Rensselaer Republican, Volume 14, Number 20, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 2 February 1882 — BACHELOR’S CONFESSION. [ARTICLE]

BACHELOR’S CONFESSION.

BY HELEN FOREST GRAVES.

I live in a French Hat. Of course there are objections to French flats. So there are to most things. I can’t afford a hotel, and 1 detest a boardinghouse. A bachelor of 30 odd, who has been at the mercy of boarding-house keepers all this day, can easily understand that. Sc, when I engaged a suite of rooms —third floor in a French flat edifice — aud arranged my household goods therein, with a flue lookout over a green dot of a park in front, and a glimmer of a palisade far in the rear above a forest of shipping, I considered myself well otT. What is my profession? I haven’t any in particular. I'm an artist and draw a little; daily in front of my ease/. I com tribute to the press, and write when the divine afflatus seizes me. I read the law when I feel like it, and draw a little income from a snug little property left me by an uncle in India. Consequently I was able to decorate my new quarters very prettily with Bagdad rugs, old Chiua dragons, black and gold Japanese screens, and pictures I had picked up at a bargain. And when the fire was burning cheerfully in the grate, the first rainy May evening, the student lamp shining softly on the red, carved table, and the waiter from a neighboring restaurant had brought in my frugal dinner of a broiled bird, a mold of current jelly, a slice of roast beef, and a raspberry eumpling, i considered myself pretty comfortable. “Upon the whole,” rsays I to myself, “I rather approve of French flats.” I rang the bell. The janitor—a respectful decent sort of fellow, in a round jacket and carpet slippers—answered the summons. “Janitor,” said I, “who occupies the floor above?” “Nobody, sir,” the man answered. “Last party moved out yesterday. New party move in to-morrow.” “A large family?” said I, rather dubiously. ""Bless your heart, sir,” said the man, “no family at all—a single lady, sir!” At this I congratulated myself more and more. “I shall have prospect of a little peace now. I think,” said 1; and I ate my dinner in a fool's paradise of happiness. The single lady moved In ou the morrow. She must have moved in when I was down town selecting some new mill-boards and color-tubes for the summer sketqhes I intended to make, for when 1 returned, fondly expecting once more to enter into mv kingom of peace and serenity, everything was changed. Ti ere was a banging aud pounding overhead, a thujppiug and hammering —a sound as if some middle-aged Jfiantess in hob-nailed shoes was enoying herself in a promenade. I sent for the janitor in a rage. “Is the house coming down?” said I. “It’s the new tenant a-moviu’ in, sir,” said he, apologetically. “Does her furniture consist entirely of Herring’s safes and square pianos?” said I.

“There is two pianos, sir,” said he. “Bhe’s musical.” “The deuce she is,” roared I. “Two pianos! And does she play on ’em both?” “Don’t know sir, I'm sure.” said the man, with a distressed expression of oountenance. . , I endured the noise until midnight, and then I sent up the janitor’s wife. “The third floor's compliments to the fourth floor, and would like to know if this sort of thing is to go on all night?” Down came the woman again. “Fourth floor’s compliments to third floor, and wishes to kuow if he expects people to got settled without a The next day the piano— only cne. however— commenced. I was eiaborat ng a skeleton for a scientific essay, and It disturbed me seriously. I endured it as long as I possibly could,and then I had recourse onbe mote to the Janitor’s wife.

; “Third floor’s compliments to the fourth floor, and will reel obliged if she will favor me with a little peace and quietness long enough to do some necessary writing/’ There was no reply, and the music ceased abruptly. But that evening, when I was beginning to solace myself with a little- violin practice in the twilight, tap r tap, tap came the janitor’s wife at my door. . . “Fourth floor’s compliments to the third floor, and will feel obliged if he will favor her with a little peace and quietness, long enough to write a letter." How I hated that woman! So we lived fora month,exchanging constant missiles of warfare. I could cheerfully have given up that miserable French flat and gone back to boarding, only unluckily I had engaged it for the year. The fourth floor elocutionized,and had friends to select private readings, whose voices wen; deeper than Hamlet’s and more sonorous than that of Charlotte Cushman. She was charitable and had classes of heavy-booted girls twice a week, to sing hymns ana learn to sew. A single lady, indeed! If she had been a quadruple lady she Jcould not have made more noise, nor enjoyed the making of it more.

At the close of the month, however, an incident happened which turned the current of my whole life. I went on a picnic. I don’t often go to anything of that kind; but this was an especially select affair gotten up by my friend Harold Webster. I went, and there I met Barbara Willis, and fell straightway in love with her. She wasn’t exactly young, but neither am I, and to my taste a full-blown rose is sweeter than a bud,whenever you find it growing. She was dark-eyed, with full cherry lips, satin-browu hair, and a complexion as fresh as roses and ivory. We talked ;our ideas coincided exactly. It seemed as if our souls were two looking-glasses, to mirror each other’s. “Miss Willis," I cried, “why is it hat we have never met before? I feel tas if we were old friends.” As I spoke I gently pressed her hand, and she smiled back unutterable things. I went to myfriend Webster who was making up quadrilles on the upper deck. We were accompanied by an excellent brass baud. “O Harold!” exclaimed I, “I can never thank you euough for introducing me to that angel!” “Do you mean Barbara Willis?” said he. “Well, Ido think she is rather a fine girl.” We grew confidential as we sat together on the promuade deck and watched the moonlight ripple over the surface of the tides. “A bachelor’s life is but half a life, Miss Willis," said I. “I can readily imagine that,” she said softly. “I live in a flat,” confessed I. you,” said Barbara (the sweet old English name was just like her). “Why, how strange! So do IT” * “Isn't it dreadful!” said I. “Horid!” said she, closing her lips as though she meant it. “And there’s a female dragon occupies the floor above me, and torments me out of my life.” “Well, if this isn’t a remarkable coincidence,” replied Barbara. “ fhere’s a detestable old crab of a bachelor under me, who takes all the pleasure out of my existence!” “Should two lives be thus blighted?” said I. “I—l don’t think so,” replied Barbara, looking intently at the boquet of pansies she held in her hand. It was past midnight when the boat landed. Harold Webster came up. “I promised to see you home, Miss Willis,” said he, rubbing his hands briskly. “You need not trouble yourself, Webster,” said I. “I shall be most happy.” I called a hack, helped the divine Barbara in, feeling more and more as if I were walking in cloudland. “Where shall i drive to?” said the man. “No, 69 Ravenal street,” said she, ‘fourth floor.” “What!” cried I—“not the Fernandine flats?” “Exactly,” said she. “Why, that’s where I live.” “Are you the third floor?” she cried out, breathless. “Are you the fourth?” I counterquestioned. “But you’re not a crab at all!” “Nor are you a dragon. Oa the contrary—” But what matters it what was said. Things were altered from the very beginning. I took my violin up-stairs the next day, and helped my divine Barbara out with a sonata of Beethoven’s. I suggested a new education theory for the hob-nailed classes. I listened enchanted to ner recitation of Tennyson’s Brook; and at ihe end of the qurter we are to be married—Barbara and I.