The Butterfly House

By
Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

Author of
“A Humble Romance,” “A New England Nun,”
“The Winning Lady,” etc.

With illustrations by
Paul Julien Meylan

New York
Dodd, Mead and Company
1912

Chapter I

Fairbridge, the little New Jersey village, or rather city (for ithad won municipal government some years before, in spite of theprotest of far-seeing citizens who descried in the distance bondeddebts out of proportion to the tiny shoulders of the place), was amisnomer. Often a person, being in Fairbridge for the first time, andbeing driven by way of entertainment about the rural streets, wouldinquire, “Why Fairbridge?”

Bridges there were none, except those over which the trainsthundered to and from New York, and the adjective, except to oldinhabitants who had a curious fierce loyalty for the place, did notseemingly apply. Fairbridge could hardly, by an unbiassed person whodid not dwell in the little village and view its features through therosy glamour of home life, be called “fair.” There werea few pretty streets, with well-kept sidewalks, and ambitious,although small houses, and there were many lovely bits of views to beobtained, especially in the green flush of spring, and the red glowof autumn over the softly swelling New Jersey landscape with its warmred soil to the distant rise of low blue hills; but it was not fairenough in a general way to justify its name. Yet Fairbridge it was,without bridge, or natural beauty, and no mortal knew why. The originof the name was lost in the petty mist of a petty past.

Fairbridge was tragically petty, inasmuch as it saw itself great.In Fairbridge narrowness reigned, nay, tyrannised, and was notrecognised as such. There was something fairly uncanny aboutFairbridge's influence upon people after they had lived there even afew years. The influence held good, too, in the cases of men whodaily went to business or professions in New York. Even Wall Streetwas no sinecure. Back they would come at night, and the terrible,narrow maelstrom of pettiness sucked them in. All outside interestwas as naught. International affairs seemed insignificant when onceone was really in Fairbridge.

Fairbridge, although rampant when local politics were concerned,had no regard whatever for those of the nation at large, except asthey involved Fairbridge. Fairbridge, to its own understanding, was anucleus, an ultimatum. It was an example of the triumph of theinfinitesimal. It saw itself through a microscope and loomed upgigantic. Fairbridge was like an insect, born with the convictionthat it was an elephant. There was at once something ludicrous, andmagnificent, and terrible about it. It had the impressiveness of theabnormal and prehistoric. In one sense, it was prehistoric.It was as a giant survivor of a degenerate species.

Withal, it was puzzling. People if pinned down could not say why,in Fairbridge, the little was so monstrous, whether it depended uponlocal conditions, upon the general population, or upon a few who hadan undue estimation of themselves and all connected with them. WasFairbridge great because of its inhabitants, or were the inhabitantsgreat because of Fairbridge? Who could say? And why was Fairbridge soimportant that its very smallness overwhelmed t

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