A Romantic Young Lady

"With great pleasure," I answered; and I felt quite elated by the invitation. My ambition to form new associations was about to be realized apparently.

"I have hopes that Mr. Spence will consent to illustrate his theory of the Economy of Speech on that evening," continued Miss Kingsley. "As yet the science is in embryo, and naturally but a very small number of people are sufficiently familiar with the practical details of the theory to make it advisable to adopt it in general conversation. But with sympathetic friends he may feel disposed to make the experiment."

"You are extremely fortunate, Virginia," said Aunt Agnes, with emphasis.

"I should try in vain to be worthy of such an opportunity; but I am very much obliged to you, Miss Kingsley," I answered humbly.

"You will soon learn," she said, rising to go. "I am so glad to have had the pleasure of meeting you at last. I have alluded to you in my column on one or two occasions, but this is the first time I have had the gratification of seeing you in person. Perhaps you can tell me," she continued, still holding my hand, "whether there is any truth in the reported engagement of our Miss Leonard to Mr. Clarence Butterfield. And if you happen to know who are to be the bridesmaids at the wedding of Miss Newton, of Philadelphia, to our Mr. Lester, I shall consider it very friendly of you to tell me."

This made me feel very uncomfortable, for I could not decide on the spur of the moment whether it would be more charitable to my friends to tell the truth, or to remain silent and let their affairs be garbled.

"I want to put in something," she urged, noticing my hesitation. "I shall either contradict or confirm the report of the engagement in our next issue. Of course, artistically it makes little difference to me which; but it is much more satisfactory to the immediate friends to have an item correct, – just as the friends of a person who sits for a portrait prefer to have the likeness speaking, whereas to the painter it is much more important whether the tout ensemble is a work of art. To obtain a portrait one can always have recourse to the photographer; and so to insure mere accuracy in a social jotting, it is easy to pay for it as an advertisement. But artists stand upon a different footing. Am I clear? And I trust that you agree with me. It will do just as well on Wednesday; and if you should hear any other items of interest in my line, please note them. You have no idea of the competition I have to encounter. Some artists go so far as to invent their material, but it is not considered strictly professional. Well, I must run along. Don't forget, Wednesday at eight," and Miss Kingsley whisked out of the room, leaving me in a dazed condition.

The collection of social gossip was apparently her regular business, which she not only was ready to acknowledge, but gloried in, – just as a merchant might take pride in his bargains, or a lawyer in his arguments. There was a certain savor of self-reliance and proprietorship in her use of the word "our," by which it was evident to me, though I was sadly puzzled at first, that she distinguished Bostonians from those who lived elsewhere. But horrified as I was by the general idea of such a calling, I could not help feeling amused, and even rather admired Miss Kingsley's independence and enterprising spirit. She was a shade vulgar to be sure, but in my present frame of mind I was disposed to rank intellectual superiority above mere refinement of manner. I believed that Miss Kingsley, although but a few years older than myself, could put me to the blush in the matter of literary attainments and general information.

Aunt Agnes was plainly of that opinion, for she aroused me from my reflections by the remark, —

"A rare opportunity is afforded you, Virginia, for mental discipline. I can see that Miss Kingsley has taken a fancy to you. She is not a person who goes off at a tangent. She must have discerned capabilities for culture in you, or she would never have invited you to one of her entertainments. To you, who are accustomed to society fine speeches that mean nothing, it will probably occur that she is asking you on my account. Nothing of the sort. There is not an ounce of affectation in her. She has asked you because she wants you; and I can only add that if you neglect after this to seek improvement, you will be guilty of a deliberate sacrifice of talents for which there can be no excuse. Yes, talents. There is no use in mincing matters; you have talents. I have always thought so, which is the reason why I have taken so much trouble to keep you from evil courses. Your father has given me to understand that you have begun to listen to the voice of experience. I tried to save you from experience by counsel, but you scoffed at my words. You have providentially had your eyes opened before it was too late. You have suffered, and I do not wish to add to your mortification by reproach. Let by-gones be by-gones, and I trust to hear no more of Mr. Gale and his associates."

"Dale, Aunt Agnes," I said firmly.

She shrugged her shoulders impatiently. "What difference does it make whether it is Dale or Gale? You heard what Miss Kingsley said just now about the unimportance of accuracy in trivial matters. You knew perfectly well whom I meant. Let me caution you again, Virginia, against an undue estimate of ceremony and form. It is the spirit that is of value, not the mere letter. Especially should you bear this in mind in the society of such people as you will meet on Wednesday evening. The world is a large place, and only in the circle in which you have been brought up is excessive regard paid to insignificant details. Sensible people have other things to think about."

"Does Mr. Spence belong to Boston?" I asked, anxious to find out all I could about the celebrity.

But this remark was not more happy than the last Aunt Agnes pursed up her lips and said, —

"If you mean, was he born in Beacon Street, no, he was not. Dreadful as it may seem to you, I know nothing of either his father or his mother. But you will learn when you are a little wiser, that genius in order to be recognized and admired is not obliged to produce parents."

"You misunderstood me, Aunt Agnes. I merely wished to know if he were a foreigner or not."

"He has lived everywhere I believe, and is cosmopolitan, as all great men are. He is one of the few characters really worth knowing in our community. His philosophic and hygienic thoughts surpass his poetry in worth, in the opinion of the best judges."

"And Miss Kingsley, – does she write at all?"

"Certainly. Did she not tell you that she is the compiler of the weekly column of fashionable items in the 'Sunday Mercury'?"

"Yes," said I, "but that is scarcely literature."

Aunt Agnes did not answer for a moment. "You have judged hastily, and consequently have misjudged. If you were to ask me whether I think Miss Kingsley's present occupation is proportionate to her abilities, I should answer 'no.' She would herself admit that it was hack-work, – though, mind you, even hack-work can be redeemed by an artistic spirit, as she has so adequately explained to you. All young women have not independent fortunes, and such as are without means are obliged to take whatever they can find to do in the line of their professions. I agree with your implication that society items do not constitute literature, but they are stepping stones to higher things. Which is the more creditable, pray, to collect and chronicle the social customs of the age in which you live, foolish as they may be, or to be one of the giddy and frivolous creatures whose doings are thus compiled as a warning to posterity, or to excite its jeers? The one is work, earnest though humble; the other, a sheer dissipation of the energies of life."

I felt that this was aimed at me; but as I made no response, Aunt Agnes continued: —

"Do not mistake my meaning now, and say that I wish you to become a collector of fashionable information. On the contrary, I should much regret to see you anything of the kind. By the very circumstance that Providence has given you the means to pick and choose, you are marked out for work of a less superficial order. But you must not under-value others who are less able to consult their own preferences. Miss Kingsley is a young woman of decided capabilities for original composition. Mr. Spence has spoken to me of her in terms of the highest praise. Because she is obliged for her support to cater to the popular taste for social intelligence, it by no means follows that she does not employ her spare hours to better advantage. I shall not violate any confidences I may have received, in saying that Miss Kingsley is capable of literary production of a high order."

"But," said I after a moment's silence, "you cannot approve of the custom of putting the private affairs of people into print, Aunt Agnes?"

"It is preferable at least to wasting the best years of one's life in fashionable folly," she replied with some asperity.

As I saw it would be hopeless to pursue the conversation on this head without danger of further disagreement, I rose to take my leave. But when I stooped to kiss her, she took me by the hand and said with much seriousness, but with a purpose to be kindly, —

"I have much greater hopes, Virginia, I frankly confess, regarding the stability of your character than when I last conversed with you. You may depend on whatever assistance lies in my power; but let me impress upon you that the cultivation which your talents befit you to attain, cannot be reached without strenuous exertions on your own part."

"I shall do all I can to make the most of my advantages, Aunt Agnes, you may depend upon it; and I thank you heartily for your offer of help. I hope I have done with frivolity forever."

"My niece marry a whipper-snapper like that Mr. Gale, indeed! Tell me!"

I had not the hardihood to correct her again, and so we parted.

II

Wednesday was only the day after to-morrow, but in the interim I bought a copy of Mr. Spence's Poems and also his volume of Essays, which contained "The Economy of Speech," "The Overmuch and the Undermuch," and "The Equipoise of Passion," the last-named being an exposition of the selfishness of unlimited love. His poems, which were for the most part written in early youth, were in striking contrast to the essays in tone. Indeed, in the extracts from the newspaper criticisms prefixed to the volume of verse he was in several instances spoken of as the Baudelaire of America. They were alternately morbid and convivial in style, and were concerned largely with death, the rapture of the wine-cup, or the bitterness of unreciprocated attachment. I was inclined to be shocked at the outset, for I had never read anything of the sort before, as Baudelaire was then merely a name to me. I even took the book to my own room from an unwillingness to leave it lying on the parlor table. But after the first surprise and qualms I found myself rather fascinated by the unusual nature of the man. At one moment he appeared to be flushed with ecstasy, and the next in the depths, – an alternative so opposed to the tenor of his later philosophy that I was fairly puzzled, until I reflected that these poems had undoubtedly been composed during his novitiate, while he was testing the extremes of life. It was obvious, if his verse was any criterion, that he had been very thorough in his investigations, and that Miss Kingsley's estimate of his offences against morality was not an over-statement, to say the least. But my curiosity was aroused to meet a person whose ideas and experiences were so signally unlike my own, especially in view of the seeming total transition of his sentiments as portrayed in his subsequent prose writings. I thought them a little vague, but extremely interesting. The skeleton of his system was unfolded in the essay on the "Overmuch and the Undermuch." Therein he sought to show in a general way the advantages of moderation. Nothing overmuch was the key-note of his theory, – an aphorism which found an analogy in the old Greek motto οὐδὲν ἄγαν, which he adduced to prove the antiquity of the virtue, little as it had been practised. He represented moderation as the great principle upon which the future progress of civilization depended. Without heed to the restrictions which it imposed, human nature must despair of perfection. He ventured to predict that rigorous self-restraint, continued through successive generations, would appreciably lengthen the average duration of life, and although without more sufficient data it would be incautious to make extravagant claims, it seemed to him by no means improbable that death might in the end be conquered, or at least indefinitely postponed. The science was as yet embryonic, and until the general interest of the world in its development had been awakened, investigation in order to be trustworthy must needs be slow.

Treating the subject in detail, he applied his theory to various departments of life. His own investigations he alleged to be still very incomplete, and in this first volume he had only touched upon two subdivisions, – conversation and love, the presentation of his ideas regarding which were contained in the essays already spoken of, "The Economy of Speech," and "The Equipoise of Passion." In the first named of these he laid down as a broad general statement that some people talk too much and others too little. Here, as in other functions, either extreme was disastrous. Prolixity of speech produced avoidance of the offender, and silence tended to syncope of the language. The causes of either fault were in his opinion far to seek, and lay less in the nature of the individual than in the essence of orthography and diction. Tautology was the blemish of written and vocal speech. Too many symbols were used to express an idea, and nothing was left to the imagination of the reader or hearer. Redundancy of expression was the vade mecum of the bore, and on the other hand there was no reason to believe that the sound of their own words was the cause why many people were so silent. It was common to hear that a man was afraid to hear himself talk. By reducing therefore the signs of speech, a stimulus would be given to the reserved and a curb imposed upon the verbose.

The primary principle employed to effect this was ellipsis, but an accurate understanding of the intelligence of the hearer was requisite in order to become proficient. The alphabet was not disturbed or abbreviated. The radical change was in the dismemberment of sentences. And here it was obvious that a greater number of words could be omitted without destroying the sense with a clever listener than with a dull person. His statistics showed that two individuals thoroughly conversant with the system could discourse rationally upon intricate topics by the use of single words and even single monosyllables in place of entire sentences; and this led him to believe that as the race grew in intelligence, speech would finally become a rudimentary organ and cease to be. Nor was this inconsistent with his general theory; for in his opinion the gradual tendency of all mere physical attributes was to coalesce with mind. In an analogous way the time would come when mankind instead of eating too much or too little would not eat at all. But the first stage in this gradual evolution must be a repression of extremes resulting in moderation. It was to effect a recognition of this that his labors were directed.

I expected to be even more interested in the essay on "The Equipoise of Passion," remembering the intense character of his amatory verse. But the philosophical terms were so numerous that I found myself at a loss as to his meaning at times. His treatment of the subject was quite different; for whereas (he explained) speech was a physical attribute and destined to give place to some other method of affinity, love was psychical in its essence, and hence immortal. But he maintained that moderation should control spirit no less than matter, and that either undue exaltation or a lack of sentiment were inconsistent with the noblest type of altruism.

Love in order to be perfect must be rational and cognizant, as he expressed it. The beloved object should be enthroned, but without exaggeration, and yet with ecstasy. The defect of love as it at present existed was that it was either an hallucination or a bargain. This should not be; but on the other hand the equipoise of passion like the equipoise of religion, – of which it was in his opinion the peer, and with which it was in a certain sense blended, – was attainable only by exceptional souls. The equipoise of speech or of raiment or of appetite was within the grasp of an average human being, but only a few spirits in a generation enjoyed the perfection of love. This was the crown of his philosophy; but it was here that he felt the need of further investigation before endeavoring to demonstrate the remedy by means of which this number might be increased, so as finally to include all earnest souls. An immature statement would impair the authority of the more elemental truth he had sought to establish; but he hoped in a subsequent volume to complete the exposition of this last step in his system.

III

I rapped at Miss Kingsley's door on Wednesday evening with some trepidation, but with a sense of pleasurable excitement. I felt that her entertainment was sure to be very unlike those to which I was accustomed. In the first place, the idea of combining home and business quarters in one apartment was new to me, and seemed slightly incongruous. The Studio Building was large, and she had doubtless a host of neighbors who lived in the same manner; but they were a class with whom I was wholly unacquainted. Miss Kingsley's rooms were in the top story where, as I reflected, she could enjoy fresh air and escape the everlasting tinkling of the horse-cars and rattle of vehicles in the street below.

She opened the door herself, and her face assumed its most radiant expression as she recognized me.

"This is too delightful, Miss Harlan!"

I found myself face to face with several people whom she hastened to introduce. The only familiar name was that of Mr. Paul Barr, which I instantly recollected to have seen on the dedicatory page of Mr. Spence's volume of poems. The inscription read, "To my soul's brother, Paul Barr," and hence I gazed at the stranger with interest.

From Mr. Barr I got the impression of a handsome but dishevelled looking man of large stature, with a coal-black beard and dark piercing eyes, which he bent upon me ardently as he bowed his figure in what might well be styled a profound and lavish obeisance. He wore a velveteen coat and a large cherry neck-tie, the flowing ends of which added to his general air of disorder. The other names – to which I gave slight heed, for their owners were not especially significant in appearance – were Mr. Fleisch, a short, small German with eye-glasses, and Mrs. Marsh, a fat, genial matron of five-and-forty.

All this I took in at a glance, for Miss Kingsley conducted me immediately into her boudoir (as she called it), to lay aside my wraps.

"Has he not soulful eyes?" she asked.

"Who?" said I, though I knew to whom she must refer.

"Mr. Barr."

"What is he?" said I.

"A Bohemian, dear," she replied in a tone of satisfaction.

"Really?"

I had long wished to meet a member of that mysterious brotherhood, of which of course I had heard and read.

"Yes. He is a poet-painter, and a great friend of Mr. Spence. Have you never seen his pictures? Even Mr. Spence admits that they possess the abandon of genius, although he disapproves of abandon. Their views to-day are totally dissimilar, but yet their friendship is sympathetic as ever. Is it not inspiring?"

"Mr. Spence is coming, I hope?"

"Oh, yes. I expect him every moment, and I have made Mr. Barr promise to get him to give us an exposition. Not knowing how you might feel, Virginia (may I call you Virginia? It seems so much more natural after having heard your aunt always speak of you in that way. Thank you, dear. And if you will call me Lucretia, I shall feel much flattered), – not knowing how you might feel about coming where there was no matron, I asked Mrs. Marsh to join us. We do not regard it of importance, and you will not a little later; but just at first it is perhaps as well. Do you know Mr. Fleisch by reputation? He plays with an artistic charm, rare even in this musical epoch. He is a follower of Mr. Spence, and is seeking to apply his principles of moderation to music with striking success. Ah! you must excuse me, dear, it is his knock."

I understood that she referred to Mr. Spence, and I waited an instant to put a finishing touch to my toilet before following her into the other room. For I had still something of the old Adam, or rather of the old Eve, left in me; so that I must confess my eagerness for culture was not without a spice of coquetry, half unconscious though it were.

Mr. Spence from his appearance was fairly entitled to be called a moderationist. He had nothing of the splendid savagery of Mr. Paul Barr, whose luxuriant and matted head of hair now struck my attention, nor the student-like insignificance of Mr. Fleisch. He was neither tall nor short, stout nor inadequately spare; and he was in evening dress like anybody else. Had I met him without knowing who he was, I should never have imagined him a celebrity. This was my first impression, but a second look at his face revealed firm though thin lips, and small nervous eyes that were full of fire when in movement. It was not however until I heard him speak that I recovered from my disappointment. "Be it so," was all he said in reply to some remark addressed to him; but the enunciation of the words was so musical, so soft and winning, yet so clear and authoritative, that I was spell-bound for an instant and quite lost my composure as Miss Kingsley, becoming aware of my presence, proceeded to make us acquainted.

The backs of all the company except Mr. Spence had been turned to me, for Mr. Barr was fulfilling his promise of persuading his friend to introduce his system of speech as the order of the evening. The ecstatic expression of Miss Kingsley's face, as well as the few words I had heard him utter, were sufficient to show that he had been successful; but winking her eyes more rapidly than ever she whispered in my ear with an imitation as I thought of her master's style, —

"It is to be."

Almost immediately Mr. Spence, whose bow I had thought rather formal and like that of the rest of the world, came up to me and said: —

"Welcome, Miss Harlan, to our circle. I know your aunt, – a massive woman intellectually, and my benefactor. As I think our hostess has already intimated to you, it is the wish of some of the company that I should give a practical illustration of certain views regarding the essence of speech peculiar to me, of which it may be you have heard from your kinswoman or others, and which are a corollary of the general truth or virtue known to the outside world as moderation. I have, however, some delicacy in inflicting so great an incubus – for it must seem such to the uninitiated – upon one who like you is of the beau monde and used to its smooth ways. I speak knowingly, for I too in my day belonged to the beau monde, and am familiar with the easy, however volatile, flow of speech incident thereto."

"Do not mind me, I pray," said I. "Indeed, I have read your essays as well as your poems, Mr. Spence, and am very anxious to understand your system practically."

"Be it so," he replied. "I did not wish to inflict myself unduly. Art should be sensitive. Do you not agree with me, Miss Harlan?"

"How exquisite!" I heard Miss Kingsley whisper to Mr. Fleisch, with whom she was standing a few feet distant gazing at the master.

It was Mr. Paul Barr who answered the question for me: —

"No, Miss Harlan, Art should be aggressive; Art should be ardent. I do not agree with Mr. Spence. In fact, we never agree upon any subject. But we are friends, life-long, bosom friends. Shake, Charles, shake! we have not given the grip and pressure of amity to-night."

He spoke in a deep, sonorous base, and extended to his friend a hirsute hand.

"It is true we belong to different schools, Mr. Barr and I, Miss Harlan," said Mr. Spence. "He believes in the supremacy of the untrammelled, as his poems and pictures show; I, on the contrary, give my voice to equipoise. But, as he has well said, we are devoted friends."

"You shall judge between us," continued Paul Barr addressing me. "Which is better, the free undulation of self, or eternal tension?"

"A fine antithesis," murmured Miss Kingsley.

"Mein Gott! but it is not true, that free undulation of self. It deceives, it deludes: it is a – what word is it I am seeking? – a – eh – I have it, – boomerang, – a boomerang that plagues the inventor," said Mr. Fleisch.

"Refuted, well refuted!" said Mr. Spence. "Fleisch has hit the mark. The overmuch is indeed a boomerang. Thanks, Bernard, for the epigram," he added, turning to the little German.

Everybody clapped their hands except myself and Mr. Barr. I preferred to remain neutral. As for the artist, he stood stroking his beard fiercely with his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

At this moment the door opened, and a maidservant announced tea.

Mr. Spence looked at Miss Kingsley interrogatively. "From this moment, please," said she.

He shrugged his shoulders and sighed; and as we walked in to tea together Miss Kingsley whispered that he was about to practise his theory.

"Of course, Virginia dear, every one will understand that you are a novice, and you will be at liberty to talk in your natural manner. The rest of us are expected to assist Mr. Spence as far as possible. I am all in a flutter; I know I shall break down."

The room in which we took tea was a veritable snuggery. The servant found it difficult to get round the table, and there was a strong smell of the frying-pan owing to the vicinity of the tiny kitchen. But these inconveniences, if they were so to be called, merely added to my zest and enjoyment. Here, indeed, was agreeable and talented society! Aunt Agnes was right, – my associates hitherto had been frivolous and volatile. The world of fashion was a sham. What a contrast, – I could not help making it, – between the insipid speeches of my former friends and the clever talk of this purely literary circle, where ideas and scholarship were recognized and crowned.

Mr. Spence and Mr Barr sat on either side of Miss Kingsley, and I glanced from the one to the other, debating with myself whether I preferred the bold strong beauty of the artist, or the subtile and more delicate traits of feature of the philosopher. For though I had begun by regarding Mr. Spence almost as commonplace in appearance, the earnestness of his manner and the serious fervor of his eyes gave him an expression of having a deep and genuine belief in his own theories, which when compared with the impetuous but more volatile air of Paul Barr commended him to my respect and admiration even while I was flattered by the gallantries of his rival.

It was Mr. Barr who first broke the silence after we sat down to table, by asking me if I had not passed the summer at Tinker's Reach. As he spoke in the ordinary guise, I was surprised until it occurred to me that as a member of another school he could hardly be expected, even from courtesy or friendship, to practise doctrines to which he could not subscribe.

"Yes," said I.

"Malaria," began Mr. Spence.

There was a little murmur of expectation, and Mr. Fleisch brimming over with excitement said, "Bad drainage."

"No excuse. Sea near. Inhabitants should agitate question," continued Mr. Spence.

"Everybody appearance of health notwithstanding," exclaimed Miss Kingsley.

"Overmuch ozone," said Mr. Spence.

"Unhealthy stimulus. Reaction later," added the little German.

"Are we clear? Air of Tinker's Reach you know; so clever," whispered Miss Kingsley leaning toward me behind Mr. Spence's chair. "Sure I shall break down."

I nodded to give her encouragement. All this was somewhat bewildering, but I was able to follow the conversation. I was conscious too of Mr. Barr's eyes fixed upon me with intensity. He would eat hurriedly for a moment, and then fold his arms and listen with his brow almost buried in his black bristly beard, and his glance centred on me.

The talk went on briskly. Mrs. Marsh presently joined in; and after the discussion of the atmospheric conditions of Tinker's Reach was exhausted, a criticism of a recent volume of poetry followed, in which Mr. Fleisch and Mrs. Marsh took sides against the other two. At times I lost the thread of the argument, but for the most part I understood them perfectly. Mr. Spence was by far the most proficient. It was wonderful how he was able to express frequently in a single word the idea of an entire sentence. I listened with eager and increasing interest. Every now and then Mr. Barr interrupted the conversation with a torrent of words, sometimes by way of soliloquizing comment on the views expressed, and occasionally addressed to me. In the latter case I always put my fingers on my lips and smiled, a course which had the effect of silencing him for the time being. Meanwhile everybody ate with appetite of the good things provided; and the artist-poet, as though to show his contempt for the doctrines of moderation, helped himself again and again from a crystal pitcher of claret-cup that was at his elbow.

Of a sudden, to my great consternation, Mr. Spence looked directly at me and said, —

"Paris?"

All my ideas seemed to desert me on the spot. But by a rapid inspiration I shook my head and said, —

"Never."

"There. During Commune," continued my interrogator, and I saw from Miss Kingsley's radiant and encouraging smile and nod that I had been right in my assumption that he wished to know if I had ever been there.