That's what I said to myself as I sat down on my dusty travelling trunk, with my hair full of cinders, and both fingers stuffed in my ears to keep out the questions that were pouring into them about what was to be done with this and that and t'other thing; and if I wanted the windows cleaned first or last; this paint or that paint scrubbed. Good heavens! said I, what is woman that she should be thus tormented?
That was the first onslaught, you see, and I am not naturally a patient animal. But now that the wheels are greased and the household machinery "whistles itself," it is a comfort to sit down again in my own favorite little chair, which must really have been made for my particular shoulders and back. It is a comfort to have a nail and a closet and a shelf for everything, and see my worldly effects neatly placed away from dust, each in its own niche, where I can find them on the darkest night without the aid of a light. It is a comfort to have many rooms, instead of two. It is pleasant, after all, to feel that you yourself have brought all this order out of chaos, although man—ungrateful creature—gobbles up the results without any such reflection.
After all, I'm going to be proud of myself, since nobody else will praise me; I'm proud of myself, I say, as I take a cake of glycerine soap to remove the working traces from my hands and put my fingers in writing order. And then, after all, this had to be done; and one's life can't be all play, and I must be woman enough to take my share of the disagreeables, instead of shirking them like a great coward; for all that, I like a tree better than a broomstick; a fine sunset better than a gridiron; also I prefer a flower-garden to a sewing-machine, if the truth must out.
But back again in town, how shall we adapt ourselves to its unnatural ways? Every thing in the country, animate and inanimate, seems to whisper, be serene, be kind, be happy. We grow tolerant there unconsciously. We feel that in the city we are not only hard, but that we by no means get the most out of life. We wonder if, after all, the opera is better than the gushing melody which is ours for the listening, whenever we will. We wonder if the silken sheen of the Queen of Sheba fabrics, which our splendid store-windows display, quite comes up to the autumnal splendor of the woods and mountains. Our bones ache with the necessity of spick-and-span-ness trammelling every movement indoors and out. And if, as Goethe asserts, "the unconscious are alone complete," what chance do city people stand of ever being rounded out, mentally and morally, where everybody is on the qui vive lest his neighbor outshine him? Where the must haves multiply faster than rabbits, and grow so clamorous that we forget there is a possibility of silencing their tyrant voices? It is so long, too, since we have seen a drunkard, or a beggar, or a wretched woman who dare not think of her sinless infancy, that these things come to us with such an appalling newness, that we are shocked and pained that we could ever have become accustomed to their presence, or shall ever grow so again, by daily contact.
We almost dread ourselves. Our life seems puerile, and ignoble, and cruel. It seems dreadful to take all this wretchedness, and waste of life, as a matter of course, and that with which we have nothing to do. We can't get used to the worn faces, the hurried footsteps, the jostling indifference, the dust, and grime, and shabbiness through which we plunge at every turn. Visions of moss-dripping rocks, huge and grand; sweet, grassy roads, full of birds, and darting squirrels; plentiful orchards and barns; stout, round, rosy children, tumbling therein. Cows, with their rich burdens, going slowly homeward. The farmer, brown and happy, sitting with his happy wife, in the low doorway, at eventide, with peace written upon their faces. Oh, we had much rather think of these, and close our eyes on all this maelstrom-misery, and tinselled grandeur. We feel stifled. We throw up the window, and wonder what can ail us? for unrest, unquiet, and strife seem to be in the very atmosphere that we breathe.
We want to get out of it, since the times are out of joint, and we can't help everything, at least. We feel a cowardly desire to fly, and simply enjoy ourselves; somewhere, anywhere, but in this Babel of odds and ends; where everything is always beginning, and never is finished; where mouths keep opening, faster than loaves of bread can be baked; where churches are built so grand, that poor people can't say a prayer in them; where rulers are elected by whiskey, instead of wisdom; where, on the other side of the thin wall which frames your home, the awful tragedies of life and death go on, without a thought or care from you; where bitter tears fall, which you might, but don't assuage, because your neighbor, having enough of this world's goods, is supposed to need nothing else.
Oh, I dare say I shall ossify in time; but at present these thoughts keep me quite miserable after the serene, heavenly peace, and plenty, and content of the country.