Miss Lemon Mr. Todd, hardly better.
80. This happy-madness may not only be a delusion, as a calm outside
intelligence contemplates it, but it may be a snare. Mistakes do happen.
There are known cases in which the happy lunatic has been mistaken in a
beloved not once but often; and the persistent effort of these poor madmen
and madwomen to correct one mistake by making another is one of the
most discussed and pitiable phases of our civilization. The calm intelligence
must balance also the practical aspects of the business, its risks and
liabilities as well as its profits; and so serious is the enterprise when thus
examined that he can hardly fail to be terrified for anybody he knows and
loves who is undertaking it.
O Harvey! Harvey! (or Margaret! Margaret!)
Tact is what he will pray for. And if his prayer is granted, when Mr. Todd
(or Miss Lemon) asks him, “Now, honestly, what do you think of her (or
him)?” he will say, “Of course I do not know Miss Lemon (or Mr. Todd)
very well yet, but I have never met anybody whom I hoped to know and
like better.” Which will be quite true, and please the twittering questioner
much more than if he said, “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know.”
81. IV
THIS IS A FATHER
Proud Parent, in this little life
Yourself reflected see,
And think how Baby will progress
A man like you to be!
So stout, so strong, so wise, and when
Sufficient years have flown,
Like you the happy parent of
A baby of his own!
And when that unborn baby grows
To be a man like you,
Oh, think how proud that man will be
To be a parent too.
So think, when life oppresses you
And you are feeling sad,
A million, million, million times
You’ll be a happy dad.
—The Father’s Anthem.
IN the life of man fatherhood is so likely to happen, that I wonder
Shakespeare did not select father as a natural, and indeed inevitable,
successor to lover in his well-known seven ages. He chose the soldier, “full
of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,” presumably because such
soldiers were common in Elizabethan London. But fathers must have been
more so: they must have gone in droves past the tavern window where
Shakespeare (as what we now call the “wets” so like to think) sat at his ale-
stained table, dipping now his quill in an inkwell, and again his nose in a
82. tankard; but they seem to have made no impression. Indeed this unromantic,
necessary figure, composite as it is of all sorts and conditions of men, has
never appealed strongly to the poets; perhaps it is their revenge because
fathers so seldom read poetry.
Whatever else a man does, whether he lives by banking or burglary,
ascends to the presidency or descends to the gutter, he is likely to be a
father: they are as countless as the pebbles on a beach or the leaves in
Vallombrosa, and the few who evade paternity evade also the purpose for
which nature evidently created them, and go through life thumbing their
noses, so to speak, at Divine Providence. So taken for granted is this
vocation of fatherhood, and so little considered in comparison with other
masculine employments, that no correspondence school offers a course, and
many a young man undertakes to raise children with less hesitation than he
would start in to raise chickens. Some accept fatherhood with joy, others
with resignation, like a recently wedded young Italian who cobbles my
shoes, and spoke the other day of his own new little one. “Zee fadder and
zee modder,” he said, “zey work and zey slave for zee leetle one. But what-
a good? When he is grow up, he say, ‘To hell wiz zee fadder and zee
modder!’” And so, as Shakespeare may have decided, there is no universal
type of fatherhood, nor has the imagination of mankind created one, as in
the case of mothers, for convenient literary and conversational use. The
lines of the balladist,—
With his baby on his knee
He’s as happy as can be,—
were, to be sure, something in this direction; but they have become so
wholly associated with humor, that even the late Mr. Rogers, had he known
the ballad, could hardly have found inspiration therein for a group; nor
Shakespeare adapted the lines to describe seriously one of his seven ages.
He might have scribbled experimentally,—
Then the father,
Infant on knee, and happy like the clam,—
but that would have been the end of it. He would have crossed out the
experiment, and taken another drink.
83. Father, in fact, follows Mother, in the mind of the general, so far behind
that he is almost invisible, a tiny object on red wheels at the end of a string.
But the little fellow carries a pocketbook: when Mother needs money she
pulls in the string, and he comes up in a hurry. And, as is usually the case
with popular conceptions, this odd, erroneous notion, which most fathers
seem cheerfully enough to accept, has no doubt its historic foundation, and
derives from the unquestionable supremacy of Mother in the beginning. At
that period, indeed, it is hardly to be expected that any father should feel
immediately en rapport with his new-born child, or become intimately
associated with its helpless, flower-like life. Ever since the idea, which has
now so long lost its original element of bewildering surprise, yet remains
always somewhat surprising, first dawned upon a human father and mother
that this baby belonged to them, conditions have inexorably consigned the
infant to the care of its mother, while its father pursued elsewhere the
equally necessary business of providing sustenance for the family. A
division of labor was imperative: somebody must stay at home in the cave
and tend the baby, somebody must go out in the woods and hustle for
provisions. Maternity was, as it must have been, already a feminine habit,
but paternity was something new and unexpected; and although I suspect, in
many cases, this astonishing discovery was followed by speedy flight.
Trueheart the First took up his responsibilities and his stone axe together.
The horror is recorded with which Dr. Johnson regarded the idea of
being left alone in a castle with a new-born child; and this feeling in so
civilized a man was no doubt an echo of the emotion with which poor,
bewildered, primitive, but faithful Trueheart would have envisaged being
left alone in the cave with his new-born baby: the sense of relief, of gayety,
of something definite and within his capabilities to do, with which the
young father nowadays takes his hat and starts for the office, must be much
the same as that with which Trueheart took his stone axe and started for the
woods.
Thus, in the very inception of the human family, fatherhood became
subordinate to motherhood; and so, because conditions after all have not
fundamentally changed, it has ever since continued. “Mothers’ Day,” for
example, is celebrated with enthusiasm; “Fathers’ Day” remains a mere
humorous suggestion, a kind of clown in the editorial circus. Then as now,
moreover, in the earlier life of the child, Father, although not quite as
useless as a vermiform appendix, was and is of very little importance.
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