The audience at a parlor lecture in a Beacon Street drawing room is
apt to be rather intense and rapt in its attention, and discreet
in its enthusiasm, with the emphasis of discernment which subdued,
well-bred applause confers. At Mrs. Reginald Beveridge Vincent’s this
is always particularly noticeable, for Mrs. Vincent is one of the
social law givers of the “smart” set, and her rooms on these occasions
are thronged with all sorts of ambitious social strugglers, who pay
insidious homage to their hostess in their admiration of the idols for
whom she stands sponsor. There are all sorts of people here, and among
them many of the great army of the small celebrities, who are somewhat
more distinguished than prosperous, and who would fain pass from the
appreciation of imaginative literature to the serious consideration of
dining. The fact is, the socially nebulous, who rebel against their
birth’s invidious bar and strive to get out of the obscurity of the
mass of humanity, are really the backbone of the enthusiasm for letters
in fashionable society. These rather dubious folk, with no redeeming
big bank account, are spurred by ambition to attach themselves to some
sort of superiority--the superiority not always inherently residing in
them; and so literature becomes their easy spoil. They constitute the
one stable element in all literary gatherings out of Grub Street; and
even Mrs. Vincent, with all her social prestige, could not dispense
with them. And so they come, and dream of passing the rubicon, and so
on to more important functions. There are many who are considered good
enough and worthy to sit at a feast of reason and a flow of soul, who
would never be deemed eligible for the holier function of stuffing with
baked meats and wines. These literary afternoons, it may be noted, for
the benefit of the ambitious, serve an incidental purpose as a sort of
preliminary investigation into the character, standing and desirability
of new acquaintances. Many are called to the feast of literature--but
few are chosen to break bread at dinner. But the success of parlor
lectures, at the most dispiriting hour of the afternoon in winter when
the city streets are sunless and melancholy and depressing, depends
almost entirely upon the lure of social hopes, that influence the more
or less obscure to give up the comfort of their mediocre leisure to
swell the triumph of those who secure the glory of the passing show of
life. The woman who wants to shine as a patron of the fine arts must
not neglect these mixed social elements, or her rooms will be empty.
Exemplary activity in church politics and an interest in letters, are
the humble beginnings, the corduroy roads, as it were, of many who
ultimately shine with more certain lustre as leaders of the german.
Therefore, every wise blue stocking is affable and accessible to the
crowd of dubious persons whose admirations may be depended upon--unless
hope burns stronger in some other quarter. One thing is certain: the
grand dames of the upper social heavens are not to be depended upon
when literature or philosophy is the only attraction offered, even
when a grand dame is herself holding the reception. There are so many
petty jealousies, and so many rival courts; and, moreover, the grand
dames have so many questions of social diplomacy to occupy them--men,
for instance (_nice_, eligible men are scarce); consequently they do
not often come under the spell of the literary impressario, who gains
a precarious subsistence in the lap of luxury; and, besides, the
afternoon is the meridian of the shopping fever.
The large drawing room was crowded on this particular afternoon, and
Mrs. Vincent was in high feather, for she had secured the new poet of
the season, Mr. Blanco Winterbourne, to give his lecture on “Ideals
of Beauty in Modern Life.” This was in itself a victory. Winterbourne
was a brand new poet, who had dropped straight from the skies and been
immediately accepted in London, so that he had all the freshness and
glamour of a debutante, and his reputation being still in the making in
the inner circles of society, the gold dust was still upon his wings,
unbrushed and untarnished by the chill after-thoughts of envious Grub
Street criticism.
Everybody sat in an attitude of rare rapture, and every time the
lecturer uttered some especially well sounding and uplifting sentiment,
and paused a moment for the rapid click of eyes, some fine idealist
in the group would fix the hostess’s wandering glance with a gleam of
appreciation. This was intended to isolate him in her memory as a man
of discernment and culture worthy of remembrance in the Elysian domain
of dining. There is indeed something almost pathetic in this intense
concentration of mind, this painful anxiety of appreciation, which
is so evidently the tribute to the hostess and not to the new genius
himself. Only so much rapture goes to the lecturer as appearances
demand. The glory of the occasion belongs to the patron; for skill
and talent are largely a matter of labor and discipline, whereas the
recognition of excellence is the quick flash of pure intellect, genius!
But the audience is charitable enough, and the most terrible ordeal for
the lecturer, fresh from Parnassus or Grub Street, is the pervasive
and distracting rustling and swishing of silken skirts--a sound that
is the most tangible symbol of women’s potent whims in the sensuous
consciousness of man.
[Illustration]
There was one exception to the general air of complete absorption and
satisfaction, and this was a queer, oval cynical face, half in the
light of the waning day, and half in the shadow of the curtains.
It belonged to a young man, who leaned half forward in a rigid,
high-backed chair, and alternately glanced curiously from face to face
in the audience, and then turned completely about and looked out across
the bare tree-tops of the Common. A look of weariness, and even of
contempt, crept about his eyes and mouth, as certain high-flown phrases
reached his ears.
Here is a bit of rapid rhetoric that evoked the applause of the
company, and made him only curl his lip. “The dominion of beauty
obtains forever in the human heart, and so long as this is so, no
class nor humanity at large can be utterly bad; for the discernment of
beauty involves the recognition of moral feeling. All permanent beauty
is essentially moral and is sure of ready acceptance, especially among
women, in whom the religious instinct is strongest. Modern life can
never annihilate this innate and instinctive perception of intellectual
nobility and pure beauty. Nay, since the form is the body of the soul,
the finest type of pure physical beauty will always rightly command our
admiration. It breaks through all creeds and castes, and holds the race
in unity of feeling and thought.”
The lecture closed in a culminating clapping of hands, and the guests
all moved forward to congratulate the lecturer and the patron. The
young man turned and studied the different groups with an amused smile.
A lady, who had been watching the young man’s mocking comment on the
scene in the changing expression of his eyes and pursed lips, suddenly
arose from a divan in the angle of the room, and crossed over to where
he sat in the afternoon twilight.
She stopped him from arising with a gesture, and sank down into a seat
beside him.
“You do not seem particularly pleased with Mr. Blanco Winterbourne’s
lecture?”
[Illustration]
“Well, it doesn’t interest me, because you see I come into contact with
life as it really is. I have heard all this cant about the beauty of
purity and character before so many times, but when I see beauty of
character in life I find it always taken advantage of. And as for the
dignity of physical beauty, I need scarcely tell one of your sex the
difference between a beauty in rags and a beauty in silks.”
“Oh, but I protest, that although the world is gross, and the half
of us are mere Mammon worshippers, there is an instinct of delight,
and irresistible attraction for us, especially for we women, in sheer
beauty without any trappings of finery.”
“Ah, indeed; that sounds like the magnanimity of humanity, universally
asserted by popular moralists. But your sex is really the least
amenable, as I could easily prove to you.”
“Then prove it.”
“I will, if you can put on your hat and coat and come at once.”
“Well, I’m in a blaze of curiosity for the adventure.”
* * * * *
As they crossed Beacon Street a beggar boy stepped up to them, and in
piping tones of want asked the lady for alms. She glanced for a moment
into his face with a blank look of negation on her own, and with a sort
of comprehensive intake of his dirt and rags she gathered her skirts
about her and passed through the turnpike and down the steps to the
Common. But her companion lingered behind, and presently joined her,
half dragging the boy by his tattered sleeve.
“Come here, Miss Lorillard, and look at the boy. I want to know if this
isn’t beauty?”
She turned and looked into the boy’s face, as her companion held it
up to the light between his two hands. The extraordinary and perfect
beauty of his features seized upon her in a sort of wonderment. Where
had she ever seen such a face before?--And her memory swept through the
galleries of Europe. In none of them. How was it she had not noticed it
at first? The dirt? It was incomparable--it seemed superhuman in its
sweetness and beauty, its appeal, and its glow of divinity. God’s hand
was plainly set in that face.
“This is the boy,” said the young man, laconically, watching her
expression. “Come along.”
And linking his arm in that of the ragged youngster, the trio sauntered
along with the fashionable throng coming out of the matinees.
[Illustration]
“Get out of my way, you ugly little sweep,” said one woman, elbowing
the boy off the pavement; and the men pushed him hither and thither.
The fashionable women looked right through the ragged urchin and his
evidently dubious companions, as if they were glass, and their gaze
seemed to bite like frost. Not one woman remarked the surpassing
loveliness of the boy’s perfect face.
At the corner of the Common the young man sent the boy about his
business.
“Who is he, and what does all this mean?”
“That is Adonis--the one-time victor of Venus. He fell upon evil days
when clothes made the king, and rags the knave.”