IN WAY OF TASTE.
Troilus and Cressida; iii.--3.
One of the most curious of modern whims in Boston has been the study of
the poems of Robert Browning. All at once there sprang up on every hand
strange societies called Browning Clubs, and the libraries were
ransacked for Browning's works, and for the books of whoever has had
the conceit or the hardihood to write about the great poet. Lovely
girls at afternoon receptions propounded to each other abstruse
conundrums concerning what they were pleased to regard as obscure
passages, while little coteries gathered, with airs of supernatural
gravity, to read and discuss whatever bore his signature.
A genuine, serious Boston Browning Club is as deliciously droll as any
form of entertainment ever devised, provided one's sense of the
ludicrous be strong enough to overcome the natural indignation aroused
by seeing genuine poetry, the high gift of the gods, thus abused. The
clubs meet in richly furnished parlors, of which the chief fault is
usually an over-abundance of bric-a-brac. The house of Mrs. Gore, for
instance, where Edith was going this evening, was all that money could
make it; and in passing it may be noted that Boston clubs are seldom of
constitutions sufficiently vigorous to endure unpleasant surroundings.
The fair sex predominates at all these gatherings, and over them hangs
an air of expectant solemnity, as if the celebration of some sacred
mystery were forward. Conversation is carried on in subdued tones; even
the laughter is softened, and when the reader takes his seat, there
falls upon the little company a hush so deep as to render distinctly
audible the frou-frou of silken folds, and the tinkle of jet fringes,
stirred by the swelling of ardent and aspiring bosoms.
The reading is not infrequently a little dull, especially to the
uninitiated, and there have not been wanting certain sinister
suggestions that now and then, during the monotonous delivery of some
of the longer poems, elderly and corpulent devotees listen only with
the spiritual ear, the physical sense being obscured by an abstraction
not to be distinguished by an ordinary observer from slumber. The
reader, however, is bound to assume that all are listening, and if some
sleep and others consider their worldly concerns or speculate upon the
affairs of their neighbors, it interrupts not at all the steady flow of
the reading.
Once this is finished, there is an end also of inattention, for the
discussion begins. The central and vital principle of all these clubs
is that a poem by Robert Browning is a sort of prize enigma, of which
the solution is to be reached rather by wild and daring guessing than
by any commonplace process of reasoning. Although to an ordinary and
uninspired intellect it may appear perfectly obvious that a lyric means
simply and clearly what it says, the true Browningite is better
informed. He is deeply aware that if the poet seems to say one thing,
this is proof indisputable that another is intended. To take a work in
straightforward fashion would at once rob the Browning Club of all
excuse for existence, and while parlor chairs are easy, the air warm
and perfumed, and it is the fashion for idle minds to concern
themselves with that rococo humbug Philistines call culture, societies
of this sort must continue.
Once it is agreed that a poem means something not apparent, it is easy
to make it mean anything and everything, especially if the discussion,
as is usually the case, be interspersed with discursions of which the
chief use is to give some clever person or other a chance to say smart
things. When all else fails, moreover, the club can always fall back
upon allegory. Commentators on the poets have always found much field
for ingenious quibbling and sounding speculation in the line of
allegory. Let a poem be but considered an allegory, and there is no
limit to the changes which may be rung upon it, not even Mrs.
Malaprop's banks of the Nile restraining the creature's headstrong
ranging. Only a failure of the fancy of the interpreter can afford a
check, and as everybody reads fiction nowadays, few people are without
a goodly supply of fancies, either original or acquired.
Although Fenton had declined to go to Mrs. Gore's with his wife, he had
finished his cigar when the carriage was announced, and decided to
accompany her, after all. The parlors were filling when they arrived,
and Arthur, who knew how to select good company, managed to secure a
seat between Miss Elsie Dimmont, a young and rather gay society girl,
and Mrs. Frederick Staggchase, a descendant of an old Boston family,
who was called one of the cleverest women of her set.
"Is Mr. Fenwick going to read?" he asked of the latter, glancing about
to see who was present.
"Yes," Mrs. Staggchase answered, turning toward him with her
distinguished motion of the head and high-bred smile. "Don't you like
him?"
"I never had the misfortune to hear him. I know he detests me, but then
I fear, that like olives and caviare, I have to be an acquired taste."
"Acquired tastes," she responded, with that air of being amused by
herself which always entertained Fenton, "are always the strongest."
"And generally least to a man's credit," he retorted quickly. "What is
he going to inflict upon us?"
"Really, I don't know. I seldom come to this sort of thing. I don't
think it pays."
"Oh, nothing pays, of course," was Fenton's reply, "but it is more or
less amusing to see people make fools of themselves."
The president of the club, at this moment, called the assembly to
order, and announced that Mr. Fenwick had kindly consented--"Readers
always kindly consent," muttered Fenton aside to Mrs. Staggchase--to
read, _Bishop Blougram's Apology_, to which they would now listen.
There was a rustle of people settling back into their chairs; the
reader brushed a lank black lock from his sallow brow, and with a tone
of sepulchral earnestness began:
"'No more wine? then we'll push back chairs, and talk.'"
For something over an hour, the monotonous voice of the reader went
dully on. Fenton drew out his tablets and amused himself and Miss
Dimmont by drawing caricatures of the company, ending with a sketch of
a handsome old dowager, who went so soundly to sleep that her jaw fell.
Over this his companion laughed so heartily that Mrs. Staggchase leaned
forward smilingly, and took his tablets away from him; whereat he
produced an envelope from his pocket and was about to begin another
sketch, when suddenly, and apparently somewhat to the surprise of the
reader, the poem came to an end.
There was a joyful stir. The dowager awoke, and there was a perfunctory
clapping of hands when Mr. Fenwick laid down his volume, and people
were assured that there was no mistake about his being really quite
through. A few murmurs of admiration were heard, and then there was an
awful pause, while the president, as usual, waited in the
never-fulfilled hope that the discussion would start itself without
help on his part.
"How cleverly you do sketch," Miss Dimmont said, under her breath; "but
it was horrid of you to make me laugh."
"You are grateful," Fenton returned, in the same tone. "You know I kept
you from being bored to death."
"I have a cousin, Miss Wainwright," pursued Miss Dimmont, "whose
picture we want you to paint."
"If she is as good a subject as _her_ cousin," Fenton answered, "I
shall be delighted to do it."
The president had, meantime, got somewhat ponderously upon his feet,
half a century of good living not having tended to increase his natural
agility, and remarked that the company were, he was sure, extremely
grateful to Mr. Fenwick, for his very intelligent interpretation of the
poem read.
"Did he interpret it?" Fenton whispered to Mrs. Staggchase. "Why wasn't
I told?" "Hush!" she answered, "I will never let you sit by me again if
you do not behave better."
"Sitting isn't my _metier_, you know," he retorted.
The president went on to say that the lines of thought opened by the
poem were so various and so wide that they could scarcely hope to
explore them all in one evening, but that he was sure there must be
many who had thoughts or questions they wished to express, and to start
the discussion he would call upon a gentleman whom he had observed
taking notes during the reading, Mr. Fenton.
"The old scaramouch!" Fenton muttered, under his breath. "I'll paint
his portrait and send it to _Punch_."
Then with perfect coolness he got upon his feet and looked about the
parlor.
"I am so seldom able to come to these meetings," he said, "that I am
not at all familiar with your methods, and I certainly had no idea of
saying anything; I was merely jotting down a few things to think over
at home, and not making notes for a speech, as you would see if you
examined the paper."
At this point Miss Dimmont gave a cough which had a sound strangely
like a laugh strangled at its birth.
"The poem is one so subtile," Fenton continued, unmoved; "it is so
clever in its knowledge of human nature, that I always have to take a
certain time after reading it to get myself out of the mood of merely
admiring its technique, before I can think of it critically at all. Of
course the bit about 'an artist whose religion is his art' touches me
keenly, for I have long held to the heresy that art is the highest
thing in the world, and, as a matter of fact, the only thing one can
depend upon. The clever sophistry of Bishop Blougram shows well enough
how one can juggle with theology; and, after all, theology is chiefly
some one man's insistence that everybody else shall make the same
mistakes that he does."
Fenton felt that he was not taking the right direction in his talk, and
that in his anxiety to extricate himself from a slight awkwardness he
was rapidly getting himself into a worse one. It was one of those odd
whimsicalities which always came as a surprise when committed by a man
who usually displayed so much mental dexterity, that now, instead of
endeavoring to get upon the right track, he simply broke off abruptly
and sat down.
His words had, however, the effect of calling out instantly a protest
from the Rev. De Lancy Candish. Mr. Candish was the rector of the
Church of the Nativity, the exceedingly ritualistic organization with
which Mrs. Fenton was connected. He was a tall and bony young man, with
abundant auburn hair and freckles, the most ungainly feet and hands,
and eyes of eager enthusiasm, which showed how the result of New
England Puritanism had been to implant in his soul the true martyr
spirit. Fenton was never weary of jeering at Mr. Candish's uncouthness,
his jests serving as an outlet, not only for the irritation physical
ugliness always begot in him, but for his feeling of opposition to his
wife's orthodoxy, in which he regarded the clergyman as upholding her.
The rector's self-sacrificing devotion to truth, moreover, awakened in
the artist a certain inner discomfort. To the keenly sensitive mind
there is no rebuke more galling than the unconscious reproof of a
character which holds steadfastly to ideals which it has basely
forsaken. Arthur said to himself that he hated Candish for his ungainly
person. "He is so out of drawing," he once told his wife, "that I
always have a strong inclination to rub him out and make him over
again." In that inmost chamber of his consciousness where he allowed
himself the luxury of absolute frankness, however, the artist confessed
that his animosity to the young rector had other causes.
As Fenton sank into his seat, Mrs. Staggchase leaned over to quote from
the poem,--
"'For Blougram, he believed, say, half he spoke.'"
The artist turned upon her a glance of comprehension and amusement, but
before he could reply, the rough, rather loud voice of Mr. Candish
arrested his attention.
"If the poem teaches anything," Mr. Candish said, speaking according to
his custom, somewhat too warmly, "it seems to me it is the sophistry of
the sort of talk which puts art above religion. The thing that offends
an honest man in Bishop Blougram is the fact that he looks at religion
as if it were an art, and not a vital and eternal necessity,--a living
truth that cannot be trifled with."
"Ah," Fenton's smooth and beautiful voice rejoined, "that is to
confound art with the artificial, which is an obvious error. Art is a
passion, an utter devotion to an ideal, an absolute lifting of man out
of himself into that essential truth which is the only lasting bond by
which mankind is united."
Fenton's coolness always had a confusing and irritating effect upon Mr.
Candish, who was too thoroughly honest and earnest to quibble, and far
from possessing the dexterity needed to fence with the artist. He began
confusedly to speak, but with the first word became aware that Mrs.
Fenton had come to the rescue. Edith never saw a contest between her
husband and the clergyman without interfering if she could, and now she
instinctively spoke, without stopping to consider where she was.
"It is precisely for that reason," she said, "that art seems to me to
fall below religion. Art can make man contented with life only by
keeping his attention fixed upon an ideal, while religion reconciles us
to life as it really is."
A murmur of assent showed Arthur how much against the feeling of those
around him were the views he was advancing.
"Oh, well," he said, in a droll _sotto voce_, "if it is coming down to
a family difference we will continue it in private."
And he abandoned the discussion.
"It seems to me," pursued Mr. Candish, only half conscious that Mrs.
Fenton had come to his aid, "that Bishop Blougram represents the most
dangerous spirit of the age. His paltering with truth is a form of
casuistry of which we see altogether too much nowadays."
"Do you think," asked a timid feminine voice, "that Blougram was
_quite_ serious? That he really meant all he said, I mean?"
The president looked at the speaker with despair in his glance; but she
was adorably pretty and of excellent social position, so that snubbing
was not to be thought of. Moreover, he was thoroughly well trained in
keeping his temper under the severest provocation, so he expressed his
feelings merely by a deprecatory smile.
"We have the poet's authority," he responded, in a softly patient
voice, "for saying that he believed only half."
There was a little rustle of leaves, as if people were looking over
their books, in order to find the passage to which he alluded. Then a
young girl in the front row of chairs, a pretty creature, just on the
edge of womanhood, looked up earnestly, her finger at a line on the
page before her.
"I can't make out what this means," she announced, knitting her girlish
brow,--
"'Here, we've got callous to the Virgin's winks
That used to puzzle people wholesomely.'"
"Of course he can't mean that the Madonna winks; that would be too
irreverent."
There were little murmurs of satisfaction that the question had been
asked, confusing explanations which evidently puzzled some who had not
thought of being confused before; and then another girl, ignoring the
fact that the first difficulty had not been disposed of, propounded
another.
"Isn't the phrase rather bold," she asked, "where he speaks of 'blessed
evil?'"
"Where is that?" some one asked.
"On page 106, in my edition," was the reply; and a couple of moments
were given to finding the place in the various books.
"Oh, I see the line," said an old lady, at last. "It's
one--two--three--five lines from the bottom of the page:"
"'And that's what all the blessed evil's for.'"
"You don't think," queried the first speaker, appealing personally to
the president, "that Mr. Browning can really have meant that evil is
blessed, do you?"
The president regarded her with an affectionate and fatherly smile.
"I think," he said, with an air of settling everything, "that the
explanation of his meaning is to be found in the line which follows,--
"'It's use in Time is to environ us.'"
"Heavens!" whispered Fenton to Mrs. Staggchase; "fancy that incarnate
respectability environed by 'blessed evil!'"
"For my part," she returned, in the same tone, "I feel as if I were
visiting a lunatic asylum." "Yes, that line does make it beautifully
clear," observed the voice of Miss Catherine Penwick; "and I think
that's so beautiful about the exposed brain, and lidless eyes, and
disemprisoned heart. The image is so exquisite when he speaks of their
withering up at once."
Fenton made a droll grimace for the benefit of his neighbor, and then
observed with great apparent seriousness,--
"The poem is most remarkable for the intimate knowledge it shows of
human nature. Take a line like:"
'Men have outgrown the shame of being fools;'
"We can see such striking instances of its truth all about us."
"How can you?" exclaimed Elsie Dimmont, under her breath.
Fenton had not been able wholly to keep out of his tone the mockery
which he intended, and several people looked at him askance.
Fortunately for him, a nice old gentleman who, being rather hard of
hearing, had not caught what was said, now broke in with the inevitable
question, which, sooner or later, was sure to come into every
discussion of the club:
"Isn't this poem to be most satisfactorily understood when it is
regarded as an allegory?"
The members, however, did not take kindly to this suggestion in the
present instance. The question passed unnoticed, while a severe-faced
woman inquired, with an air of vast superiority,--
"I have understood that Bishop Blougram is intended as a portrait of
Cardinal Wiseman; can any one tell me if Gigadibs is also a portrait?"
"Oh, Lord!" muttered Fenton, half audibly. "I can't stand any more of
this."
And at that moment a servant came to tell him that his carriage was
waiting.