Through the Eye of the Needle: A Romance

by William Dean Howells

  XVI

  I must say, to the credit of the Americans, that although the eating anddrinking among them appear gross enough to an Altrurian, you are notrevolted by the coarse stories which the English sometimes tell as soonas the ladies have left them. If it is a men's dinner, or more especiallya men's supper, these stories are pretty sure to follow the coffee; butwhen there have been women at the board, some sense of their presenceseems to linger in the more delicate American nerves, and the indulgenceis limited to two or three things off color, as the phrase is here, toldwith anxious glances at the drawing-room doors, to see if they are fastshut.

  I do not remember just what brought the talk back from these primrosepaths to that question of American society forms, but presently some onesaid he believed the church-sociable was the thing in most towns beyondthe apple-bee and sugar-party stage, and this opened the inquiry as tohow far the church still formed the social life of the people in cities.Some one suggested that in Brooklyn it formed it altogether, and thenthey laughed, for Brooklyn is always a joke with the New-Yorkers; I donot know exactly why, except that this vast city is so largely a suburb,and that it has a great number of churches and is comparatively cheap.Then another told of a lady who had come to New York (he admitted, twentyyears ago), and was very lonely, as she had no letters until she joined achurch. This at once brought her a general acquaintance, and she began tofind herself in society; but as soon as she did so she joined a moreexclusive church, where they took no notice of strangers. They alllaughed at that bit of human nature, as they called it, and theyphilosophized the relation of women to society as a purely businessrelation. The talk ranged to the mutable character of society, and howpeople got into it, or were of it, and how it was very different fromwhat it once was, except that with women it was always business. Theyspoke of certain new rich people with affected contempt; but I could seethat they were each proud of knowing such millionaires as they couldclaim for acquaintance, though they pretended to make fun of the numberof men-servants you had to run the gantlet of in their houses before youcould get to your hostess.

  One of my commensals said he had noticed that I took little or no wine,and, when I said that we seldom drank it in Altruria, he answered that hedid not think I could make that go in America, if I meant to dine much."Dining, you know, means overeating," he explained, "and if you wish toovereat you must overdrink. I venture to say that you will pass a worsenight than any of us, Mr. Homos, and that you will be sorrier to-morrowthan I shall." They were all smoking, and I confess that their tobaccowas secretly such an affliction to me that I was at one moment in doubtwhether I should take a cigar myself or ask leave to join the ladies.

  The gentleman who had talked so much already said: "Well, I don't minddining, a great deal, especially with Makely, here, but I do object tosupping, as I have to do now and then, in the way of pleasure. LastSaturday night I sat down at eleven o'clock to blue-point oysters,consomme, stewed terrapin--yours was very good, Makely; I wish I hadtaken more of it--lamb chops with peas, redhead duck with celerymayonnaise, Nesselrode pudding, fruit, cheese, and coffee, with sausages,caviare, radishes, celery, and olives interspersed wildly, and drinkablesand smokables _ad libitum_; and I can assure you that I felt verydevout when I woke up after church-time in the morning. It is thisturning night into day that is killing us. We men, who have to go tobusiness the next morning, ought to strike, and say that we won't goto anything later than eight-o'clock dinner."

  "Ah, then the women would insist upon our making it four-o'clock tea,"said another.

  Our host seemed to be reminded of something by the mention of the women,and he said, after a glance at the state of the cigars, "Shall we jointhe ladies?"

  One of the men-servants had evidently been waiting for this question. Heheld the door open, and we all filed into the drawing-room.

  Mrs. Makely hailed me with, "Ah, Mr. Homos, I'm so glad you've come! Wepoor women have been having a most dismal time!"

  "Honestly," asked the funny gentleman, "don't you always, without us?""Yes, but this has been worse than usual. Mrs. Strange has been asking ushow many people we supposed there were in this city, within five minutes'walk of us, who had no dinner to-day. Do you call that kind?"

  "A little more than kin and less than kind, perhaps," the gentlemansuggested. "But what does she propose to do about it?"

  He turned towards Mrs. Strange, who answered, "Nothing. What does any onepropose to do about it?"

  "Then, why do you think about it?"

  "I don't. It thinks about itself. Do you know that poem of Longfellow's,'The Challenge'?"

  "No, I never heard of it."

  "Well, it begins in his sweet old way, about some Spanish king who waskilled before a city he was besieging, and one of his knights sallies outof the camp and challenges the people of the city, the living and thedead, as traitors. Then the poet breaks off, _apropos de rien:_

  'There is a greater army That besets us round with strife, A numberless, starving army, At all the gates of life. The poverty-stricken millions Who challenge our wine and bread And impeach us all for traitors, Both the living and the dead. And whenever I sit at the banquet, Where the feast and song are high, Amid the mirth and the music I can hear that fearful cry.

  And hollow and haggard faces Look into the lighted hall, And wasted hands are extended To catch the crumbs that fall. For within there is light and plenty, And odors fill the air; But without there is cold and darkness, And hunger and despair. And there, in the camp of famine, In wind and cold and rain, Christ, the great Lord of the Army, Lies dead upon the plain.'"

  "Ah," said the facetious gentleman, "that is fine! We really forget howfine Longfellow was. It is so pleasant to hear you quoting poetry, Mrs.Strange! That sort of thing has almost gone out; and it's a pity."