A LITERARY DINNER.
A few weeks later Hermia gave a dinner to Cryder. The other guests were
Mr. Overton, Mr. Simms, Alan Emmet, a young author who combined the
literary and the sensational in a manner which gave him much notoriety,
Mr. Langley, Cryder’s publisher, and Ralph Embury, a noted young
journalist. Helen Simms was there to chatter serious thought to ambush,
and Miss Starbruck, primly alert, and waiting to be shocked.
Poor Miss Starbruck! She drifted like a gray shadow through Hermia’s
rooms, and longed for her modest cottage at Nantucket. She had been an
active member of sewing-circles and reading-clubs, and the farther down
her past’s perspective did this unexciting environment retreat, the
oftener did she sigh as she contrasted its cool shadows with the hot
glare into which fate’s caprice had suddenly cast her. But Hermia was
considerate—if Miss Starbruck appeared at her niece’s dinners and
receptions, and drove with her occasionally, she could sit up in her
room and dream of Nantucket and bewail duty as much as she pleased. Mrs.
Dykman was chaperon-in-chief.
Hermia wore a gown of white velvet, simply made, and fitting in
wrinkleless perfection the free lines and curves of her full, lithe
figure. About her throat hung a silver chain of Roman workmanship, and
around her waist a girdle of similar but heavier links. The wiry maze of
her hair outshone the diamond pins that confined it.
Miss Simms wore a dinner-gown of black tulle and a profusion of
chrysanthemums. Her hair was as sleek as a mole.
The conversation was naturally more or less literary, and Hermia drew
out her ambitious guests with a good deal of skill. It was hard to curb
them when they were started, but she managed to make each feel that he
had had an opportunity to shine. Some day, when her personal interest in
life had ceased, she intended to have a _salon_, and this was a pleasant
foretaste. She even let Mr. Simms tell a few anecdotes, but after the
third gently suppressed him.
It is not easy to check the anecdotal impulse, and both Mr. Langley and
Mr. Overton were reminiscent. The former told a tale of a young man who
had brought him a manuscript ten years before, and never returned to ask
its destiny.
“He looked delicate, and I imagine he died of consumption,” said the
great publisher, placidly, as he discussed his pâté. “At all events I
have never heard from him since. Our readers unanimously advised us not
to publish the manuscript. It was entirely out of our line, and would
have involved great risk. We put it aside and forgot all about it. The
other day I happened to meet one of the readers through whose hands it
passed—he has not been with us for some years—and he asked me why I
did not publish the rejected book. ‘That sort of thing has become
fashionable now,’ he said, ‘and you would make money out of it.’ I
merely mention this as an illustration of how fashion changes in
literature as in everything else.”
“You publishers are awful cowards,” said Emmet, in his drawling tones;
“you are so afraid of anything new that all authors you introduce are
branded Prophets of the Commonplace.”
Mr. Langley’s blonde, pleasant little face took a warmer hue, and he
answered somewhat testily: “The publisher was brave, indeed, who
presented you to the public, Mr. Emmet.”
In spite of the general laugh, Emmet replied imperturbably: “The best
advertisement I had, and the only one which I myself inserted, was that
‘Mrs. Bleeker’ had been refused by every conservative house in New York.
My reward is that I have the reputation instead of the firm.”
“No; the firm hasn’t any left—that’s a fact,” retorted Mr. Langley; and
Emmet turned to Helen with a pout on his boyish face.
“Do my books shock you?” he asked her.
Helen smiled. “No, they do not,” she said, briefly. “I quite adore them.
I don’t always acknowledge having read them, but I don’t mind telling
you, considering that you are the author.”
“Oh, some women assure me that nothing would induce them to read my
books. I am glad you have the courage of your opinions. I scorn women
who have not, and I will not talk to a girl unless I can do so as freely
as to a man.”
“Oh, I am not a prude,” said Helen, lightly. “I only draw the line at
positive indecency, and you are quite vague enough. But do you always
talk to men on improper subjects?”
“Oh—no; I merely meant that I like to feel the same lack of restraint
with women as with men. It is a bore to call up every thought for
inspection before you utter it.”
“Yes,” said Helen; “you wouldn’t talk at all, you would only inspect.”
“Speaking of mysterious disappearances,” broke in Embury’s voice, “what
has become of that girl who used to give us such bucketfuls of soulful
lava?—the one who signed herself ‘Quirus’?”
Mr. Overton laughed, and much to Hermia’s relief every one turned to
him. “She brought me that poem I published, herself, and I came near
laughing outright once or twice. I have seen few plainer women; there
was such a general dinginess about her. At the same time there was a
certain magnetism which, I imagine, would have been pronounced had she
been a stronger woman. But I should not be surprised to hear that she
had died of consumption.”
“Is it possible?” said Embury. “Her work was strong, however. Why didn’t
you take her in hand and bring her up in the way she should go?”
“My dear Embury, life is too short. That girl was all wrong. She worked
her syllogisms backward, so to speak. Her intellect was molten with the
heat of her imagination, and stunted with the narrowness of her
experience. She reasoned from effect to cause. Her characters, instead
of being the carefully considered products of environment and heredity,
were always altered or distorted to suit some dramatic event. Intellect
without experience of the heart and of life is responsible for more
errors than innate viciousness which is controlled by worldly wisdom, or
natural folly which is clothed in the gown of accumulated knowledge. I
have seen so many clever writers go to pieces,” he added, regarding his
empty plate with a sigh; “they lie so. They have no conscience whatever,
and they are too clever to see it.”
“Then how can they help themselves?” asked Hermia, with a puzzled look.
“They had better wait until they can.”
Hermia did not care to pursue the subject, and saw, moreover, that
Embury was waiting to be heard. “What would journalism do if no one knew
how to lie?” she asked him, with a smile, and was somewhat surprised
when every man at the table except Embury laughed aloud.
Embury colored, but replied promptly: “It would probably die for want of
patronage.”
“You are right, Embury,” said Cryder. “You could not have found a more
appreciative field for your talents.”
Embury looked at him reproachfully, and Cryder continued: “I never could
resist the temptation to kick a friend when he was down. I will give you
an opportunity later.”
“Life is made up of lost opportunities—I probably shall not see it.
True, I might review your books, but to do so I should have to read
them.”
“Is this the way literary people always spar?” murmured Hermia to
Cryder.
“Oh! do not let it worry you,” he replied. “This is only
facetiousness—American humor. It doesn’t hurt.” He dropped his voice.
“Are you not well? You look tired.”
“I am tired,” said Hermia, returning his gaze—he seemed very near to
her at that moment. “Clever people, singly, are very delightful, but _en
masse_ they keep one on the rack.”
“Don’t bother any more!” said Cryder. “Leave them to me; I will take
care of them.”
“You are good,” murmured Hermia. “When I am old I shall like a _salon_;
I shall like the power of it. Now—it bores me a little.”
Cryder bent somewhat nearer to her. “Do not wait too long for anything,”
he murmured. “A man’s power comes with age; a woman’s power goes with
age.”
He turned from her suddenly and addressed a remark to Embury which
immediately gave that clever young man a chance to entertain his
companions for ten minutes. Hermia found herself drifting from her
guests. She had undergone many evolutions of thought and feeling during
the past few weeks. At times she had believed herself in love with
Cryder; at others, she had been conscious of indifferent liking. She was
puzzled to find that his abstract image thrilled her more than his
actual presence. On the other hand, she _liked_ him better when with
him. He was so entertaining, so sympathetic; he had such delicate tact
and charm. When absent, she sometimes thought of him with a certain
distaste; he had qualities that she disliked, and he was diametrically
different from all imagined lovers. Then she would make up her mind to
close her eyes to his deficiencies and to love him spiritually. She
would compel herself to think of him for hours together on an exalted
mental and spiritual plane, where passion had no place. Not that she
believed him incapable of passion, by any means—she believed that all
men were constructed on the same plan—but he was so different from that
man who now dwelt behind a barred door in her brain that she felt it her
duty, to both, to love him in a different way. She was surprised to find
that after such æsthetic communion she almost hated him. Reaction
following excess of passion may be short-lived; but immoderate
sentimentality leaves a mental ennui that requires a long convalescence.
Sentimentality is a growth of later civilization, and trails its roots
over the surface like a pine; while passion had its seeds planted in the
garden of Eden, and is root, branch, twig, and leaf of human nature.
In summing up her sensations she had come to the conclusion that on the
whole she was in love with him. No one had ever moved her one-tenth as
much before. If she had not lost her head about him, it was because her
nature had slept too long to awake in a moment. That would come by
degrees. There were times when she felt the impulse to cast herself on
her face and sob farewell to the dreams of her youth and to the lover
who had been a being more real than Ogden Cryder; but she thrust aside
the impulse with a frown and plunged into her daily life.
At opportune moments Hermia’s attention returned to her guests. Miss
Starbruck rose at a signal from her niece and the women went into the
library. The men joined them soon after, and Cryder, much to the
gratitude of his tired and dreamy hostess, continued to entertain them
until eleven o’clock, when they went home.
* * * * *