Dearest Mother: What an insufferable egotist I must appear to you. A life made up of local coloring—a central figure with no accessories—a record of ways and means unwisely, perhaps, submitted to you, since they may only pain you. Better a gray and monotonous sea, without sail or sound, if so I could spare you the burden of apprehension which every anxious mother must feel for a destiny she has helped to direct. Following the train of argument, think you the loving Father acquits himself of responsibility when a helpless soul is launched for eternity? Truly no! and this conviction sustains my courage, and makes me unafraid to do my heart’s bidding.
It has been an observation that the thing we most condemn in others, we shall find in ourselves. Many years ago I conceived a prejudice against the popular cry concerning the wrongs of woman, a movement affirmatively named “woman’s rights,” for while it undoubtedly aided some women in obtaining justice, its aim was largely the gratification of some hysterical ambition or some love of conspicuousness.
Thus I am brought to question if, in my individual case, I am not exaggerating evils and magnifying wrongs by placing them under the strong light, if not of worldly criticism, at least of self-love and secret pride; if, instead of dealing soberly and wisely with flesh and blood, I am not following an ideal, or whether my matrimonial point of view is not interrupted by such inappreciable angles as seldom vex the eye of faith and perfect love.
All these questions, and many more, I wish to make clear to my own conscience and your mind, that you may be able to advise me when, if ever, the time shall come for me to ask your loving counsel.
To speak more personally, I conclude, after mentally reviewing the characteristics peculiar to my husband, the baron, that his faults are less of malice than of temperament, and that he would not really sacrifice any actual interest of his wife, not even her permanent peace of mind, any more than I would compromise those of the baron. If it were not so, I could less well afford the many hours of thought I give toward the fashioning of apologies for him, lest in my own mind I do him an injustice.
But, so believing, I must take many things on trust, and, after all, I am full of faults myself, no doubt of it. You know it is a popular theory over here that American girls must be broken like bronco horses before they are fit for wives, and I must say that my own mouth is a little tender to the foreign bit already.
We have invitations to a grand ball, although I have not yet seen them. Kindest love to papa, and a heart full of devotion for you, as always. When will you write to tell me you are coming to your affectionate daughter
Ellen.
From Mrs. Perces Thornton to the Baroness Von Eulaw.
Boston, November 10, 1895.