Florida Pier : writings and about       /       jmcvey.net

Incorrigible Nature
“The Gentler View,” Harper’s Weekly (May 8, 1909) : 31
U Michigan copy/scan (via hathitrust) : link
 

      Sairey Gamp, note Sairey Gamp and friend Mrs. Harris, shocking old creatures that they were, with their fondness for cold salmon and cucumbers, not to mention their perfect passion for soft pillows in the small of their shameless backs, did little harm when compared to that far worse pair Mrs. Grundy, note Mrs. Grundy and her appallingly indiscreet neighbor Dame Nature. They are public scandals, and one hesitates to mention them in refined circles.
      Sairey Gamp and Mrs. Harris are on the verge of oblivion. Any number of people ponder uncomfortably at the sound of their names, and, repeating them softly, wonder if they are by any chance distant in-laws, the faint irritation connected with them being so oddly familiar. Another two generations and the old wretches will only be rediscovered by purest accident, when eccentric students delve in worm-eaten volumes.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
I feel seen. Another two generations and the old wretches will only be rediscovered by purest accident, when eccentric students delve in worm-eaten volumes. But, looking ahead into as far distant a future as any one conveniently can, Mrs. Grundy and that frowsy old frump Nature are seen, on opposite sides of the fence, to be sure, but both chuckling over their unseemly jests and both ensconced with an awful permanency. Dame Nature, having contrived us according to her limited talents, turns us over to be inspected by Mrs. Grundy, whose upturned eyes and hands held high in horror make us extremely uncomfortable. As we hurry by those shocked and trembling nostrils we get a first glimpse of the incorrigible tricks Nature is capable of. She has protected her every wish and her each mistake, and it is always we, not she, who pay the piper. Nature is lazy, conservative, and lacking in standards. Instead, however, of her being made to suffer for her shortcomings, she is shielded on every side, even Mrs. Grundy’s antagonism giving the greatest assistance. Nature, having no reputable ideas on beauty, turns us out “forked radishes of the most ungainly mould. To save her face she implants modesty in our hearts. Grundy calls for clothes in an agony of sensibilities, with the result that we are covered up, Nature’s bad job hidden under beautiful textures which we poor humans have to scurry around and make, while that shiftless old woman never once gets her well-deserved wigging.
      To have the work of the world done it is necessary that Nature’s speaking puppets should be in fairly good health. But is that neglectful creature going to make our health her business? Not at all. She has not enough instinctive neatness to red us up and remove all unnecessary organs. She changes her plans radically when half through her work and lacks the bare morality to take a fresh start. Every one knows what troubles her makeshift methods have given us. The woman needs disciplining. She has absolutely none of the artist’s feeling for finish, none of that exalted love of delicate detail which would put her in the same class with deft craftsmen. She pushes us out of her sight, bulbous and gauche, indulging herself in a chef-d’oeuvre at the rate of one in a thousand — an unevenness which has proved upsetting since the beginning of the world. As a cheap labor-saving device that ought to bring shame on her gray head, she makes ill health uncomfortable and unbecoming, so that we patiently add to our other duties the care of our complicated persons. Ignoring the fact that she gives next to no list of directions, we do our simple best, suffering keenly because she neglected to remove the working scaffold of stupidity, but from sheer inertia incorporated it with the finished brain. we do our simple best, suffering keenly because she neglected to remove the working scaffold of stupidity, but from sheer inertia incorporated it with the finished brain. Realizing — and she has reached an age of great canniness — that if we possessed a more cultivated taste than she — it is always quite possible — we might refuse to keep our bodies, and, by destroying them, put her to the trouble of making more, she inserted large quantities of self-love. She saw to it that we were fond of our soft, idiotic bodies, and as there was nothing to warrant it even she felt that in the majority of cases this would be so that scandalous, conscienceless old woman made us fond of our bodies because they belonged to us and caused that to be a quite sufficient excuse for our squealing in alarm at the prick of a lackadaisical pin .
      After the vast experience Nature has obviously had, it might be thought that she could see her way to making an improvement or two. We have been modest in our demands, as a matter of fact; we have taken humbly what she has given us, and, our record being the clear thing it is, we do not hesitate to say that we think she has profited very little by her many failures. Of course it is difficult to teach an old woman new stitches, but it does seem that an elimination here and there with a fresh combination to vary the monotony of ages is a thing she owes us, and a thing that any other woman of spirit would have accomplished long ago, especially with such opportunities open to her. The entire affair up to now has been conducted on unscientific, unprofessional, feminine lines. Dame Nature is the only woman of any prominence who has not gone in for higher education. She is not methodical; we doubt if she uses a formula; she is not completely sanitary, and, though it is a thing one regrets having to admit, there is no denying that some of her deductions savor of the Middle Ages. The entire affair up to now has been conducted on unscientific, unprofessional, feminine lines. Dame Nature is the only woman of any prominence who has not gone in for higher education. She is not methodical; we doubt if she uses a formula; she is not completely sanitary, and, though it is a thing one regrets having to admit, there is no denying that some of her deductions savor of the Middle Ages. All this could be borne if it were not for her innate dishonesty. Deceit is ingrained in the woman. She tricks us; we know we are being hoodwinked, yet we never have and we never will be able to save ourselves from the ignominious stumble into her trap. She is so sure of herself, after all these years, that she no longer takes the trouble to cover her nets, but leaves them baldly about and giggles in an ill-bred manner when they trip us up.
      Nothing is as unprincipled as the way she assures reproduction. She makes our greatest obligation appear the most cherished prize. Her methods are so feminine that we wring our hands in despair of the sex. She is the Tom Sawyer of all time, and the inevitableness with which we desire to whitewash that pesky fence is one of the marvels of the world. We know what she wants us to do, and we have no intention of doing it without a struggle. A turgid affair that should have been corrected in the very beginning, in these enlightened days (is it possible the word is ill chosen?) will not be condoned. People who have mechanically stepped into line and kept step to Nature’s beating of time assume a trying smugness. Their smile implies that they are somehow our superiors. We — it is understood, is it not, that we stand for average agitated humanity in general? — would like to annihilate them. That being surrounded by much red tape, we can only follow their example, which quells them slightly when they see the mischief they have done. If one manages to withstand their beaming air of having achieved an unusual thing they — with Nature meanly prompting them — suggest slyly that it takes a soul of some magnitude to fall in love. These aspersions, cast upon a thing one is as sensitive about as one’s soul, hurry us from pure anxiety to prove them in the wrong into an enthusiastic, pig-headed adoration of a fellow being, and that, after all, is what Nature wants. She sits back and snoozes comfortably when things are once well started. It is the sight of her in decorous indifference that arouses Mrs. Grundy, who takes up the matter in its more advanced stages; and with that we have nothing to do. We have nothing much to do, anyway, with these matters which concern us so nearly, and our railing, though fully justified, is pathetically futile. The woman so has us in her hands. We do what she, from her old-fashioned point of view, suggests, and, going to sleep like babies when she thinks we need it, our one effort at freedom is to call her names. We, with minds that startle us daily and souls before which we stand awkward with admiration, wonderful we are encased with bodies managed entirely by that embarrassing old woman. We would refuse to recognize her existence if it were possible; as it is not, let it be a matter of honor with us to scowl at her approach and shy at her every demand.
 

notes

1. Sairey Gamp (and her imaginary friend Mrs Harris) is a character in Charles Dickens, his novel Martin Chuzzlewit (1843-44). She has her own page at wikipedia, but this passage, from the list of characters at that novel’s wikipedia page, serves the present purpose —

   “Sarah Gamp (also known as Sairey or Mrs Gamp) is an alcoholic who works as a midwife, a monthly nurse and a layer-out of the dead. Even in a house of mourning Mrs Gamp manages to enjoy all the hospitality the house can afford, with little regard for the person she is there to minister to, and she is often much the worse for drink. She constantly refers to a Mrs Harris, who is ‘a phantom of Mrs Gamp’s brain ... created for the express purpose of holding visionary dialogues with her on all manner of subjects, and invariably winding up with a compliment to the excellence of her nature’. Mrs Gamp habitually carries with her a battered black umbrella: so popular with the Victorian public was the character that Gamp became a slang word for an umbrella in general.”

   wikipedia (evidently taken from Donald Hawes, Who’s Who in Dickens (2001)) : link

2. Mrs Grundy is a figurative name for an extremely conventional or priggish person, a personification of the tyranny of conventional propriety.
   wikipedia : link

return to top
 

20260810