Rensselaer Union, Volume 7, Number 50, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 2 September 1875 — BACK WINDOWS. [ARTICLE]

BACK WINDOWS.

April 12, 18 —.—ln utter ennui and desperation I have at last begun a diary. Did I ever believe that I could descend to such a missish expedient? But no one knows what he is capable of until he tries, and “ the times that try men’s souls” develop strange and unsuspected resources. Is this one of the aforesaid “times?” Well, all things considered, I should rather say it is. Here am I, Philip Leigh, an utter stranger in the city, just about launching on a commercial career under the most favorable auspices, “ eager-heart-ed as a boy when first he leaves his father’s field,” and all the rest of it. That is what I was two weeks ago, and the first clause still holds good. What am I now? A bundle of aches, a thing of nerves and sensibilities. Bah! what is manhood worth if a slip on a bit of orangepeel, a twist of the knee, can reduce one to such a pitiful level? No use grumbling? No, my philosophic soul. Would thatyou always ruled this immortal frame! Unluckily, you don’t. Human nature is weak, given to repinings, and much haunted by black specters qf gloom and ennui. What defenses have I against their too frequent incursions ? Plenty of pens and paper? certainly, but to what use ? I have no friends to whom I care to pour out my woes—which is lucky for the friends. Books ? my library is certainly limited. I did not come here to lead a bookish life, and beyond a Bible, Shakespeare, and one or two other volumes my shelves are bare. Women never seem at a loss to dispose of their time. What do they do, I wonder’ Sew, I suppose; but, alas! that panacea is denied me. Oh, my mother and my reverend grandmother, why did you let me go out into the world thus unprovided for ? Well, if I .am to write a diary something must ‘be written; that is clear. Shall I feel my mental pulse and record its variations with tender solicitude? Hardly, I think, for I have a strong conviction that “ that way madness lies,” and what I am specially beginning this diaiy for is to avoid morbid inspections and imaginings. What then ? to journey round my room after the fashion of Lemaistre? Genius might extract something from the aspect of a bachelor’s room, inthe “three pair hack” of a New York boarding-house, but I confess that it is quite beyond my abilities. It is all new and prim. I have had no time to fit myself to my nook, nor my nook to me. Well, then, outside. Outside there are yards—city yards—-and a row of houses with that wrong-side-out look peculiar to the backs of city houses. The fronts are brown stone, I know. Are the characters of the inhabitants as different ip the front and rear, I wonder? Have they all backdoors, where the mean little higgling vices come and go,Awhile the lordly virtues stalk grandly up and down the front steps? How much could one learn of one’s neighbors’ characters from these same literal back-doors, I wonder? The house opposite looks rkther more attractive, or less repulsive, than the rest The scrap of a grass-plot is fresh and green, and the borders are brown with the rich tinge of newly-raked mold. Two childreii are skirmishing about the yard with the futile howls to which boys of a . tender 1 age are so marvelously addicted. “Etta!” calls one of them in a shrill squeal.

* A girl’s head appears at thejvindow above. “My fish has come unburied!” plaintingly wails the infant, who has been closely examining a spot of ground out of my range of sight. “Etta” laughs. “ Bury it over again, then,” she calls, in one of those sweet,' low-pitched voices which, be they raised never so high, do not jar upon the nerves. She lingers a moment, looking down at the child. Where is my opera-glass? Yes, as I thought, a pretty face, a very pretty face, fair and soft, with a flickering rose-bloom on the rounded cheeks, and cloudy golden hair, waving rather low above dark, straight brows. The eyes are dark too, I think, and the mouth is firm and yet tender—a little haughty, perhaps, but the smile brings out a tiny dimple at each comer, and shows such white, even teeth that you don’t mind that. Not, a perfect face at all, not even a beautiful one, but sweet and fresh and refined, with a look of purity and health, moral and physical, about it. The figure, as much as I can see of it, is light and firm—one of those figures which cannot be other than graceful, let them do what they will. A bell clangs in the house; luncheon, of course. “Etta” vanishes, and only a blank wall and empty, staring windows are left for my inspection. Not interesting, decidedly not interesting: and up at home among the New England hills the willows are veiled in their soft green mist, and wave after -wave of verdure is sweeping up the hill-sides day by day among the great granite bowlders, grim and gray. Does the sun shine there and does the foliage glimmer as it used, I wonder ? And are the brown mountain streams dancing downward, with their whirling flakes of white foam, between the mossy rocks ? “ God made the country,” they say; but He must have had some little hand in the city too, I fancy—at least in the making of such creatures as that “ Etta” over there. April 20. —This “ Etta” is becoming quite a fascinating study—fascinating because bewildering and perplexing. What is she ? Has the girl two natures, or is the mystery only in me ? I hope my brain is not giving way under pressure; but why does she do such provoking,’ unaccountable things? Not that anything she does is remarkable in itself, now that I come to think of it, only her looks and acts and ways, at different times, contradict each other so strangely. After all, I believe the difference is in my own mind and not in her. How else can it be that whereas at one time I feel such a strange attraction toward her, at another I feel an equally strange repulsion ? No, repulsion is too strong a word; it is rather an absolute in--difference, utterly devoid even of admiration. So strong has this feeling grown that the instant she appears I feel, “ Now I shall like her,” or, “ Now I shall hate her,” and the instinct never deceives. Last night Etta went to a ball or something of the sort. At any rate, she came to the window gorgeous in some white, shimmering stuff’, with wreaths of pink heath (I think) trailing all over it. She stopped a moment to clasp a bracelet on her round, white arm, and the subtle charm and attraction were stronger than ever. A few minutes afterward I saw her in the parlor. The gas was turned up to its full height and the windows were wide open. Apparently she was posing and practicing . before the pier-glass. Nothing in that? Of course not. We all like women to be at their ease, and how can they be that if they are not sure of looking well, and how could they be sure of looking well if pier-glasses did not exist? But surely she need noUhaWpranced and ambled as she did before that mirror, with sidewise sweepings of her train, with airy flutterings of her fan, with bridlings and mincings, perkings of chin and droopings of eyelids. I was glad when the carriage was announced and the house was left to darkness and silence.

April 27.—N0 chance of my being out and about for two weeks yet, so the doctor tells me. Perfect stillness under penalty of lameness for life. Wretched for a man in full health to be tied by the leg in this way! Once in a while I am tempted to give it all up and go out into life again. I am tired of fighting this incessant thirst to be in .the midst of the stir and bustle, one of amass of struggling atoms, and not a mere solitary, sluggish molecule, a sort of hermit-crab, sitting here “my lane” and fighting off ennui. But—lame for life ? Well, it wouldn’t be pleasant. The wordkgave me rather a shivery feeling as they dropped so glibly from the doctor’s lips. To hobble through life a more distorted wreck of a man* No, on the whole, I had better eat my heart out here a little longer than to gnaw it in vain for the rest of my life. I wonder iff am becoming too much interested in that girl over there ? Certainly I watch for her eagerly and count the day blank when I have not seen her. Nonsense! It is only the utter lack of any excitement in my life which makes me think of her at all; and then the mystery about her or about my feelings toward her keeps up the interest. Only let me get out once in the great, surging sea of New York and mix with other men and then Etta may go—it would be ungrateful as well as impolite to suggest “Jericho” as her goal—she may go whither she will. But suppose, just suppose, the feeling should not be shaken off? Well, it would be awkward, certainly. But that is out of the question. lam morbid and nervous now; but let me only regain my full strength once more and all these dreams and imaginings will vanish like a morning mist The back room in which Etta oftenest appears is not her bedroom, evidently. It seems to be a sewing-room, study, nursery —a sort of city of refuge for the odds ana ends of household life. Sometimes. I see her sitting at the window and, sewing. Somehow I think I like her best then. Her little fingers fly in and out so deftly with such dainty twists and turns, which dimple the knuckles and show the pretty wrists in a hundred new and graceful attitudes. I look at my great, clumsy fingers and laugh to myself to think how miserably I potter over a single button and what a wretched botch it is when it is sewed on at last. " She is a busy bee, this Etta. I hardly ever see her unemployed. I never partic-

ularly admired energy or industry in women. It is apt to make them uneasy and uncomfortable to deal with. Their energy is given to breaking out in unexpected directions, and their industry to, running into new and startling channels. I think I like a woman to be rather slow and lazy and indifferent, content to sit quietly and do nothing but look pretty and talk gently and sensibly. This being the case I -wonder why I like Etta least when she is idle ? Sometimes she comes into the room with a slow and stately sweep. Then I know at once that she will do nothing but stand at the window, or saunter about the room in a futile, purposeless way, and my interest instantly dries up and vanishes like dew in the sunshine. I like to watch her with the children—her brothers, I suppose. They are romping, rollicking boys, hearty, sturdy little fellows, both of them, full of spirits and mischief. She is full of fun, too, and can romp with them (in a lady-like way, of course; Etta could not do anything un-lady-like, I think), and interests herselfln their pursuits. Sometimes they hang about her while she tells them stories. I can tell that that is what she is doing by the motions of her lips and the lighting up of her face. Such a bright little face! It grow-s upon one strangely until I am almost ready to swear that it is as classically beautiful as that of the Venus di Milo. I can hear the peals of laughter from the boys’ lips, but if Etta laughs too the sounds are too low to reach me.

The other day, though, she did something that puzzled me. It was noting Etta but the other Etta that did it, for I have learned to distinguish them thus in my own mind. She was reading in the window, dressed for the afternoon evidently in some sort of pale green stuff that brought out the rose bloom of her cheeks and the gold lights of her hair wonderfully. The book, by the cover, was a novel, and she was too deeply absorbed in it to stir when one of the boys crept up behind her. I could not see w’hat he was doing, but I could see his face of sly, impish delight as he stood there after he had finished his work, apparently awaiting the catastrophe. It came in a minute. At a quick motion of Etta’s head the whole torrent of golden hairrame rippling and waving down. The breeze from the window sent it streaming far and wide until she seemed enveloped in a halo of golden mist. The little wretch had slyly pulled out every hairpin as he stood there, and now he clapped his hinds and laughed aloud a hearty peal of boyish merriment. I saw Etta’s face; the rose bloom was all drowned in one scarlet flush which extended from chin to forehead, a" flush of rage which almost transformed her, and turning on the boy she gave him one ringing box on the ear and fled. The child burst into a howl of mingled pain and rage, of course". Well, he deserved it; he certainly did. It was very provoking and she has beautiful hair; but I wish she had not done it. At least, if she must do it I wish I had not seen her face. I wonder if I shall remember it when I see my Etta again ? It is very odd how clear the distinction is in my mind, as clear as if there were really two of them, instead of one whimsical, capricious, changeable, inconsequent girl. What a safety-valve adjectives sometimes prove! Blessings on the man who first invented them!

May 7.—May-day is safely over. I have been haunted by a fear lest my opposite neighbors should be seized by the “ flitting” mania which pervades New York at this season. It gave me rather a shock to realize what a blank life would be to me now without Etta to watch and speculate about. Of course it will not last, but just at present it is my only excitement, and I feci much the same sort of interest that one takes in a well-constructed novel or a well-written and well-acted play. I don’t in the least realize that Etta is a real flesh-and-blood woman. She is to me only an abstraction, a study, a puzzle, and I catch myself wondering: “How will it all come out? What did the author mean by this?” Perhaps if I really met- 1 her face to face, spoke to her and heard her answer, it would all be different; but at present she is no more real to me than the Undines and Lorelies of the German fairy tales. May 12. —My siege is nearly over at last. Dr. Petrie tells me that I may try the strength of my knee in a short walk, with the aid of a stout cane. Thank Hjpven! I don’t think I quite realized, before, the terrible tedium and ennui of this long confinement. A new illustration of “He tempers the wind,” etc., I suppose. I wonder if the prisoner ever realizes all his misery until the order for his release is signed and the prison doors swing outward to let in the bright, sweet sights and sounds of nature to his weary eyes ? May 19.—1 am progressing rapidly. My knee seems quite restored, though I have not yet discarded my “oaken staff.” Somehow my interest in Etta does not diminish as I thought it would. While I am out I catch myself continually wondering : “ What is she doing now? Is my Etta or the other Etta there?” And the first thing on my return is a rush to the window to see if I can catch a glimpse of her. Philip, my boy, this won’t do, youknow. It was all very well whileyou had nothing else to think of, but it is quite time for you to shake off such whimsies now. Tom Grant has been here. Tom is an old friend, a hare-brained fellow enough, but good and honest and true. We used to be great chums in the old days, and have never outgrown the liking. Tom is engaged, ana the engagement is so new that the freshness has not yet worn off. He seems in a constant state of wonder over his good luck, and of course is as full of his raptures as a boy is of fire-works on the “Glorious Fourth.” He raves about her hair (I just wishlie could see Etta’s!), her eyes, her smile, her complexion, her hand (no daintier than Etta’s, I’ll be sworn!) until lam sick of the whole subject, instead of being fired with the wildest curiosity, as hq fondly imagines. He is going to take me to call on Miss Laura as soon as I feel strong enough. I don’t think that will be very soon. If it were Etta now! May 24—It m Etta! Here’s a jolly go, as the London gamin* say. Tom came here yesterday, bursting in with his usual free-and-easy manner. Of course his first

words were an inquiry whether I would go with him this evening to see Miss Laura. While I hesitated and bungled over my excuse he was striding about the room, examining things, until he reached the window, when he stopped short with a sudden, “ By George!” Then—well, one does feel rather dazed when his castle tumbles about his ears, even if he never realized before that he had a castle at all. I have a vague idea that I stood with my mouth wide open, gasping like a sick salmon, while Tom went on to explain that the house exactly in the rear was the one where Miss Laura Vane lived. “You must have seen her at the window, my boy,” Tom went on, in his liveliest manner. “ Dark eyes and golden hair, you know. Of course you’ve seen her; and isn't she a stunner ?” “Laura —Etta, Etta—Laura; what did it all mean?” Tom went droningon, and I heard him through a sort of confused mist, only waking at his last words: “So I’ll come for you to-morrow night, and take you round there. You’re to be my best man when the wedding comes off, you know; butthat won’t be just yet.” Now the thing that puzzles me is which Etta shall I see when Igo there. If it’s the other Etta, all right. In the course of time I am quite sure that I can develop a brotherly indifference toward her which will not in the least interfere with my friendship for Tom. If my Etta meets us, though—what then? Then time must decide, and “ sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” in all conscience, especially when it comes in such a shape as this. May 26. —Eureka! The mystery is solved, and what a fool I have been never to think of it before! When Tom .and I walked up the Vanes’ steps and rang the bell, I confess that I quaked at heart. Which would it be, my Etta or the other Etta? In other words, when I met the actual flesh-and-blood -woman which set of feelings would gain the upper hand? Miss Laura swept down, gorgeous in whi|e and rose-color, and, as I bent low in acknowledgment of Tom’s presentation, I felt, with a sensation of blessed relief, that I found in her not my Etta, but the other Etta. I had only a moment for my self-gratulations, though. A second time the parlor door swung wide, a second figure all in wfiite and rose-color, with golden hair and soft, dark eyes glided into the room. While I stared aghast I felt with a sudden thrill that here at last was my Etta, her very self, no phantom, and, best of all, not Tom’s Miss Laura, after all. Tom burst out laughing at my amazement, only half comprehending it, of course. Laura laughed too, and Etta smiled a shy, sweet smile. “They are twins, my boy,” roared Tom, “Iwouldn’t tell you before, because I "Wanted to see your first look when .<ou<aßwt.in. Did you ever see such a likeness ? I can tell them apart, though, bless you!” “1 think I can distinguish them also,” I replied, meekly. Think! In spite of Tom’s incredulity, didn’t I know, didn’t I feel in every fiber, that Etta was my Etta, and that Tom’s Laura was the other Etta, and to me nothing and less than nothing? 1 fancy there will not be many more entries in this diary of mine. It has been a good friend to me while I needed it, but the living Etta is sweeter and lovelier than the phantom Etta whom I have rashly dared to call mine. November 12. —I shall not be Tom’s best man after all, for our weddings are to take place on the same day. Etta has laughed, with tears in her dear eyes, over this old diary of mfne, and insists upon my adding this last entry as a testimony to the virtues of back windows.— Harper's Magazine.