MISS PHOEBE'S OPINIONS
"I cannot see that your aunt looks a day older than she did twenty years
ago," said Dr. James Stedman.
Miss Vesta Blyth looked up in some trepidation, and the soft color came
into her cheeks.
"You have called on her, then, James," she said. "I am truly glad. How
did she--that is, I am sure she was rejoiced to see you, as every one in
the village is."
Doctor Stedman chuckled, and pulled his handsome gray beard. "She may
have been rejoiced," he said; "I trust she was. She said first that she
hoped I had come back wiser than I went, and when I replied that I hoped
I had learned a little, she said she could not abide new-fangled
notions, and that if I expected to try any experiments on her I would
find myself mistaken. Yes, I find her quite unchanged, and wholly
delightful. What amazing vigor! I am too old for her, that's the
trouble. Young Strong is far more her contemporary than I am. Why, she
is as much interested in every aspect of life as any boy in the village.
Before I left I had told her all that I knew, and a good deal that I
didn't."
"It is greatly to be regretted," said Miss Phoebe Blyth, pausing in an
intricate part of her knitting, and looking over her glasses with mild
severity, "it is greatly to be regretted that Aunt Marcia occupies
herself so largely with things temporal. At her advanced age, her acute
interest in--one, two, three, purl--in worldly matters, appears to me
lamentable."
"I often think, Sister Phoebe," said Miss Vesta, timidly, "that it is
her interest in little things that keeps Aunt Marcia so wonderfully
young."
"My dear Vesta," replied Miss Phoebe, impressively, "at ninety-one,
with eternity, if I may use the expression, sitting in the next room,
the question is whether any assumption of youthfulness is desirable. For
my own part, I cannot feel that it is. I said something of the sort to
Aunt Marcia the other day, and she replied that she was having all the
eternity she desired at that moment. The expression shocked me, I am
bound to say."
"Aunt Marcia does not always mean what she says, Sister Phoebe."
"My dear Vesta, if she does not mean what she says at her age, the
question is, when will she mean it?"
After a majestic pause, Miss Phoebe continued, glancing at her other
hearers:
"I should be the last, the very last, to reflect upon my mother's
sister in general conversation; but Doctor Stedman being our family
physician as well as our lifelong friend, and Cousin Homer one of the
family, I may without impropriety, I trust, dwell on a point which
distresses me in our venerable relation. Aunt Marcia is--I grieve to use
a harsh expression--frivolous."
Mr. Homer Hollopeter, responding to Miss Phoebe's glance, cleared his
throat and straightened his long back. He was a little gentleman, and
most of what height he had was from the waist upward; his general aspect
was one of waviness. His hair was long and wavy; so was his nose, and
his throat, and his shirt-collar. In his youth some one had told him
that he resembled Keats. This utterance, taken with the name bestowed on
him by an ambitious mother with literary tastes, had colored his whole
life. He was assistant in the post-office, and lived largely on the
imaginary romance of the letters which passed through his hands; he
also played the flute, wrote verses, and admired his cousin Phoebe.
"I have often thought it a pity," said Mr. Homer, "that Cousin Marcia
should not apply herself more to literary pursuits."
"I don't know what you mean by literary pursuits, Homer," said Doctor
Stedman, rather gruffly. "I found her the other day reading Johnson's
Dictionary by candlelight, without glasses. I thought that was doing
pretty well for ninety-one."
"I--a--was thinking more about other branches of literature," Mr. Homer
admitted. "The Muse, James, the Muse! Cousin Marcia takes little
interest in poetry. If she could sprinkle the--a--pathway to the tomb
with blossoms of poesy, it would be"--he waved his hands gently
abroad--"smoother; less rough; more devoid of irregularities."
"Cousin Homer, could you find it convenient not to rock?" asked Miss
Phoebe, with stately courtesy.
"Certainly, Cousin Phoebe. I beg your pardon."
It was one of Miss Phoebe's crosses that Mr. Homer would always sit in
this particular chair, and would rock; the more so that when not engaged
in conversation he was apt to open and shut his mouth in unison with the
motion of the rockers. Miss Phoebe disapproved of rocking-chairs, and
would gladly have banished this one, had it not belonged to her mother.
"I have occasionally offered to read to Cousin Marcia," Mr. Homer
continued, "from the works of Keats and--other bards; but she has
uniformly received the suggestion in a spirit of--mockery; of--derision;
of--contumely. The last time I mentioned it, she exclaimed 'Cat's foot!'
The expression struck me, I confess, as--strange; as--singular;
as--extraordinary."
"It is an old-fashioned expression, Cousin Homer," Miss Vesta put in,
gently. "I have heard our Grandmother Darracott use it, Sister
Phoebe."
"There's nothing improper in it, is there?" said Doctor Stedman.
"Really, my dear James," said Miss Phoebe, bending a literally awful
brow on her guest, "I trust not. Do you mean to imply that the
conversation of gentlewomen of my aunt's age is apt to be improper?"
"No, no," said Doctor Stedman, easily. "It only seemed to me that you
were making a good deal of Mrs. Tree's little eccentricities. But,
Phoebe, you said something a few minutes ago that I was very glad to
hear. It is pleasant to know that I am still your family physician. That
young fellow who went off the other day seems to have taken every heart
in the village in his pocket. A young rascal!"
Miss Phoebe colored and drew herself up.
"Sister Phoebe," Miss Vesta breathed rather than spoke, "James is in
jest. He has the highest opinion of--"
"Vesta, I _think_ I have my senses," said Miss Phoebe, kindly. "I have
heard James use exaggerated language before. Candor compels me to admit,
James, that I have benefited greatly by the advice and prescriptions of
Doctor Strong; also that, though deploring certain aspects of his
conduct while under our roof--I will say no more, having reconciled
myself entirely to the outcome of the matter--we have become deeply
attached to him. He is"--Miss Phoebe's voice quavered slightly--"he is
a chosen spirit."
"Dear Geoffrey!" murmured Miss Vesta.
"But in spite of this," Miss Phoebe continued, graciously, "we feel
the ties of ancient friendship as strongly as ever, James, and must
always value you highly, whether as physician or as friend."
"Yes, indeed, dear James," said Miss Vesta, softly.
Doctor Stedman rose from his seat. His eyes were very tender as he
looked at the sisters from under his shaggy eyebrows.
"Good girls!" he said. "I couldn't afford to lose my best--patients." He
straightened his broad shoulders and looked round the room. "When I saw
anything new over there," he said, "castle or picture-gallery or
cathedral,--whatever it was,--I always compared it with this room, and
it never stood the comparison for an instant. Pleasantest place in the
world, to my thinking."
Miss Phoebe beamed over her spectacles. "You pay us a high compliment,
James," she said. "It is pleasant indeed to feel that home still seems
best to you. I confess that, great as are the treasures of art, and
magnificent as are the monuments in the cities of Europe, I have always
felt that as places of residence they would not compare favorably with
Elmerton."
"Quite right," said Doctor Stedman, "quite right!" and though his eyes
twinkled, he spoke with conviction.
"The cities of Europe," Mr. Homer observed, "can hardly be suited, as
places of residence, to--a--persons of literary taste. There is"--he
waved his hands--"too much noise; too much--sound; too much--absence of
tranquillity. I could wish, though, to have seen the grave of Keats."
"I brought you a leaf from his grave, Homer," said Doctor Stedman,
kindly. "I have it at home, in my pocketbook. I'll bring it down to the
office to-morrow. I went to the burying-ground on purpose."
"Did you so?" exclaimed Mr. Homer, his mild face growing radiant with
pleasure. "That was kind, James; that was--friendly; that
was--benevolent! I shall value it highly, highly. I thank you, James.
I--since you are interested in the lamented Keats, perhaps you would
like"--his hand went with a fluttering motion to his pocket.
"I must go now," said Doctor Stedman, hastily. "I've stayed too long
already, but I never know how to get away from this house. Good night,
Phoebe! Good night, Vesta! You are looking a little tired; take care
of yourself. 'Night, Homer; see you to-morrow!"
He shook hands heartily all around and was gone.
Mr. Homer sighed gently. "It is a great pity," he said, "with his
excellent disposition, that James will never interest himself in
literary pursuits."
His hand was still fluttering about his pocket, and there was an
unspoken appeal in his mild brown eyes.
"Have you brought something to read to us, Cousin Homer?" asked Miss
Phoebe, benevolently.
Mr. Homer with alacrity drew a folded paper from his pocket.
"This is--you may be aware, Cousin Phoebe--the anniversary of the
birth of the lamented Keats. I always like to pay some tribute to his
memory on these occasions, and I have here a slight thing--I tossed it
off after breakfast this morning--which I confess I should like to read
to you. You know how highly I value your opinion, Cousin Phoebe, and
some criticism may suggest itself to you, though I trust that in the
main--but you shall judge for yourself."
He cleared his throat, adjusted his spectacles, and began:
"Thoughts suggested by the Anniversary of the Natal Day of the poet
Keats."
"Could you find it convenient not to rock, Cousin Homer?" said Miss
Phoebe.
"By all means, Cousin Phoebe. I beg your pardon. 'Thoughts'--but I
need not repeat the title.
"I asked the Muse if she had one
Thrice-favored son,
Or if some one poetic brother
Appealed to her more than another.
She gazed on me with aspect high,
And tear in eye,
While musically she repeats,
'Keats!'
"She gave me then to understand,
And smilèd bland,
On Helicon the sacred Nine
Occasionally ask bards to dine.
'For most,' she said, 'we do not move,
Though we approve;
For one alone we leave our seats:
"Keats!"'"
There was a silence after the reading of the poem. Mr. Homer, slightly
flushed with his own emotions, gazed eagerly at Miss Phoebe, who sat
very erect, the tips of her fingers pressed together, her whole air that
of a judge about to give sentence. Miss Vesta looked somewhat disturbed,
yet she was the first to speak, murmuring softly, "The feeling is very
genuine, I am sure, Cousin Homer!" But Miss Phoebe was ready now.
"Cousin Homer," she said, "since you ask for criticism, I feel bound to
give it. You speak of the 'sacred' Nine. The word sacred appears to me
to belong distinctly to religious matters; I cannot think that it should
be employed in speaking of pagan divinities. The expression--I am sorry
to speak strongly--shocks me!"
Mr. Homer looked pained, and opened and shut his mouth several times.
"It is an expression that is frequently used, Cousin Phoebe," he
said. "All the poets make use of it, I assure you."
"I do not doubt it in the least," said Miss Phoebe. "The poets--with a
few notable exceptions--are apt to be deplorably lax in such matters. If
you would confine your reading of poetry, Cousin Homer, to the works of
such poets as Mrs. Hemans, Archbishop Trench, and the saintly Keble, you
would not incur the danger of being led away into unsuitable vagaries."
"But Keats, Cousin Phoebe," began Mr. Homer; Miss Phoebe checked him
with a wave of her hand.
"Cousin Homer, I have already intimated to you, on several occasions,
that I cannot discuss the poet Keats with you. I am aware that he is
considered an eminent poet, but I have not reached my present age
without realizing that many works may commend themselves to even the
most refined of the masculine sex which are wholly unsuitable for
ladies. We will change the subject, if you please; but before doing so,
let me earnestly entreat you to remove the word 'sacred' from your
poem."