• Rebellious Daughter
Rebellious Daughter The loss of four children had made Hannah Smith feel very insecure about her three remaining offspring. "To me the death of a child is the greatest wrench and grief the world can contain for a mother," she said once. "For it is an utterly irretrievable loss. Other losses can have their places supplied after a while, but the child's place is empty in this world forever."
Soon after Ray's death in February 1880, Hannah wrote to her cousin Carrie saying that Mary was so witchingly sweet and pretty that we do not any of us think she can live long. 2
On Mary's nineteenth birthday, her mother wrote her a "little love letter" in which she said, / am thanking my heavenly Father for giving me such a gift as a daughter like thee.
All thy life long thee has been nothing but a delight to me. I love thee, my precious, with an untellable mother love, and thee may always know this wherever or whatever happens.
Moreover, I am on thy side against the whole world, and even against myself if this last could be possible. 3
In the fall of 1882, Hannah went to Northampton, Massachusetts, to visit Mary at Smith College and to help her fix up her room. Mother and daughter were standing in the
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somewhat bare dormitory room that contained a fireplace, bed, desk, and chest of drawers.
"Mother, I think some flowered curtains and a few brightly colored rag rugs would liven up this room." Mary, now a lovely sophisticated-looking young lady, was measuring the height of the window.
"Yes, yes, just what we need," nodded Hannah absently.
She was thinking of bedcover and curtains to match, in a cheerful, colorful pattern and was mentally calculating the amount of material they would need.
"Mother, what shall I do with all these bare walls?"
Mary asked.
"Some of the paintings thy father picked up on his western trip would do nicely."
Mary was deep in thought. "If only I could have a nice leather-covered armchair to sit here right by the fireplace.
Then on cold nights I could have a really cozy place to do all the Greek translation that I must keep up with."
Her mother was beginning to see dollar signs in her head. Curtains, rugs, bedcover, and pictures from home were one thing, but a leather-covered armchair was quite an extravagance for an 18-year-old girl to have in her room at college. Hannah knew it was time to remonstrate with her daughter about economy and thrift.
Mary had opened the window to breathe the crisp fall air. The leaves had turned and a real New England autumn was spreading a riot of color all over the campus. It was such a beautiful, clear day that Mary leaned out of the window, entranced by the deep reds of the maple tree directly opposite her second-story room and the background foliage splendidly dressed in russet, saffron and sun-bright yellow. She inhaled deeply.
Suddenly Mary broke into a perfect paroxysm of coughing. Her mother ran to close the window and anxiously stood by her daughter until the cough finally wore itself out. Meanwhile, Hannah's vivid imagination started to work. Her precious darling had always had a weak throat.
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For years she had feared that Mary would die of consumption, as tuberculosis was called then. Scenes flashed through her mind with amazing rapidity: Mary, lying on the bed, pale and thin, unable to control her racking cough
. Mary, weak and emaciated, being held up by her mother as she continued to cough into her handkerchief, blood spurting out as the agonizing, painful hacking went on .
Mary, lying lovely and serene in death in a filmy white dress with a beautiful, seraphic smile on her face.
Mary will be dead, and then how I will wish I had bought her that chair, Hannah thought. "No, I can't bear it," she said aloud.
Mary had recovered herself and was calmly putting her clean laundry in the chest of drawers. Startled by her mother's anguished cry, she glanced up to see Hannah clutch her hat and bag and hurry out the door.
"I will be back in an hour or two," she said, giving no explanation to the astonished Mary.
Hannah rushed out of the building, commandeered a ride in a public carriage that she found at the corner, and requested to be driven to the village of Northampton. Once there she marched into the nearest furniture store. Forthwith she bought the largest and most luxurious leather armchair that the proprietor had to offer and demanded to have it delivered to Mary's room immediately. The store owner was still in a daze as the impressive woman left as hurriedly as she had come in.
Two hours later there was a knock at the door of Mary's college room. Two burly men carefully carried in the large, comfortable chair. Mary stared at the expensive piece of furniture in open-mouthed wonder. Meanwhile her mother was beginning to regret her overindulgence. A mother should not be so foolishly prodigal. She should teach her daughter some discipline—some habits of thrift and selfrestraint.
"There, daughter," she said somewhat grimly. "Thee coughed up that chair."4
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Hannah's three children had distinct personalities of their own. Mary was tall, poised, and very attractive to the opposite sex. She was also an intellectual and seemed remarkably mature for her age. Her mother's eyes, so blinded by love, overlooked the fact that Mary was also quite a bit like her father. She spent money lavishly, was impulsive, self-centered, and spoiled.
Logan was a late developer. He didn't learn to read until he was ten and, as a boy, was mainly interested in dogs, loud noises, and sports. In his late teens, however, he began to develop intellectually and to manifest a real interest in the arts. He grew up to be a lover of beauty. Entering Haverford College in 1882 just before his seventeenth birthday, he was already developing the literary tastes for which he became known when he was older.
Alice began to be known as Alys around 1882 when she was fifteen. She was perhaps even more beautiful than
Mary and was known for her sweet, unselfish nature. All the Smith children were tall and imposing figures; intelligent and handsome.
In 1882 when Mary was in her second year at Smith College, someone gave her a copy of Walt Whitman's book
Leaves of Grass to read. She was warned that there were some "perfectly disgusting" parts to the book and was advised to skip over them. She discovered, however, "something sublime" in his poetry and wrote home about it. Mary was the darling of Robert's heart as well as Hannah's, and Robert invited the poet to visit them over Christmas in order to please Mary. Robert had never read a word of Leaves of Grass, but since Walt Whitman lived just across the river from Philadelphia in Camden, New Jersey, it was easy enough to bring him to Germantown.
Poor Robert never dreamed what a bombshell he was introducing into the quiet and respectable little conclave of Quakers in their neighborhood. The poet spent three
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days with the Smiths that Christmas and formed a lifelong friendship with all of them except Hannah, but he was especially fond of Mary. He called her his "bright particular star," and his correspondence with her has been preserved.
Hannah did not approve of Whitman, but was broadminded enough to welcome the controversial poet into their home. Her relatives, though, were horrified. Mary's aunt
Sarah wrote her niece a scorching letter after the Christmas holidays, appalled that she would introduce such an immoral and disreputable character into the Smith household.
Curiously enough, the introduction of Walt Whitman into the family was the beginning of a trend. In the 1880s and 1890s, famous literary and intellectual characters drifted in and out of the Smith home. Some of them were radicals. Some were among the most outstanding opponents of Christianity in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Hannah listened to them tolerantly and went on placidly writing books glowing with faith—books that are still being sold and read today.
After Christmas of 1882, when Mary returned to Smith College, she wrote that she had begun to read and enjoy
Herbert Spencer. Her mother was troubled. Mr. Spencer was a very persuasive agnostic. Hannah suddenly took the sleeper to Massachusetts to visit her daughter. Perhaps her indulgence and tolerance had gone a bit too far.
It was a cold winter morning and the two women were warmed by a roaring fire. Mary sat in her luxurious leather armchair while Hannah stood at the window, looking out upon the campus. The ice-coated dark branches of the maple trees twisted upward, silhouetted against the brilliant blue of the winter sky. A soft, downy snow had coated the ground.
"Daughter, is it necessary for thee to read Herbert Spencer?" Hannah said suddenly, turning from the window.
"Mother, there is no point in my getting an education if I am unwilling to explore new ideas."
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"I know the arguments that Herbert Spencer makes,"
Hannah continued as she paced back and forth in Mary's room. "He says that the 'unknowable' cannot be comprehended by human reason. Since we can't know anything about God, even if there is such a being, we could not attempt to know what this being is like. Therefore, he says that the only reasonable belief is agnosticism."
"That's right," responded Mary. "And he also says that if there is a God, how did He come into existence? If He was created by something, then who created that? Could
God have created himself? If He created himself out of nothing, then how can something come out of nothing?"
Hannah was becoming more and more agitated. "Thee must look at the outcomes of the two beliefs—agnosticism and a faith in Christianity. Looking the world over, thee will find that those who believe in a personal God are the good and the noble and the peaceful and the triumphant souls, while those who do not are the defeated and miserable ones."
Mary shook her head, almost imperceptibly. Then she rose from her chair to put another log on the fire.
"Take my case," Hannah continued. "All in me that is good comes directly from my belief in a personal God. And my greatest strength has come from my persistent holding on to this belief through days and months of fierce temptation to the contrary. Thy father gave place to doubt and is losing all sense of perception of God. Oh, my darling daughter"—there was a catch in Hannah's voice—
"I have watched the growth and development of agnosticism in thy father.
I can assure thee that it would almost break my heart to have my children travel on the same road."
"Mother, I could not stay in college and not be exposed to different forms of thought," Mary said with some impatience.
"In college, temptation is everywhere.
I do not expect thee can escape it. But, my precious daughter, hold on to the God in whom thee has in the past trusted." 5
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"Father and I talked when he was here last month,"
Mary replied stiffly. "I told him that I have given up the idea of a personal God."
Hannah recoiled as if she had been struck. A look of infinite sadness came over her face. She crossed the room and knelt beside her lovely daughter, grabbing one of Mary's hands tightly. It was as if she were trying to pull her daughter back before it was too late.
When she could speak again, she said, "I beg of thee not to talk to Father about such things. His unbelief is contagious. Just last week as he was pouring out his lack of belief to me, I saw this beautiful picture of Christ as the liberator of women. Suddenly my whole heart went out to Christ in a perfect burst of love and loyalty.
I was thinking of the dreadful bondage women are in all the world over and of how all the emancipation that has ever come to us has come through Jesus."6
Hannah pressed Mary's hand more tightly. "Do hold on to thy faith. Life isn't worth living without it." Then, seeing a completely blank expression on her daughter's face, she let go of Mary's hand. Oh, Lord, she prayed silently. Thou must do it. Thou seest that I cannot.
In the winter of 1883, Mary had left Smith College, returned home, and begun working for a kindergarten teacher's diploma. Meanwhile, she had become involved in several humanistic and scientific organizations. One was the American Association of Science. When it met in Philadelphia, arrangements were made for those attending from other countries to stay with local families.
Mary attended these meetings and offered to show visiting British gentlemen the sights of her home city. She took three of the visitors out to Camden, New Jersey, to call on Walt Whitman. One of these was a man named Frank Costelloe, an Irish barrister (lawyer) from London. He was ten years older than Mary, a bearded man of less than medium height.
Mary and Frank were instantly attracted to each other.
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She found herself baring her soul, even sharing with Frank her fear that she had inherited the mental instability that ran in the Smith family. In his bouts of depression, Robert had a habit of reciting off a list of family mental disorders.
Robert's attitude especially affected Mary, who was much like her father.
Frank, who was a Roman Catholic, was not the least alarmed. He told her that such fears were hogwash. He claimed that there were only four things that really mattered in human existence: God, duty, free will, and immortality. Mary found a great deal of security in Frank's calm assurance that he knew the answers to the riddles of life.
Costelloe returned to England, and Mary, joined by Logan, went to Harvard University. Since Harvard was just beginning to offer classes to girls, Mary became one of its first women students. The women's branch of the university, then called Harvard Annex, was later renamed Radcliffe College. Meanwhile, the romance of Mary and Frank continued through the mail. Finally, Frank proposed and Mary accepted by cable.
During this courtship, Mary led her parents to believe that she was seriously interested in her philosophy tutor,
Mr. Palmer. Suspecting that Mary was in love with Mr.
Palmer, Hannah invited him to Philadelphia for an inspection visit the Christmas of 1883.
Mary's use of the unsuspecting Mr. Palmer as a decoy totally took in her mother. A very curious document survives in Hannah's writing, a sort of manifesto written to Mr. Palmer, outlining her views on marriage. The young man, who was hoping to make Mary his wife, must have been a bit startled by his prospective mother-in-law's ideas.
The letter, in part, read:
And now I want to take the opportunity to say a few words to you on the subject of marriage. As you have doubtless discovered, my daughters are far more to me than any other earthly consideration. I believe that motherhood is more of a passion with me than
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with most women. My ideal of marriage is an equal partnership, neither one assuming control over the other. Any marriage other than this is to my mind tyranny on the one hand and slavery on the other. I believe there ought to be an equal partnership in all property of incomes that accrue to them jointly after marriage and that each partner should have equal authority in disposing it.
She went on to paint a grim picture of the tyrannies of the typical Victorian husband and then wrote:
/ never could put into words how deeply I feel on this subject, nor how a woman's whole soul revolts from this position of slavery when once her eyes are opened to see it. It degrades and humiliates her in her own eyes with an anguish that no words can express.
And I am convinced that most ofthe misery in married life arises from the fact that the soul of the woman is chafing against this degrading bondage. 7
When the holidays ended, both Mr. Palmer and Hannah were in for a shock. Mary dropped her little bombshell and confessed her engagement to Frank Costelloe. Then she departed hastily for Harvard Annex where she soon received a barrage of protesting letters from both Robert and Hannah.
Not until Mary returned home for a spring break did Hannah have a chance to confront her daughter over the engagement. The two sat facing each other in identical platform rocking chairs in the parlor.
It was late in the afternoon, and a dreary winter rain spattered the windows with droplets resembling tears.
Hannah shivered in spite of the warm fire in the stove.
Her daughter had a set look on her face that the mother had come to dread. "Does thee know how upset thy father is over this engagement with Frank Costelloe? It has literally made him sick. He says that he will never give his
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consent because he sees marriage to Mr. Costelloe as a life of misery for thee."
Mary was very fond of her father, and she shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "But, Mother, I love him. I'll never love anyone else but him."
"But, my darling—thee doesn't know. Sometimes a sudden rush of love overpowers the best sense in the world for a while. And often during that senseless period, decisions are made that bring a lifetime of sorrow."
"That will not happen here," Mary went on. "I don't love Frank so much in a physical way as I do for his mind and his beliefs."
"Pshaw!" her mother blurted out, years of pent-up frustration over her daughter suddenly pouring out. "I know thee is physically attracted to him. And, Mary, I must confess to thee that I have made mistakes in thy training. And I am now deeply sorry for these mistakes. I should not have encouraged thy independence so much. To give a young person too much independence is like turning an engine loose without an engineer. A young person cannot know very much about life and its dangers, nor the paths that lead to pitfalls and precipices. Until they have learned, they do need guidance. Thee is so impulsively self-willed that thee cannot endure delay or opposition.
I should have curbed thy self-will more." Hot tears welled up in Hannah's eyes.
Mary rose from her chair abruptly and turned her back to her mother. She stood by the window, such a slender, graceful figure, so achingly young and vulnerable. "I don't see what all this fuss is about," she said defensively.
"I would have married someone, sometime. What is so terribly wrong with Frank?"
"What is wrong with Frank?" her mother repeated in amazement. "How could thee have been receiving our letters all winter and all the reading materials I have sent thee on marriages between Catholics and Protestants and ask that question? Hasn't thee paid any attention to our letters?"
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"Yes, of course." Mary turned around to face her mother, impatiently brushing a strand of hair from her face. "But Frank is a liberal man. We will have no trouble."
"There is no such thing as a liberal man when a Roman Catholic marries a Protestant girl," Hannah fairly shouted.
"I told thee about that niece of Laura Corse's who married an English Catholic. Her husband rules her with a rod of iron and has alienated her from her family and separated her from the children and made her life a misery to her. It is in the system of their church. Roman Catholic men are taught to keep their wives from having any liberty. The church itself will hound thee and make thee bring up all thy children to be Roman Catholic. The Protestant wife who lives with a Roman Catholic husband lives in a prison house." 8 * Mary was still standing at the window trying to avoid digesting her mother's passionate entreaties. "Just because he is a Catholic doesn't mean that all Catholics tyrannize their wives. Frank isn't like that!"
Hannah groaned. "Thee hasn't had enough experience to know, as thy father and I know, what lies in store for thee in the future. Thee is blinded by love." The mother gripped the arms of her chair fiercely. "Dear daughter, I go to sleep praying for thee and I wake up praying for thee.
If thee should end up marrying him, I should accept it as a death knell to all possibility of happiness for either thee or me. If it must be finally, I shall give thee up, as to a prison house, and shall spend the rest of my life trying to alleviate thy almost certain misery." 10
*Author's Note: Back in the nineteenth century there was an impenetrable gulf between Protestants and Roman Catholics. At that time, the Catholic husband was very traditional. Backed by the church, he did insist on total obedience from his wife. Later on in her life, Hannah had an "opening," as she called her spiritual insights. She wrote to Mary in 1910: "I had one of my 'openings' in regard to Catholic ceremonies that took away forever my prejudices and made me feel that it was a fact that we are all one in God." 9
From her vantage point in 1885, though, Hannah was not overreacting when she viewed with great apprehension the prospect of her precious darling marrying a Roman Catholic. Almost all mixed marriages turned out to be misery for the Protestant wife.
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Hannah rose unsteadily to her feet and grabbed Mary's hand. Turning her around, she held her in a tight embrace.
"Oh, dear daughter," she choked out, "I beg of thee, do put off this marriage and give thyself more time to decide if this is what thee really wants."
Mary disentangled herself from her mother's arms and pushed her gently back into the chair. "All right, Mother," she sighed, "I will think about it."
Hannah had to be content with that. Mary would discuss it no further.
By the end of May it had become obvious that Mary was going to marry Frank. Hannah was in a state of despair.
She had been suffering from chronic diarrhea (probably what we now call colitis) and was sleeping very little. Her hands shook so badly that she could barely write. Her religious friends were deeply concerned and added to her misery by telling her that if her faith were triumphant enough, she should not be sick.
Hannah confided by mail to Priscilla Mounsey:
They are so dreadfully down on me for being sick and scold me as if I were a great sinner. I am more puzzled than ever over it.
It seems to me a dreadful thing to make all the poor, suffering invalids feel that they are yielding to the power of the devil in being sick, and that every pain they have is a sin. And I do not feel sure at all that good health is God's will for everybody, always. 11
By June, Hannah was close to the breaking point. The family was to embark for Europe on June 24 on the Eider of North German Lloyd Line. All the Pearsall Smiths were going to Mary's wedding. One night, several days before their departure, Hannah sat in her denuded "library," as she called the corner parlor where she did all her work and kept all her papers. The house was to be rented during their travels. Everything personal had been put away.
To Hannah it seemed as if her life were being packed
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away, along with her notes for her latest book. She felt like a homeless wanderer being uprooted from her beloved Philadelphia and hauled off across the ocean to witness her darling daughter's execution. As Hannah settled back in her library chair, she remembered the words of a letter from her friend, Anna Shipley. Leaning forward, she extracted it from a box of mail carefully cataloged. Anna had written: / awoke this morning with a strong impression of having had a dreadful dream about thee! And the words were ringing through me as if from some supernatural source:
"There is a dreadful struggle going on in that family between the powers ofgood and evil." 12
Hannah let the letter fall to her lap and stared dully out the window.
It was a lovely day in June. The earth was bursting forth in new life. The apple trees were clothed in pink blossoms. Roses were starting to bloom. She became vaguely aware of the contrast between the abundance of life outside and her own sense of being dead and lost inside.
Dear God, she prayed, why is it that we lead and guide our children along until they grow up, and then they break our hearts? Why has thou allowed Mr. Costelloe to come into our lives and to tear my daughter away from my mother heart?
. Oh, God, why do I have to suffer like this? I don't understand. Thou hast promised that all things will work together for good to them that love God, but I cant see how any good could come of this dreadful marriage. Oh, Lord, I've always been able to trust thee before. If thee doesn't help me, I am lost.
The agitation in Hannah began to die down as she continued her prayer. Thou doest all things well, and I will count on thee to get me over this hump. For I remember so well the lesson of the little bird and its song of hope in the midst of a dreary, desolate, cold winter* Although all seems dark and wrong, and those we've trusted have failed us, and our prayers seem to go unanswered, yet there is still thee, oh God, who *at Nellie's funeral in 1857.
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changes not, but is the same good, loving, tender God, yesterday, today, and forever.
Although the fig tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines; the labor of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat; the flock shall be cut offfrom the fold.
Yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation. * And though thee slay me, yet will I trust thee.
When Hannah rose to her feet, there was a lovely peace shining forth from her eyes, and a faint luminous smile touched her lips. The Lord had brought her comfort, as always.
Mary and Frank Costelloe were married in September 1885. Her mother said that her daughter "looked lovely and was radiant with happiness." The young couple was honored by being invited to a wedding breakfast in Balliol Hall at Oxford by the renowned Dr. Jowett. Frank had been a protege of his when the young man attended Oxford. After the bridal pair had been toasted with lemonade and eulogized with speeches, they rushed off to take the train to London. Hannah returned to Philadelphia with Alys but planned to travel back to London to help Mary furnish their new home.
On September 13 she wrote to Mary: Thee must have wondered how I managed to keep so cheerful on thy wedding day when I expected to be so overwhelmed. The fact was, I came to the conviction that it would be pure selfishness to spoil thy happiness with my sorrow, that true love always rejoices with those that rejoice and forgets self altogether. 11
Habakkuk 3:17-18, KJV.