CHAPTER V.
Miss Taylor was really responsible for the formation of the StowelReading Society, but Eliza Jamieson was her staunch supporter. Elizadrew the line at poetry and metaphysics, "Neither of which," she said,"I consider an exact science."
Miss Taylor said: "But it is not a scientific course that I propose; itis English literature in its fullest sense. I do think that Stowel isgetting behind the rest of the world in its knowledge of the bestliterature, and I am sure that if a Reading Society were founded TheUncle would be pleased to choose books and send them to us from London."
To no one, perhaps, is the specializing definite article felt to bemore appropriate than to Sir John. It seems to distinguish him fromordinary human beings; and it is felt to be indicative of aconsiderable amount of good taste and good feeling on the part of theTaylors to drop the General's title when conversing with their intimatefriends, and to refer to him merely as "The Uncle." When we call uponthe Taylors we always ask how The Uncle is.
Eliza Jamieson became the Society's secretary and treasurer in one, andshe it was who in her neat hand transcribed the letter, which all hadhelped to compose, to ask The Uncle what works in English literature itwould be advisable for the Reading Society to get. His reply was readaloud at one of the first meetings, and each eulogized it in turn asbeing "courtly," "gentlemanly," "manly," and "concise." It could notbut be felt, however, that as a guide to a choice of literature theletter was disappointing:--
"DEAR MADAM" (it ran),
"I much regret that I am unable to help you in any way about yourbooks. I read very little myself, except the newspapers, though Ioccasionally take a dip into one of my old favourites by Charles Lever.I think a cookery-book is the most useful reading for a young lady, andshe would be best employed studying that, and not filling her head withnonsense. This is the advice of a very old fellow, who remembers manycharming girls years ago who knew nothing about advanced culture...."
It was a distinct salve to the Society's feelings to note that theletter was written on paper stamped with the address of a militaryclub, and instead of copying it, and making an entry of it in theminutes of the Reading Society, it was pasted into the notebook, as itwas thought the autograph and the crest were "interesting."
Since the foundation of the Reading Society there has followed a periodduring which the young ladies of Stowel have written essays, and havemet in each other's drawing-rooms to read poetry aloud, to their ownindividual satisfaction and to the torture of other ears.
Mrs. Fielden did not join the Society, her plea being that poetry ismerely prose with the stops in the wrong places, and therefore veryfatiguing to read, and very obscure in its meaning. But Eliza has wornus out with books of reference, and we have become so learned and sofull of culture that it is impossible to say where it will all end. Myown library has been ransacked for books--I think it is the fact of myhaving a library that has made our house a sort of centre for theReading Society. We criticize freely all contemporary literature, andbase our preference for any book upon its "vigorous Saxon style."
Eliza has written two reviews for the local newspaper, pointing outsome mistakes in grammar in one of the greatest novels of the day, andthis naturally makes us feel very proud of Eliza. Those of us whoplead for an easy flowing style consider that she has an almosthypersensitive ear for errors in the use of the English accidence. Asplit infinitive has heretofore hardly arrested our attention; now weshudder at its use: while the misuse of the word to "aggravate," whichup to the present we believed in all simplicity to mean to "annoy,"causes the gravest offence when employed in the wrong sense. Booksfrom the circulating library have been known to be treated almost likeproof-sheets, and corrections are jotted down in pencil on the marginof the leaves. Even the notes which ladies send to each other aresubject to revision at the hands of the recipient. Ordinaryconversation is now hardly known in Stowel, and tea-parties take theform of discussions. The spring weather is so warm that I generallyhave my long chair taken on to the lawn in the afternoons, and tea issometimes brought out there when the meetings of the Reading Societyare over. But tea, and even pound-cake, are thrown away upon youngladies who partake of it absently, and to whom all things material andmundane--these words are often used--must now be offered with a feelingof apology.
Major Jacobs rode over to see me this afternoon, and we had not longenjoyed the repose of deckchairs and cigarettes under the medlar-tree,and the songs of birds which have begun nesting very early this year,and the quiet rumbling of heavy wagons that pass sometimes in thehighroad beyond the garden, when the Reading Society in a body joinedus from the house, and I heard my sister give directions for tea to bebrought out on to the lawn. The other day I heard Palestrina tell afriend of hers that she nearly always contrived to have some one totea, or to sit with Hugo in the afternoon, and my sister's satisfactionincreases in direct proportion to the number of people who come.
We had hardly finished tea when Frances Taylor said suddenly, yet withthe manner of one who has risen to make a speech on a platform, "WasColeridge a genius or a crank?"
Eliza, assuming the deep frown of learning which is quite commonamongst us nowadays, was upon her in a moment, and said emphatically,"How would you define a genius?" The Socratic habit of asking for adefinition is one that is always adopted during our discussions, and itis generally demanded in the tone of voice in which one says "check"when playing chess. Frances Taylor was quite ready for Eliza, andsaid, "Genius, I think, is like some star----"
"Analogy is not argument!" Eliza pounced upon her in the voice thatsaid, "I take your pawn."
It will be noticed, I fear, that in Stowel we are not altogetheroriginal in our arguments--many of them can be traced, alas! to the"Encyclopaedia Britannica," and they are not often the outcome oforiginal thought.
Frances Taylor's king was once more in check, and she became a littlenervous and irritable. "I do not think we need go into definitions,"she said; but Eliza had gone indoors to "look it up." She returnedpresently with a dictionary, walking across the lawn towards us withits pages held close to her near-sighted eyes. "A genius," she began,and then she glanced disparagingly at the title of the book, and said,"according to Webster, that is--but I do not know if we ought to accepthim as a final authority--is explained as being 'a peculiar structureof mind which is given by Nature to an individual which qualifies himfor a particular employment; a strength of mind, uncommon powers ofintellect, particularly the power of invention.' A crank," she wenton, "in its modern meaning, seems hardly to have been known to thewriter of this dictionary; the word is rendered literally, as meaning'a bend or turn.'"
"Then I submit," said Miss Taylor, "that Coleridge was a genius."
Miss Tracey said in a very sprightly manner--she often astonished us byshowing a subtle turn of mind, and a graceful aptitude for epigramwhich, it was believed, could only have found its proper field in thosesalons which are now, alas! things of the past--"Let us write him downa genius _and_ a crank! The two"--she advanced her daring viewbravely--"the two are often allied." She had a volume of Coleridge onher bookshelves, and prided herself upon her appreciation--unusual in awoman--of the "Ancient Mariner."
"A genius in italics, and a crank followed by a mark of interrogation!"said Eliza in a brilliant fashion; and Miss Taylor, not to be beaten ina matter of intellect, said at once, "Did Bacon write Shakespeare'splays?"
Mrs. Gallup and Mr. Lee were quoted extensively.
Miss Taylor could only suggest, with a good deal of quiet dignity, thatshe could write to The Uncle and find out who is right. This of coursecloses the controversy for the present.
George Jamieson, who goes to town every day, gains advanced views fromthe magazines which he reads during his dinner-hour in the City, and heis a great assistance to the Reading Society. I contribute the use ofmy library, and I have heard the members of the Reading Society saythat "women are the true leaders of the present movement, and alreadytheir influence is being
felt by the male mind."
George brought with him the current number of the Nineteenth Centurywhen he came home last Friday, instead of Pearson's or the Strand, andalready there are whispers of a Magazine Club in Stowel. Miss FrancesTaylor received nothing but books on her last birthday, and Palestrinatold me a pathetic little story of how Gracie Jamieson went without apair of shoes to buy a copy of Browning. Perhaps the climax of cultureand learning was felt only to have been reached when Eliza introducedthe expression "Hypothesis of Purpose" into an ordinary conversation atthe conclusion of one of the meetings of the Reading Society.
After this, as Palestrina remarked, it was quite refreshing to hearthat the curate's wife had got a new baby. It was born on Sunday, andthe anxious father spent his days bicycling wildly to and fro betweenhis own house and the church, hopelessly confusing his reading of theservice, and then flying back to inquire about his wife's health. Ledby him we prayed successively for fine weather and for rain, while theSunday-school teachers' meeting was announced for 2 a.m. on thefollowing Saturday, and the Coal Club notices were inextricablyconfused with the banns of marriage. After each service the distractedlittle man would leap on his bicycle again, and, scattering thedeparting congregation with his bicycle bell, he was off down the hillto his house. His perturbation was nothing compared with the confusionat home, where, so far as I could make out, the bewildered householddid nothing but run up and down stairs, and madly offer each other cupsof tea.
My sister's kind heart suggested that we should have Peggy, the eldestchild, to stay with us until her mother should be better. Is itnecessary to mention the fact that Palestrina is fat and very pretty,and that she spoils me dreadfully? Do I want a book, I generally findthat Palestrina has written for it, almost before I had realized thatlife was a wilderness without it. I have never known her out oftemper, nor anything else but placid and serene. And she has a low,gurgling laugh, and a certain way of saying, "Oh, that will be verynice!" to any proposal that one makes, which one must admit makes her avery charming and a very easy person to live with. She is fond ofchildren, and she announced to Peggy with a beaming smile this morningthat she had a new little brother.
Peggy went on quietly with her breakfast for some time without makingany remark; then she gave a little sigh, and said: "Mamma thought shehad enough children already, but I suppose God thought otherwise."
Peggy has been in low spirits all day, and closely following some lineof reasoning of her own she has flatly refused to say her prayers atbedtime.
Mrs. Fielden rode over to see us this morning, in her dark habit andthe neat boots which she loves to tap with her riding-crop. She cameinto the dim hall like the embodiment of Spring or of Life, and satdown in her oddly-shaped habit as though she were at home and in nohurry to go off anywhere else. This gives a feeling of repose to asick man. One knew that she would probably stop to luncheon, and thatone would not have to say to her half a dozen times in the morning,"Please don't go."
Presently Margaret Jamieson, who had been doing the whole work of thecurate's household during the late trying time, came with the baby inher arms to show him to Palestrina. Her manner had a charming air ofmatronliness about it, and she threw back the fretted silk of the veilthat covered the face of the little creature in her arms with an air ofpride that was rather pretty to see. But Eliza, who had raced over toour house in the usual Jamieson headlong fashion, to say something tous on the subject of textual criticism, looked severely at the infantthrough her glasses, and remarked that she had no sympathy whateverwith that sort of thing. Margaret hugged the baby closer to her, andMettie, who had pattered over to see us with her cousin Eliza, remarkedthat children and their upbringing were doubtless among the great risksof matrimony.
"I am sure," said Eliza, "when one sees how happy Kate is with James,it makes one feel that marriage is not so very great a risk after all."
That there should be an element of sarcasm in this remark did not evensuggest itself to Eliza.
"We should all be thankful," piped forth Mettie, who is always ready totalk, "that it has turned out so well. Kate's courage and independenceof mind seem exactly suited to Mr. Ward. But that is what I thinkabout us all at Belmont; our characteristics are so different that anygentleman coming amongst us might find something to attract him in one,if not in the others. Margaret is our home-bird, and Eliza is socultured, and Kate----"
The two Miss Jamiesons were looking very uncomfortable, and Margaretsaid, "O Mettie, dear!" while Mrs. Fielden made an excuse for walkingover to the piano. There was a piece of music open upon it. "Do singit," she said to Palestrina.
THE GAY TOM-TIT.
"A tom-tit lived in a tip-top tree, And a mad little, bad little bird was he. He'd bachelor tastes, but then--oh dear! He'd a gay little way with the girls, I fear!
"Now, a Jenny wren lived on a branch below, And it's plain she was vain as ladies go, For she pinched her waist and she rouged a bit. With a sigh for the eye of that gay tom-tit. She sighed, 'Oh my!' She sighed, 'Ah me!' While the tom-tit sat on his tip-top tree-tree-tree. And she piped her eye A bit-bit-bit For the love of that gay tom-tit-tit-tit.
"She saw that her rouge did not attract, So she tried to decide how next to act: She donned a stiff collar and fancy shirt, And she wore, what is more, a divided skirt. Then she bought cigarettes and a big latch-key, And she said, 'He'll be bound to notice me!' But she found her plan did not work one bit, For he sneered, as I feared, did that gay tom-tit. He sneered, 'Oh my!' He sneered, 'Oh lor! What on earth has she done that for-for-for?' And he winked his eye A bit-bit-bit, That giddy and gay tom-tit-tit-tit.
"'Alas! no more,' said the poor young wren, 'Will I ape the shape of heartless men!' So she flung cigarettes and big latch-key With a flop from the top of the great green tree. And she wouldn't use rouge or pinch her waist, But she dressed to the best of a simple taste; Then she learned to cook and sew and knit-- 'What a pearl of a girl!' said the gay tom-tit. Said he, 'Good day!' Said she, 'How do?' They were very soon friends, these two-two-two. And I'm bound to say In a bit-bit-bit She married that gay tom-tit-tit-tit."
Thus sang Palestrina.
"Ethically considered, my dear Palestrina," said Eliza, "that song isdistinctly unmoral."
"Don't let us consider it ethically," said Palestrina tranquilly; andshe went over and sat in the corner of the sofa with several pillows ather back.
"Ethically considered," repeated Eliza, "that song, if one pursues itsteaching to a logical conclusion, can only mean that all female socialdevelopment is impossible, and that the whole reason for a woman'sexistence is that she may gratify man."
"They are really not worth it," murmured Mrs. Fielden, who was in afrivolous mood.
"And mark you," said Eliza, in quite the best of the Reading Societymanner: "it does not suggest that that gratification may be inspiredeither by our beauty or by our intellect; indeed, it proves that suchpowers are worthless to inspire it. It postulates thehypothesis"--Eliza is really splendid--"that man is a brute whoseappreciation can only be secured by ministering to his desire for foodand suitable clothing, and that woman's whole business is to renderthis creature complacent."
"Don't you think things are much pleasanter when people _are_complacent?" said my sister easily.
Eliza fixed her with strong, dark eyes. "Were I describing you in abook," she said--one feels as though Eliza will write a book, probablya clever one, some day--"I should describe you as a typical woman, andtherefore a pudding. A dear, tepid pudding, with a pink sauce over it.Very sweet, no doubt, but squashy--decidedly squashy. Some day," saidEliza triumphantly, "you will be squashed into mere pulp, and you willnot like that."
This did not seem to be a likely end for Palestrina. Eliza continued:"Who will deny that men are selfish?"
"But they are also us
eful," said Mrs. Fielden in an ingenuous way."They open doors for one, don't you know, and give one the front rowwhen there is anything to be seen, even when one wears a big hat; andthey see one into one's carriage--oh! and lots of other useful littlethings of that sort."
"Admitted," said Eliza, "that women have certain privileges--have theyany Rights?"
Mrs. Fielden admitted that they had not. "But," she said, "I don'treally think that that is important. The men whom one knows are alwaysnice to one, and I don't think it matters much what the others are."
"Rank individualism," said Eliza. And she said it without a moment'shesitation, which gave us a very high opinion indeed of her powers ofspeech. "It is the fashion to say that each woman has only one man tomanage, and she must be a very stupid woman if she cannot manage him;but there are thousands of women who, being weaker morally andphysically than their particular man, can do nothing with him, and itis not fair to leave their wrongs unredressed because you arecomfortable and happy."
"Still, you know," said Mrs. Fielden thoughtfully, "one cannot helpwishing that they could get what they want without involving us in thequestion. You see, if they got their rights we should probably getours too, and then I'm afraid we should lose our privileges."
"You are like the man," said I, "who could do quite well without thenecessaries of life, but he could not do without its luxuries."
"What a nice man it must have been who said that!" exclaimed Mrs.Fielden. "It would be quite easy to do without meat on one's table,but it would be impossible to dine without flowers and dessert."
It must be admitted that Eliza had the last word in the argument afterall.
"Just so," she said; "and all life shows just this--that a woman has,with her usual perverseness, chosen a diet of flowers and dessert withintervals of starvation, instead of wholesome meat and pudding."
A Lame Dog's Diary Page 5
