Ginger Snaps Part 10

First--my unfortunate NOSE! I think life would be a different thing to me had I no nose. When you consider that there are twenty disagreeable odors to one sweet one, you will be at no loss to understand my meaning; and yet, after all, when we come to definitions, your _pleasant_ smell might be a very noisome one to me. Your tobacco, sir, for instance; or your "patchoule," madam, or your musk. Then turnips, or cabbage, in process of cooking, may not cause _you_ to throw up--the window! Beefsteak smoke, or mutton-chop smoke, or buckwheat-cake smoke, may render _you_ quite happy in prospect, while I only sigh for that far-off millennium when cooking shall be inodorous. Stay! I meant to except coffee. Hail coffee--_rain_ coffee, if you will. Ah! I would keep a perpetual pot of coffee steaming on my kitchen range. Tea smells nice and tastes well, I suppose, to its lovers, for whom I have little respect. In truth, when I reflect how my nose curtails my daily bill of fare, I am lost in wonder, and my butcher no doubt also marvels at its monotony. The whole family of _Frys_, for instance, except a gentleman I once knew of that name, are odious to my olfactories.

In the millennium I speak of, no cook will allow a bone to be singed on the fire, or milk to boil over upon the stove; for let her know that up three, four, yea, five pair of stairs, I shall immediately be apprised of the same by this my watchful member. Let her not dream that her cousin, or uncle, or male "follower" of any degree, can smoke, or even light his pipe, in the kitchen, without giving me an impulse toward the bell-wire. Let no grocer boy or ice-man fondly hope to retain the celestial spark, while he briefly deposits his wares in my kitchen; and if Terence O'Flaherty thinks he can shovel coal into my cellar and smoke at the same time, although I may be knee-deep in an "article" at the top of the house, Terence has reckoned without his host-ess.

I know you are sorry for me. I am sorry for myself, because it is obvious that forty times a day I must suffer nasal crucifixion. I get a comfortable seat in church, or concert-room, or lecture-hall. In comes Apollo, and sits down at my elbow, in that close, unventilated place, and finishes the process of strangulation, with dead tobacco smoke in his clothes and hair. I am quite willing some other lady should admire him.

But there is a bright side to this nose question. I defy you, who don't mind tobacco, or the odor of a cooking cabbage, which is much the same thing, to revel in a rose, or violet, or lily, or a sprig of heliotrope, or mignonette, as I shall. I defy you to go into a wood after a rain, and detect, as I shall, every delicate and individual odor; from the scores of little unseen flowers hiding away under roots of trees, and in patches of moss, and in crevices of old gray rocks.

_There_--I have the better of you, for that too brief heaven.

Alas! I am very unfortunate. There are my _ears_, too. The squeaking of a door, the drumming of idle fingers on a table, or tapping of idle feet on the floor, the sc.r.a.ping of a knife on a bad pencil-point, the clipping of one's finger-nails with scissors, the continuous biting of an apple in my presence, the humming of the same idle tune, the sharp winding of a clock or watch--I fear you will cease to respect me when I say that I have meditated murder in "the first degree" for the perpetrators thereof.

If it is any palliation of my crime that I am cold from head to foot when I hear sweet music; or that the trill of a little bird sends a tear to my eyes and a prayer to my lips, I confess also to this weakness. I am quite willing, too, you should ask, as does Mr. Smith, fifty times a week, "f.a.n.n.y do you think there ever _was_ a woman born into the world exactly like _you_?" whatever condemnation that question may imply for me or--the rest of my s.e.x.

It is said that a certain great statesman, owed much of his popularity to the fact, that he never forgot the _name_ of a person out of the thousands who had been presented to him, and would always in shaking hands say, "I recollect you perfectly; I saw you in such a year, at such a place, on such an occasion." Of course, his const.i.tutent, from the village of Frogtown, was immensely flattered, and went home satisfied that there must be something remarkable about him, which he had never before found out, that he had made so indelible an impression on so great a man, with such a press of public care and business; and didn't this statesman get _his_ const.i.tutent's votes and good words after that?

Now it is very certain _I_ never should do for a statesman, notwithstanding my very palpable qualifications apart from this.

I--who persisted for months in calling Mr. Smith Mr. De Peyster although little pieces of flesh were nipped out of my arms by dismayed friends, and my toes were trodden on, till there was great danger I should be crippled for life.

But my last hope was shivered the other day, upon reading, in a public print, that not only was a person unfit for society, who could not remember the _names_ of those to whom he had been presented, but that if he had failed to p.r.o.nounce that name in the manner the happy owner of it preferred, it was a mark of low-breeding.

Well, if it has come to that, the question is what is to become of me?

I have done my best, when I am pulled and twitched, to bow and smile in the direction indicated; but it is a miserable failure. I know it.

I _always_ look the wrong way; I frown at my best friends, and smile idiotically--to order--on Shem, Ham, and j.a.pheth. I hand a ten-dollar bill to pay for twenty-five cents' worth of hair-pins, and go out forgetting my change. I go into the next store, and make a purchase of a stranger, and depart without alluding in any way to the remuneration: and when he follows me to the door and meekly inquires my name and address, I ask him with the dignity becoming a wife and matron and a grandmother, what business that is of _his_? Last week it rained, and I left my domicile with an umbrella in _each_ hand.

Yesterday I went out with only one India-rubber shoe on, and feeling cold in the neglected foot, remarked to my companion that I thought one of my India-rubbers must have a hole in it to let in the water so badly. It is very trying to listen, at such a crisis, to the indignant and oft-repeated query, "_Are_ you going mad?" but I have to endure it, and, what is worse, I have the sorrowful consciousness of deserving it.

What troubles me most is, whether I am to pay six cents for car-fare and ten cents for omnibus, or six cents for car and five for omnibus.

Also, what that gentleman thought of me who was polite enough to hand up my fare, when, upon presenting me the change, I told him that I had no occasion for charity. I think the driver was to blame there, in allowing ten minutes to elapse before making change, during which I sunk into my customary stupor.

It is useless to enumerate the gloves I have worn in public places, where the curious spectacle has been presented by the glare of gas-light, of one _black_ hand and one _green_ one; and, more marvellous still, when this aberration has been intensified by both green and black for the _same_ hand.

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 pa.s.s 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 m.u.f.f; that is nothing surprising in a city where women trim their dresses with diamonds. But there is a story to that m.u.f.f. With a wholesome horror of _female_ shoplifters, I had attached to it a silk cord, which I could pa.s.s 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 m.u.f.f 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 m.u.f.f, 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 m.u.f.f from the counter! I had walked out with _two_ m.u.f.fs. 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 hea.r.s.e; 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 m.u.f.f. 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 a.s.sure 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-gla.s.s. 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 "f.a.n.n.y 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 "f.a.n.n.y 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 s.e.x. 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 circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sing; 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 G.o.ds 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 pa.s.sing, "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 n.o.body 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.