AFTER luncheon, Miss Forbes hied herself to a drawing-room
meeting in behalf of Socialism. Despite the fact that she had elected
the rôle of mental muscularity, she gave studious application to her
attire: her position and all that pertained to it were her enduring
religion; the interests of the flashing seasons were unconsciously
patronised rather than assimilated. As she walked up the Avenue
toward the house of her friend, Mrs. Latimer Burr, she looked like a
well-grown lad masquerading in a very smart outfit of brown tweed, so
erect and soldierly was her carriage, so independent her little stride.
A bunch of violets was pinned to her muff, another at her throat, and
she wore a severe little toque instead of the picture-hat she usually
affected.
She smiled as she swung along, and one or two women looked back
at her and sighed. She was quite happy. She had never known an
ungratified wish; she was spoken of in the newspapers as one of the few
intellectual young women in New York society; and now she had a really
serious object in life. She felt little spasms of gratification that
she had been born to set the world to rights--she and a few others: she
felt that she was not selfish, for she grudged no one a share in the
honours.
When she reached Mrs. Burr’s house, high on the Avenue, and overlooking
the naked trees and the glittering white of the Park, she found that
other toilettes had taken less time than hers: several of her friends
complimented the occasion with a punctuality which she commended
without envy.
The large drawing-room, which was to be the scene of operations, was a
marvellous combination of every pale colour known to nature and art,
and looked expectant of white-wigged dames, sparkling with satin and
diamonds, tripping the mazes of the minuet with gentlemen as courtly
as their dress was rich and colourous. But only a half-dozen extremely
smart young women of the hoary Nineteenth Century sat in a group,
talking as fast as seals on a rock; and the slim little hostess was
compactly gowned in pearl-grey cloth, her sleek head dressed in the
fashion of the moment.
She came forward, a lorgnette held close to her eyes. “How dear of
you, Augusta, to be so prompt!” she said, kissing her lightly. “Dear
me! I wish I could be as frightfully in earnest as the rest of you,
but for the life of me I can’t help feeling that it’s all a jolly good
lark--perhaps that’s the effect of my ex-sister-in-law, Patience
Sparhawk, who says we are only playing at being alive. But we can’t
all have seventeen different experiences before we are twenty-four,
including a sojourn in Murders’ Row, and a frantic love affair with
one’s own husband----”
“Tell me, Hal, what is a woman like who has been through all that?”
interrupted Augusta, her ears pricking with girlish curiosity. “Is she
eccentric? Does she look old--or something?”
“She’s not much like us,” said Mrs. Burr, briefly. “You’ll meet her
in time; it’s odd you never happened to, even if you weren’t out. Of
course she can’t go out for awhile yet; it would hardly be good taste,
even if she wanted to.”
“How interestingly dreadful to have had such a thing in the family. But
I should think she would be just the one to take life seriously.”
“Oh, she does; that’s the reason she doesn’t waste any time. Here is
someone else. Who is it?--oh, Mary Gallatin.”
Augusta joined the group.
“Where is Mabel Creighton?” demanded one of the girls. “I thought she
was coming with you.”
“Haven’t you heard?” Miss Forbes, with an air of elaborate
indifference, drew her eyelids together as if to focus a half-dozen
women that were entering. “The Duke of Bosworth arrives to-day, and she
has stayed at home to receive him.”
“Augusta! What do you mean? _What_ Duke of Bosworth?”
“There is only one duke of the same name at a time, my dear. This
is the Duke of Bosworth of Aire Castle--and I suppose a half-dozen
others--of the West Riding, of the district of Craven, of the County of
Yorkshire, England. He has five other titles, I believe; and enjoys
the honour of the friendship of Fletcher Cuyler.”
“Well!”
“Mabel met him abroad, and got to know him quite well; and when he
wrote her that he should arrive to-day, she thought it only hospitable
to stay at home and receive him.”
“Are they engaged? Augusta, _do_ be an angel.”
“I am sure I have not the slightest idea whether they are engaged or
not. Mabel always has a flirtation on with somebody.”
“What is he like? How perfectly funny! How quiet she has kept him. Is
he good-looking--or--well, just like some of the others?”
“Mabel has merely mentioned him to me, and I have not seen his
photograph.”
“She’d make a lovely bride; and Mrs. Creighton has such exquisite
taste--St. Thomas’ would be a dream, I suppose he’ll wear a grey suit
with the trousers turned up and a pink shirt. I do hope he won’t walk
up the Avenue with her with a big black cigar in his mouth.”
“Is that what we came here to talk about?” asked Miss Forbes, severely.
“What difference does it make what a foreign titled thing looks like?
We are here to discuss a question which will one day exterminate the
entire order.”
“True,” exclaimed a dark-haired distinguished-looking girl who was
mainly responsible for the intellectual reputation of her set, albeit
not exempt from the witchery of fads. “We must stop gossiping and
attend to business. Do you know that I am expected to speak? How am I
to collect my thoughts?”
“You have so many, Alex,” said Miss Forbes, admiringly, “that it
wouldn’t matter if a few got loose. Have you prepared your speech? I
have mine by heart.”
“I have thought it out. I don’t think I shall be frightened; it is
really such a very serious matter.”
“Have you spoken to your father?”
“Oh, we’ve talked it over, but I can’t say that he agrees with us.”
Augusta laughed consciously. “There are probably some points of
similarity in our experiences. But we must be firm.”
Some thirty women, gowned with fashionable simplicity, had arrived,
and were seated in a large double semi-circle. They looked alert and
serious. Mrs. Burr drifted aimlessly about for a moment, then paused
before a table and tapped it smartly with her lorgnette.
“I suppose we may as well begin,” she said. “I believe we are going
to discuss to-day the--a--the advisability of women having the
vote--franchise. Also Socialism. Miss Maitland, who has thoroughly
digested both subjects, and many more, has kindly consented to speak;
and Dr. Broadhead is coming in later to give us one of his good
scoldings. Alexandra, will you open the ball?”
“Hal, you are incorrigible,” exclaimed Miss Maitland, drawing her dark
brows together. “At least you might pretend to be in earnest. We think
it very good of you to lend us your house, and we are delighted that
you managed Dr. Broadhead so cleverly, but we don’t wish to be flouted,
for we, at least, are in earnest.”
“Alexis, if you scold me, I shall cry. And I’ll now be serious--I swear
it. You know I admire you to death. Your French poetry is adorable;
you have more ideas for decorating than any professional in New York,
and you fence like a real Amazon. I am simply dying to hear you make a
speech; but first let me see if Latimer is hiding anywhere.”
She went out into the hall and returned in a moment. “It would be just
like Latimer to get Fletcher Cuyler and listen, and then guy us. Now,
Alexandra, proceed,” and she seated herself, and applied her lorgnette
to her bright quizzical eyes.
Miss Maitland, somewhat embarrassed by her introduction, stepped to the
middle of the room and faced her audience. She gave a quick sidelong
glance at her skirts. They stood out like a yacht under full sail.
She was a fine looking girl, far above woman’s height, with dignified
features, a bright happy expression, and a soft colour. She was a
trifle nervous, and opened her jacket to gain time, throwing it back.
“That’s a Paquin blouse,” whispered a girl confidently to Augusta.
“Sh-h!” said Miss Forbes severely.
Miss Maitland showed no further symptom of nervousness. She clasped her
hands lightly and did not make a gesture nor shift her position during
her speech. Her repose was very impressive.
“I think we should vote,” she said decidedly. “It will not be agreeable
in many respects, and will heavily increase our responsibilities, but
the reasons for far outweigh those against. A good many of us have
money in our own names. We all have large allowances. Some day we may
have the terrible responsibility of great wealth. The income-tax is in
danger of being defeated. If we get the vote, we may do much toward
making it a law, and it is a move in the right direction towards
Socialism. Our next must be towards persuading the Government to take
the railroads. It is shocking that the actual costs of transit should
be so small, the charges so exorbitant and the profits so enormous.
I feel this so oppressively that every time I make a long journey by
rail, I give the equivalent of my fare to the poor at once. It is a
horrifying thing that we on this narrow island of New York city should
live like hothouse plants in the midst of a malarious swamp: that
almost at our back doors the poor are living, whole families in one
room, and on one meal a day. My father gives me many thousands a year
for charity, but charity is not the solution of the problem. There must
be a redistribution of wealth. Of course I have no desire to come down
to poverty; I am physically unfit for it, as are all of us. We should
have sufficient left to insure our comfort; but any woman with brain
can get along without the more extravagant luxuries. It is time that we
did something to justify our existence, and if the law required that
we worked two or three hours a day instead of leading the idle life of
pleasure that we do----”
“We are ornamental; that is something,” exclaimed a remarkably pretty
woman. “I am sure the people outside love to read about and look at us.
Society gossip is not written for _us_.”
Miss Maitland smiled. “You certainly are ornamental, Mary,” she said;
“but fancy how much more interesting you would be if you were useful as
well.”
“I’d lose my good looks.”
“Well, you can’t keep them forever. You should cultivate a substitute
meanwhile, and then you never need be driven back into the ranks
of _passée_, disappointed women. Faded beauties are a bore to
everybody.”
“I refuse to contemplate such a prospect. Alex, you are getting to be a
horrid rude advanced New Woman.”
Mrs. Burr clapped her hands. “How delightful!” she cried, “I didn’t
know we were to have a debate.”
“Now keep quiet, all of you,” said Miss Maitland; “I have not
finished. Mary Gallatin, don’t you interrupt me again. Now that we
understand this question so thoroughly, we must have more recruits. Of
course, hundreds of women of the upper class are signing the petition
asking for the extension of the franchise to our sex, but few of them
are interested in Socialism. And if it is to be brought about, it
must be by us. I have little faith in the rag-tag bob-tail element at
present enlisted in that cause. They not only carry little weight with
the more intelligent part of the community, but I have been assured
that they would not fight--that they take it out in talk; that if
ever there was a great upheaval, they would let the anarchists do the
killing, and then step in, and try to get control later.
“Now, I thoroughly despise a coward; so do all women; and I have no
faith in the propagandism of men that won’t fight. What we must do
is to enlist our men. They are luxurious now, and love all that
pertains to wealth; but, as Wellington said once of the same class in
England: ‘The puppies can fight!’ Not that our men are puppies--don’t
misunderstand me--but you know what I mean. They would only seem so to
a man who had spent his life in the saddle.
“It has been said that the Civil War took our best blood, and that
that is the reason we have no great men now; all the most gallant and
high-minded and ambitious were killed--although I don’t forget that
Mr. Forbes could be anything that he chose. I suppose he thinks that
American statesmanship has fallen so low that he scorns to come out
avowedly as the head of his party, and merely amuses himself pulling
the wires. But I feel positive that if a tremendous crisis ever arose,
it would be Mr. Forbes who would unravel the snarl. You can tell him
that, Augusta, with my compliments.
“Now, I have come to the real point of what I have to say. It was first
suggested to me by Helena Belmont when she was on here last, and it
has taken a strong hold on my mind. We must awaken the soul in our
men--that is what they lack. The germ is there, but it has not been
developed; perhaps I should say that the soul of the American people
rose to its full flower during the Civil War, and then withered in
the reaction, and in the commercial atmosphere which has since fitted
our nation closer than its own skin. Miss Belmont says that nothing
will arouse the men but another war; that they will be nothing but a
well-fed body with a mental annex until they once more have a ‘big
atmosphere’ to expand in. But I don’t wholly agree with her, and the
thought of another such sacrifice is appalling. I believe that the
higher qualities in man can be roused more surely by woman than by
bloodshed, and that if we, the women of New York, the supposed orchids,
butterflies, or whatever people choose to call us, whose luxury is the
cynosure and envy of the continent, could be instrumental in giving
back to the nation its lost spiritual quality--understand, please,
that I do not use the word in its religious sense--it would be a far
greater achievement than any for which the so-called emancipated women
are vociferating. The vote is a minor consideration. If we acquire
the influence over men that we should, we shall not need it. And
personally, I should dispense with it with great pleasure.”
“Bravo! young lady,” exclaimed a vibrating resonant voice, and a
clerical man entered the room to the clapping of many hands. His eyes
were keen and restless, his hair and beard black and silver, and there
was a curious disconcerting bald spot on his chin. He looked ready to
burst with energy.
“Thank you all very much, but don’t clap any more, for I have only a
few minutes to spare. How do you do, Mrs. Burr? Yes, that was a very
good speech--I have been eavesdropping, you see. Feminine, but I am
the last to quarrel with that. It is not necessary for a woman to be
logical so long as her instincts are in the right direction. Well, I
will say a few words to you; but they must be few as I am very hoarse:
I have been speaking all day.” He strode about as he talked, and
occasionally smote his hands together. He was a very emphatic speaker,
and, like all crusaders, somewhat theatrical.
“I agree with all that Miss Maitland has said to you--with the
exception of her views on Socialism, I don’t believe Socialism to
be the solution of our loathsome municipal degradation nor of the
universal social evil. But I have no time to go into that question
to-day. The other part--that you must awaken the soul of the men of
your class--I most heartily endorse. The gentlemen alone can save
this country--snatch it from the hands of plebeians and thieves. In
them alone lies the hope of American regeneration. When I read of a
strapping young man who has been educated at Harvard, or Yale, or
Princeton, who is an expert boxer, fencer, whip, oarsman, yachtsman,
addicted to all manly sport, in fact--when I read of such a man
having tortoise-shell brushes with diamond monograms, diamond garter
buckles, and thirty sets of silk pyjamas--never see their names in
the paper except as ushers at weddings, or as having added some new
trifle to their costly apartments, it makes me sick--sick! A war
would rouse these young men, as Miss Maitland suggests; I haven’t the
slightest doubt that they would fight magnificently, and that those
who survived would be serious and useful men for the rest of their
lives. But we don’t want war, and you must do the rousing. Make them
vote--vote--nullify the thieving lying cormorants who are fattening on
your country, and ruining it morally and financially, as well as making
it the scorn and jest of Europe. And make them vote, not only this
year, but every year for the rest of their lives, and on every possible
question. It is to be hoped, indeed, that no war will come to awaken
their manhood--we don’t want to pay so hideous a price as that, and it
is shocking that it has been found necessary to suggest it. But what we
do want is a great moral war. Lash them into that, and see that they
do not break ranks until they have honest men in the legislature, in
Congress, and in every municipal office in the country. Now, I must be
off,” and waving a hasty adieu, he shot out.
“For my part,” said Mrs. Burr, above the enthusiastic chorus, “I
am delighted that he didn’t uphold Socialism. I’ll undertake the
reformation of Latimer, although it will probably give me wrinkles and
turn me grey, but I won’t have him giving up his ‘boodle,’ as they say
out West; not I! not I!”
“Gally is hopeless,” said that famous clubman’s wife, with a sigh. “I
shall have to work on someone else.”
“It will be lots more interesting,” murmured her neighbour.
“How shall we begin?” asked Mrs. Burr, wrinkling her smooth brow. “Put
them on gruel and hot water for awhile? I am sure they are hopeless so
long as they eat and drink so much.”
“I suppose all we girls will have to marry,” remarked one of them.
“Well, you would, anyhow,” said Mrs. Burr, consolingly.
“I shall not marry until I find the right man,” said Augusta firmly,
“not if I die an old maid. But father would be a splendid convert, and
his name would carry great weight.”
“You mean for Socialism,” replied her hostess. “No man does his
political duty more religiously than Mr. Forbes. But let us send
Socialism to--ahem--and just work at the other thing. I am dying to see
how Latimer will take it.”
“Never!” exclaimed Augusta, and was echoed loyally. “We must not lose
sight of that. I don’t at all agree with Dr. Broadhead on that point.
I have fully made up my mind to bring papa round.”
“But you are at a disadvantage, darling,” said Mrs. Burr, drily; “your
beautiful mamma thinks we are all a pack of idiots, and your father has
a great respect for her opinion, to say nothing of being more or less
_épris_.”
“I shall convert her too,” said Augusta sturdily.
Mrs. Burr laughed outright. “I can just see Mrs. Forbes posing as a
prophet of Socialism. Well, let us eat. Alexis, you must be limp all
the way down, and your thinker must be fairly staggering. I will pour
you a stiff cup of tea and put some rum in it.”
Augusta rose. “I must go, Hal,” she said. “I have a speech to make
myself in the slums, you know. Aren’t you coming?”
“I? God forbid! But do take something before you go. It may save you
from stage-fright.”
“I haven’t a minute. I must be there in twenty. Who is coming with me?”
Eight or ten of the company rose and hurried out with her; the rest
gathered about the tea-table and relieved their mental tension in
amicable discussion of the lighter matters of the day.