Part 12

I have requested my "keepers," when my madness reaches indisputable lunacy, to pad the walls of my room, and turn the key on me there, instead of transferring me to a Lunatic Asylum; where my superior and unapproachable idiocy would so excite the envy of the other inmates, that my life might be the forfeit. In the meantime, any of my friends who are shedding salt tears that I have not noticed them, or if any who are _not_ friends are bristling with indignation because I _have_, are requested, one and all, to pity my unhappy condition and pass me by.

The solution of all this is, that I have a new book in press. That the _proofs_ of the same are sent to snarl me up late in the evening, just before I go to sleep. That beside this, I am writing--well, you'll see what, by and by. That I have had sickness in the house for six weeks. That I am house-keeper. That I have scores of letters to read and answer; and that I have a little duck of a grandchild, who every hour or two wants me "to tell her a story that is _new_ and _true_." Am I excused?

Shall I relate my first theft? Well, I had bought a new muff; that is nothing surprising in a city where women trim their dresses with diamonds. But there is a story to that muff. With a wholesome horror of _female_ shoplifters, I had attached to it a silk cord, which I could pass over my neck; thus placing beyond their reach the temptation to appropriate it, should I lay it down temporarily on some counter, while shopping. Thus armed, I went forth.

Well, as I say, thus armed, I went out to buy some little matters needed in my household. After paying for them, I took a muff from the counter before me, placed my hands in it, and pursued my journey. I had not proceeded more than a block, before a bare-headed clerk came rushing after me, jostling the crowd on either side, and placing his hands as I thought very familiarly on my muff, took it from me, remarking as he did so, "By your leave, madam," and disappeared with it, instanter. I looked about me for a policeman, when just then my hand became entangled in the string around my neck. Good heavens! I had then taken some other lady's muff from the counter! I had walked out with _two_ muffs. One about my neck, one in my hands. I did not pursue my search for that policeman. I was also seized with such a violent fit of laughter at the ludicrousness and novelty of my position, that I was quite incapable of locomotion.

Just then I met a lady friend, to whom I told the story, as well as my frequent bursts of merriment permitted. She looked as solemn as a hearse; she said sepulchrally, "How _can_ you laugh? I should have died with mortification." And the more solemn she looked the more I laughed, and I haven't done laughing yet, although it was three days ago. I am at present looking for the finale--viz., my picture in the Rogue's Gallery as an accomplished female shoplifter. I may have stolen other things, but, upon my word, this is the first time I ever stole a muff. It was so comical, that if a station-house had been my portion I know I should have laughed all the same; besides, I always wanted to see a station-house. I might possibly have preferred riding there _in a carriage_, if the policeman in attendance had no objection, or if the walking was bad, or it stormed!

Finally, my brethren, a correspondent inquires how I look? Am I tall? have I dark, or light complexion? and what color are my eyes?

I should be very happy to answer these questions, did I know myself. I proceed to explain why I cannot tell whether "I be I."

First--one evening I was seated at the opera, waiting patiently for the performances to begin. In two orchestra chairs, directly in front of me, sat a lady and gentleman, both utter strangers to me. Said the _gentleman_ to his companion, "Do you see the lady who has just entered yonder box?" pointing, as he did so, to the gallery; "well, that is FANNY FERN."--"You know her, then?" asked the lady.--"Intimately," replied this strange gentleman--"_intimately_. Observe how expensively she is dressed. See those diamonds, and that lace! Well, I assure you, that every cent she has ever earned by her writings goes straightway upon her back." Naturally desiring to know how I did look, I used my opera-glass. The lady was tall, handsome, graceful, and beautifully dressed. The gentleman who accompanied me began to grow red in the face, at the statement of my "intimate" acquaintance, and insisted on a word with him; but the fun was too good to be spoiled, and the game too insignificant to hunt; so, in hope of farther revelations, I laughingly observed my "double" during the evening, who looked as I have just described, for your benefit.

Again--in a list of pictures announced to be sold lately, was one labelled "Fanny Fern." Having lost curiosity concerning that lady myself, I did not go on a tour of inspection; but a gentleman friend of mine who did, came back in high glee at the manner in which the purchaser thereof, if any should be found, would be swindled--as "I was _not_ I" in that case either.

Some time ago "Fanny Fern" was peddled round California, or at least, so I was informed by letter. In this instance they had given her, by way of variety, black eyes and hair, and a brunette complexion. I think she was also taken smiling. A friend, moreover, informed me that he had seen me, with an angelic expression, seated upon a rosy cloud, with wings at my back. This last fact touched me. Wings are what I sigh for. It was too cruel a mockery.

You will see from the above, how impossible it is, for such a chameleon female, to describe herself, even to one "who likes my writings." If it will throw any light on the subject, however, I will inform you that a man who got into my parlor under cover of "New-Year's calls," after breathlessly inspecting me, remarked, "Well, now, I _am_ agreeably disappointed! I thought from the way you _writ_, that you were a great six-footer of a woman, with snapping black eyes and a big waist, and I _am_ pleased to find you looking so soft and so femi_nine_!"

I would have preferred, had I been consulted, that he should have omitted the word "soft;" but after the experiences narrated above, this was a trifle.

* * * * *

A gentleman requested me not long since "to rebuke those men who did not rise, when ladies entered a car, and give them a seat." Now this would come with a bad grace from me, for the reason that I never enter a full car without having this politeness extended to me. But mind this, ladies, I never yet forgot to thank the man, as prettily as my knowledge of such things serves me, for such a gracious act, and perhaps that is the explanation. At any rate, I have been so disgusted with the reverse, that I more often wondered that men _do_ get up, than that they _don't_. I think ladies, too, should not _exact_ such courtesy by look, or word, or manner, as I have often seen them do. I find American men most courteous, most obliging to our sex. Now and then one meets a bear. To such, a woman must of course give a wide berth, unless she has a muzzle in the shape of a "protector" handy.

_HOSPITALITY._

If each person were asked to define this word, the answers would be amusing. Emerson says "that we should not turn away wholly from the routine of our daily life to make our guests welcome." He says "that every one worthy to sit at our table knows that life has its necessary duties; and that we should not burden our friends with the thought that our business is suffering derangement and loss by their coming."

This is common-sense; but if we measure the majority of people by it, then few "_are_ worthy to sit at one's table." It may be because insincerity is so much the order of the day, that each so distrusts the other that a person cannot say frankly to a friend, without giving offence, I would be glad to stay longer with you, or have you stay longer, but I really cannot now. A lady said to me, not long since, "I never dare say truthfully that I am 'engaged' when a caller comes, no matter how impossible circumstances make it for me to go down. If I do, it always offends. Therefore I am obliged to send word that I am out; then the caller leaves without any wound to his self-love." Now this ought not to be. A straightforward honesty is much better. But there are so many inconsiderate people, who, provided they gain their point to see you, care little at what sacrifice on your part of time, or at what postponement of imperative duties. _They_ have time enough. So much that they are even puzzled what to do with it; how can it be that _you_ have none, or so little, at the service of friends? They cannot comprehend that one's duty, or one's labor, may tread so closely on the heels of the other, that your remaining vitality needs the most careful nursing and division to keep your steps from _final_ faltering. What is to be done with such rhinoceros-hided people as these? You feel no unkindness toward them; but, like the beggar that accosts you on the last of many curb-stones, you have simply parted with all your pennies. Your pocket is empty.

I recollect once a lady in the same house with me, to whom I apologized as civilly as I knew how for being obliged to leave her to write a promised article. She bowed coolly, and, on my leaving the room, said to a friend of mine, "I suppose she did that to get rid of me, don't you?"

It is much easier to get along with men, because _they_ can understand that life has its unpostponable duties, without any lifting of eyebrows or incredulous shrugging of shoulders, or a cool salute the next time you two meet. The intercourse of one man with another in this regard has always elicited my admiration. They take up a newspaper or a book, and read in each other's presence, with a tacit understanding of its perfect propriety. If one has to leave, he often says no more than "I'm off," or "Good-by, old fellow." Sometimes it is only a touch of the hat, or a hand laid on the other's shoulder in passing; and no black eyes follow, no locks of hair fly, nor do any hard words or looks result in the future.

If ladies smoked,--which the gods forbid!--do you suppose one lady would allow another to stop her in the street and light a cigar from her lips, when she _never was introduced_? When she didn't even know who her dress-maker was, or where she bought her bonnets? Good heavens!

Did you ever notice, if anything unexpected occurs in the mutual path of men through the same street, how naturally and frankly they accost each other, though perfect strangers, and converse about it, and go their several ways, to their tombstones, after it. Not so sweet woman! Catch _her_ speaking to "that nasty thing"! How does _she_ know who or what she is?

Children are so delicious about these matters. I saw two little girls the other day trying to crack a nut upon the sidewalk, by pressing in turn their tiny little shoes upon it. Despairing of success, they said to a gentleman passing, "Man, man, crack this nut for us, will you?" His handsome face was luminous with fun, as he pressed his polished boot down upon it, to the delight of the youngsters and myself. Now these little girls wouldn't have thought of asking a lady to do that, or if they had, do you think she would have stopped to do it?

_WOMAN AND HER WATCH._

This unnatural partnership is well understood, both by watchmakers and husbands. Who among the latter has not had occasion to mourn, seventy times seven, that he was ever such an idiot as to present his wife with a watch? Of what use was it, when fastening it to her belt, in its pristine glitter and correctness, that he remarked, with uplifted finger, "Here, my dear, be sure and remember to wind this up regularly every night when you take it off." Of what use was it that she bristled up, and retorted, "As if I shouldn't remember that, John, you goose!"

Didn't John himself, after she crept into bed, that very night, ask her had she done it; and didn't she guiltily reply, dodging the question, "Don't bother me, John, just as I am getting sleepy!" And didn't it run down? And didn't he face her up, the next day, with the face of that watch behind time, at the same moment showing her reproachfully the immaculate time-piece in his vest-pocket, which never erred, or varied from the path of strict duty, no more than one of his relatives! And wasn't she glad, when a pickpocket in a street-car, shortly after, relieved her husband of this finger-post to her transgressions! Besides, suppose her watch were a little before or behind time, or suppose it stopped altogether, for the matter of that; wasn't it _her_ watch, I'd like to know; and didn't his jurisdiction over it stop when it became such? And didn't she, at last, get so mad at his asking her every night, when they got into bed, if it was wound up, that she let it alone from sheer perversity, and never pretended to prevaricate on the subject, but "riz" right up in bed, when he asked her the question, and answered boldly, "No, it isn't!"

And how impertinent it was of the watchmaker, when, after frequent aberrations from duty, she carried secretly this little trinket to get it repaired, to ask what she had been doing to it; or to laugh, with _his_ necessary knowledge of watches and women, when she replied, "I only dropped it on the hearth." But watchmakers are often husbands--and when you've seen one husband, you've seen the whole tribe--always asking you what you've done, and then scolding you for doing it; thus offering you a premium for lying the next time they propose such a meddling question.

Do they tell "what they have been doing"? I rather think there'd be pulling of hair if they did. Then what right have they to catechize us?

Now I ask any candid person if a lady's watch don't _look_ just as prettily in her belt, whether it "goes" or not? And can't she always ask her husband what time it is? And isn't he a brute and a bear, if he growls at telling her, even supposing he has given her a watch to obviate that necessity? I'm sure nothing could be plainer; and I hope nobody will say, after this, that a woman can't reason. Besides, what right has a lazy animal like man to expect anything perpetually to "go"? Don't _he_ lay off, on every convenient chance? Isn't he always prefacing and winding up everything with "Be quiet"? Of course he is. Every wife from Maine to Florida knows that. I tell you they expect too much from women and their watches, and it's high "time" they knew it, and got used to having both run like fury one minute, and stand still the next.

* * * * *

Will people who attend lectures and concerts cease drumming with their fingers on the back of seats, or with canes or feet on the floor, till the services begin? One cannot help remarking, in such vicinity, how few persons are really well-bred. Dress certainly is no indication of it, judged by this rule. If a tattoo must be performed, why not go out in the lobby or vestibule, and have the war-dance out? This thing has come to be such an intolerable nuisance, that the paradoxical regulation, "No _gentlemen_ are allowed to smoke in the ladies' cabin," may as well be imitated by--"No _gentleman_, in a concert or lecture-room, is allowed to drum on the back of a lady's chair before, or after, or during the entertainment."

"_MY DOCTOR._"

You have one, of course; and of course he never opens his mouth without dropping pearls. (I hope the printer will not print this last word _pills_.) _Your_ doctor believes in flannel next the skin, all the year round. Mrs. Jones' doctor, who "knows much more than your doctor," thinks that a person of discretion may occasionally, in the dog-days, lay flannel on the shelf and no coffin be imminent. _Your_ doctor says that young children's necks and shoulders should always be covered, even in warm weather. Mrs. Smith's doctor, who, she says, "stands at the head of his profession" says that is all nonsense, and that children should go through a toughening process, which will render changes of temperature harmless. _Your_ doctor advises you never to cross the street, or go down-stairs, unless accompanied by quinine. Mrs. Smith's doctor tells her if she wants poison she had better get ratsbane, and then she will know what she is swallowing.

Now each of you believe that "_my_ doctor" is infallible; that is a great comfort to you, and very satisfactory to them, especially pocket-wise. "My doctor" hasn't dealt with women so long, and failed to see their blind side. He knows what "brutes" husbands are, and how like flints they will oppose the sea-shore, merely because their wives want to go there. What is the use of "my doctor," unless he comforts you under this affliction, and declares that to be the only place where you can regain your lost appetite? No wonder you like him; no wonder life is a blank to you when his carriage is not before your door. There is healing in the very sight of his beard and moustache; and how much handsomer they are than the "brute's." Ah! had you met "my doctor" years ago, you say; not stopping to reflect, that in that case he would have been attending women who paid fees, and left you, his wife, to some medical friend for pills and consolation. It is better as it is, you see. Well, it _is_ comforting "that he understands you better than anybody else, and seems to know just what you want." And then he shows such an absorbing interest in your symptoms, that you almost feel cured by his sympathy alone, before you swallow a single powder; and, since my ears are out of your reach, I will remark, that well you may, when, half the time, nothing in the world ails you but the want of some absorbing occupation or interest. Colored water and bread pills are safe prescriptions for that complaint; meantime it wont hurt the "brute" to pay for the wear and tear of the doctor's carriage in coming and going. If "my doctor" laughs in his sleeve, occasionally, when he thinks what funny creatures women are, you are none the wiser or the angrier for it. He don't dislike, after all, their little cuddlesome, trusting, confiding ways; possibly not so much as his wife does, whose acquaintance you had better not make. As I before remarked, his medical friends can take care of her; it is no business of yours, her disgusting ails and aches.

But what a thing it is when "my doctor" was also "_ma's doctor_"! If he don't know all the ins and outs, then "may the divel fly away wid--him!"

The moral of all this is, that "my doctor's" life is not without its consolations, and the most astonishing part of it is, that husbands are so blear-eyed to this subject. It wont harm them to hint that in sympathy and courteousness they had better not present too sharp a contrast to "my doctor."

_A WOMAN AT A LECTURE._

If you want to see a woman act more like a goose than she need, watch her when she enters a place of public performance, where the seats are at the mercy of first-comers. Notice her profound survey of the situation, as she stands, preceding her John, who is supposed to know nothing about such things, poised on one foot, while she measures distances, drafts, and acoustics with the eye of a connoisseur. Now she decides! At last she swoops down on _the_ seat in all the house which she prefers. John follows, with the shawl and family umbrella. He faintly suggests the possible obstruction of a pillar between the seat she has chosen and the speaker, but he follows. Directly she is seated, and the shawl and umbrella located without inconvenience to themselves, or infringement of the comfort of their neighbors, when she coolly remarks, "John, 'tis true, that pillar _is_ right between me and the speaker." John's ears redden; but he is in public, so he don't say, "Didn't I tell you so?" but rises with shawl and umbrella, the former catching by the fringe on every seat as he passes, and the latter slipping to the floor while he tries to disentangle the shawl. Meantime my lady is on her triumphal march for that "best seat."