The Baker's Tale (13 page)

“Nature has made us different from men,” Lucretia Mott answered. “That is clear in our configuration and our physical strength. We are satisfied with nature. But we deny that the Creator intended the present position of woman to be the limit of our usefulness. Women will not attain the proper place in the Creator's plan until the civil, religious, and social disadvantages that impede our progress are removed.”

The questioner pressed his point with emphasis on the homage paid to women.

“That no longer satisfies us,” Lucretia Mott responded. “The flattering appeals to feminine delicacy, which too long satisfied us, are giving way to greater recognition of our rights and responsibilities in life. Women should cultivate all of the graces of our sex. But we should not be playthings, content with the demeaning flattery too often addressed to us.”

Another questioner rose to his feet.

“It is clear in the Declaration of Independence. All men—not all men and women, men—are created equal.”

Lucretia Mott countered.

“The same document eloquently provides that governments derive their just powers from the consent of the governed.”

There was another attack, this one more angry.

“You would destroy God's plan. It is in the First Epistle of Paul to Timothy. ‘Let the woman learn in silence with all subjection.
Suffer not a woman to teach nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence.'”

“In the beginning,” Lucretia Mott answered, “God created men and women, and gave dominion to both over the lower animals but not to one over the other. The laws given to Moses on Mount Sinai for the governance of men and women were equal. Those who read the Scriptures and decide for themselves rather than accept the distorted application of the Bible, given to them by narrow-minded clerics, do not find the distinction that you speak of.”

Another man rose to speak. He was uncommonly short, four feet tall at most, with the head of a normal-sized man on a small stubby body and small limbs such that his proportions seemed wrong. His face was covered by a full but well-kept beard. If anything, his head seemed larger than it was, owing to the smallness of his body.

To describe his condition more directly, he was a dwarf.

He looked to be about thirty-five years of age, although Ruby was unsure how men of his condition appeared as they grew older.

“I have a passion for liberty and detest oppression of any kind,” the dwarf said.

He had an intelligent face and bright grey eyes. His voice was deep and sounded as though it were coming from one much larger than he was. When he first rose, Ruby had seen him only for his size. Now she noted his dignity of bearing and the eloquence of his words.

“I am unsatisfied,” the dwarf continued, “with the division of society into two classes, one of which rules the other by accident of birth. As long as that condition exists, America shall be neither a model of wisdom nor an example to the world.”

The drunken heckler rose to his feet again.

“Sit down, Tom Thumb,” he bellowed. “Or are you sitting already? I cannot tell.”

There was scattered laughter around the hall.

Ruby felt anger welling up within her. Nature had implanted a sense of decency in her breast. She stood and, almost without thought, spoke.

“I dare say, he's more a man than you are.”

There was more laughter than before in the hall, this time directed at the heckler.

“And probably twice as smart,” a woman shouted.

Sensing that the crowd was with him, the dwarf addressed his detractor.

“Take a word of advice, sir, even if it comes from one who is shorter than you are. Try not to associate a diminutive stature with mental shortcomings. My opinion is worth no more but also no less than that of a full-sized man.”

The town meeting ended at nine o'clock. As Ruby left Faneuil Hall and thought back on the evening, she realized that she had forgotten her cares for the first time since leaving England. However briefly, the dull pain of loneliness had been gone.

She was not used to being out this late. There were fewer people on the street than she would have thought. At first, she did not know that she was being followed by a shambling figure. Then she realized that a man was behind her. She quickened her pace. He did the same. When she walked faster, he walked faster. When she lingered, he lingered.

Buildings cast shadows over the road, making the dark night darker.

She was frightened now.

Then the man—and he was a large man—moved to her side and peered into her face with an intrusive leer. His face was rendered more sinister by a tangle of reddish brown hair and thick brows that overshadowed his eyes.

Ruby recognized him as the heckler from the meeting hall. She had not realized before how big he was.

The man eyed her like a wolf. His coarse look frightened her.

“Why do you spend so much effort avoiding me?”

Ruby was unsure whether to go forward or retreat.

“You walk too near. Please, stand back or go on.”

“Nay, my pretty one. I will walk with you. Do you think I am drunk?”

“I think that you have been drinking.”

He moved in front of Ruby, blocking her way with his legs spread wide apart.

“You might use force,” she thought. “But I will resist you with every resource at my command.”

He grabbed her arm and held her in his grasp.

“Let go of me,” she cried.

“You look pretty in a passion.”

“Instantly. This moment.”

“Tell me, pretty one. Why are you so proud?”

“Leave me alone.”

“You can't hide your beauty from a poor fellow like me. Give me a kiss.”

“Let me go.”

“A kiss for every cry. Scream if you love me, darling.”

Her terror was growing. Then a voice from behind sounded.

“If you value your life, let her go.”

The bully turned, still holding Ruby in his grasp.

“This must not go on,” the dwarf said.

Aghast by the boldness of the interference, the bully looked at the tiny man with scorn.

“Must not go on?”

“Must not and shall not. Choose your next act carefully. If you choose wrongly, the consequences will fall heavily on your head.”

“Be gone, little man.”

The dwarf's next words were calmly spoken.

“I'll beat your brains out if you have any, or fracture your skull if you haven't.”

The bully let go of Ruby's arm, spat on the ground, and moved menacingly forward.

“You continue at your own peril,” the dwarf warned, stepping toward him. “I will not spare you.”

Ruby held her breath.

The bully spat on the ground again, then turned and walked away. The dwarf did not move until the aggressor was out of sight. Only then did he speak.

“You were kind to me inside the hall tonight,” he said to Ruby. “It was only right that I return the favor. Allow me to walk you home, if I may.”

He was more sturdily built than she had realized earlier in the evening. There was a dignity in his face that made it rather pleasant to look upon.

“I would be grateful. Thank you.”

She slowed her stride to accommodate his as they walked. They exchanged names: . . . Abraham Hart . . . Ruby Spriggs.

Abraham Hart extended his hand.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Ruby Spriggs. Although the circumstances of our meeting could have been more pleasant.”

“Were you not scared?”

“I was. But so was he. He feared me because I am different. He feared me because he thought there was a reason—a gun, perhaps—that I challenged him in the face of his overwhelming advantage in
size. And he feared the humiliation that would follow if a man of my size got the better of him.”

At the door to Ruby's home, Abraham Hart reached into his pocket and took out a small card.

“This is the address of my business. I am there six days a week. If I can ever be of service to you, do not hesitate to visit.”

After he had gone, Ruby looked at the card:

A
BRAHAM
H
ART, PROPRIETOR

B
OSTON
B
OOK
E
MPORIUM

114 T
REMONT
S
TREET

The following morning, Ruby returned to work. The previous night's happenings were very much on her mind. Lucretia Mott had given her much to think about. And she felt indebted to Abraham Hart. It intrigued her that he was the proprietor of a bookshop. And he had saved her from God knows what.

Ruby worked in the bakery five days each week. Sunday and Tuesday were her days off. She had not properly thanked Hart for interceding on her behalf. And he had suggested that she visit him at his shop. On Tuesday, she decided to do so.

Tremont Street was within walking distance of Ruby's lodging. Instead of entering the shop immediately, she stood outside and looked at the window. Dozens of books were invitingly displayed, some turned open to the title page or frontispiece.

She opened the door and went inside. The smell of freshly pressed paper filled the air. Leather too. Rows of books were neatly arranged on shelves.

Abraham Hart was sitting behind a desk. He saw Ruby, rose from his chair, and stretched out his short arms to welcome her.

“I didn't thank you properly for rescuing me,” she said.

“If admiring a pretty face were criminal, we should all be in jail,” Hart responded. “But people should be treated with respect.”

Hart introduced Ruby to a young man named Nicholas, who assisted him in overseeing the shop. Then he showed her his wares.

Uncle Tom's Cabin
by Harriet Beecher Stowe was prominently displayed. So were books by Herman Melville, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Edgar Allan Poe, and Washington Irving. There were classics by Homer and Virgil, and works by Cervantes and Dante.

England was well represented. There was Shakespeare, of course. And Dickens. Also Geoffrey Chaucer, Daniel Defoe, John Milton, Jane Austen, Emily Brontë, Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

And in a corner of the shop, a section for children. Mother Goose, the Brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Andersen. It was good to see these treasures.

Hart had a cordial manner and a kind thoughtful face.

“I am an American,” he told Ruby, “so I must ask how you like our country.”

She was still getting acclimated to it, she said. But apart from her encounter with the bully—and she had enjoyed the town meeting before the confrontation—everything was well.

They talked about books. Dickens versus “our American writers.” Hart told Ruby that he wanted to give her a book. She demurred, but he was insistent.

“Think of it as an investment on my part. If you like it, you will come back and buy more.”

Ruby asked which book he suggested, and he gave her a copy of
Uncle Tom's Cabin
.

“It speaks to the issue of slavery. And to the dignity of man.”

Ruby thanked him and promised to return.

“And one thing more,” Hart told her. “You keep addressing me as ‘Mr. Hart.' I would prefer it if you call me Abraham. We are much less formal in the colonies than is the custom in England.”

Each Tuesday during the next month, Ruby returned to the bookshop. When the weather was pleasant, she and Abraham took long walks. His legs were a bit crooked and spread apart. But his pace was brisk for a man his size. People gave him friendly greetings as they passed. Children were especially fond of him, perhaps because he gave them little candies that he carried in a pocket.

Their conversations were more about the issues of the day than personal.

“We began our political life in America with two distinct advantages over England,” Abraham told her. “First, our history commenced so late in time that we escaped the centuries of bloodshed and cruelty through which you passed. And second, we have a vast territory with not too many people in it yet.”

He was curious with regard to the things that Ruby told him about England. He had strong views about religion and a low opinion of most clergy. On one of their walks, he fulminated, “The preachers who strew the greatest amount of brimstone along the Eternal Path are deemed the most righteous. And those who preach the greatest difficulty of getting into Heaven are considered the most likely to get there, although it is hard to say by what reasoning that horrid conclusion is arrived at.”

“I believe,” Ruby offered, “that if one's religion is in harmony with one's conscience, it should not matter whether those beliefs satisfy anyone else. But I am more ignorant than I might be on matters of religion.”

“Your ignorance, as you call it, is wiser than most people's enlightenment.”

Ruby felt as though she had a friend.

After several weeks of taking walks together, Abraham invited Ruby to his home for a picnic. He picked her up in a carriage on a Sunday morning, and they rode to the outskirts of Boston. Small cottages dotted the road. Then came larger houses with gardens in front and orchards behind.

Abraham lived in a large old house set amidst oak trees and surrounded by a rough stone wall. Inside, the house was like the home of a normal-sized man, save for the fact that some of the furniture was fit for a child. The mantle above the fireplace seemed to have come from the same oak trees as the ceiling beams and floor. The windows were heavily shaded by branches and admitted a subdued light.

“I love this place dearly,” Abraham told her. “I have lived here for my entire life.”

The picnic was served in the garden by a housekeeper of normal stature. There was a cold roast fowl, a crusty loaf of bread, sliced cucumber, cheese, and a blueberry tart.

Berries hung from branches like clusters of coral beads.

After lunch, the housekeeper brought a bottle of old sherry and two glasses to the garden. Abraham engaged. Ruby did not.