They sat together in a corner of the beautiful phalanstery garden, Olive
and Clarence, on the marble seat that overhung the mossy dell where the
streamlet danced and bickered among its pebbly stickles; they sat there,
hand in hand, in lovers' guise, and felt their two bosoms beating and
thrilling in some strange, sweet fashion, just like two foolish
unregenerate young people of the old antisocial prephalansteric days.
Perhaps it was the leaven of their unenlightened ancestors still
leavening by heredity the whole lump; perhaps it was the inspiration of
the calm soft August evening and the delicate afterglow of the setting
sun; perhaps it was the deep heart of man and woman vibrating still as
of yore in human sympathy, and stirred to its innermost recesses by the
unutterable breath of human emotion. But at any rate there they sat,
the beautiful strong man in his shapely chiton, and the dainty fair girl
in her long white robe with the dark green embroidered border, looking
far into the fathomless depths of one another's eyes, in silence sweeter
and more eloquent than many words. It was Olive's tenth-day holiday from
her share in the maidens' household duty of the community; and Clarence,
by arrangement with his friend Germain, had made exchange from his own
decade (which fell on Plato) to this quiet Milton evening, that he might
wander through the park and gardens with his chosen love, and speak his
full mind to her now without reserve.
"If only the phalanstery will give its consent, Clarence," Olive said at
last with a little sigh, releasing her hand from his, and gathering up
the folds of her stole from the marble flooring of the seat; "if only
the phalanstery will give its consent! but I have my doubts about it. Is
it quite right? Have we chosen quite wisely? Will the hierarch and the
elder brothers think I am strong enough and fit enough for the duties of
the task? It is no light matter, we know, to enter into bonds with one
another for the responsibilities of fatherhood and motherhood. I
sometimes feel--forgive me, Clarence--but I sometimes feel as if I were
allowing my own heart and my own wishes to guide me too exclusively in
this solemn question: thinking too much about you and me, about
ourselves (which is only an enlarged form of selfishness, after all),
and too little about the future good of the community and--and--"
blushing a little, for women will be women even in a phalanstery--"and
of the precious lives we may be the means of adding to it. You remember,
Clarence, what the hierarch said, that we ought to think least and last
of our own feelings, first and foremost of the progressive evolution of
universal humanity."
"I remember, darling," Clarence answered, leaning over towards her
tenderly; "I remember well, and in my own way, so far as a man can (for
we men haven't the moral earnestness of you women, I'm afraid, Olive), I
try to act up to it. But, dearest, I think your fears are greater than
they need be: you must recollect that humanity requires for its higher
development tenderness, and truth, and love, and all the softer
qualities, as well as strength and manliness; and if you are a trifle
less strong than most of our sisters here, you seem to me at least (and
I really believe to the hierarch and to the elder brothers too) to make
up for it, and more than make up for it, in your sweet and lovable inner
nature. The men of the future mustn't all be cast in one unvarying
stereotyped mould; we must have a little of all good types combined, in
order to make a perfect phalanstery."
Olive sighed again. "I don't know," she said pensively. "I don't feel
sure. I hope I am doing right. In my aspirations every evening I have
desired light on this matter, and have earnestly hoped that I was not
being misled by my own feelings; for, oh, Clarence, I do love you so
dearly, so truly, so absorbingly, that I half fear my love may be taking
me unwittingly astray. I try to curb it; I try to think of it all as the
hierarch tells us we ought to; but in my own heart I sometimes almost
fear that I may be lapsing into the idolatrous love of the old days,
when people married and were given in marriage, and thought only of the
gratification of their own personal emotions and affections, and nothing
of the ultimate good of humanity. Oh, Clarence, don't hate me and
despise me for it; don't turn upon me and scold me: but I love you, I
love you, I love you; oh, I'm afraid I love you almost idolatrously!"
Clarence lifted her small white hand slowly to his lips, with that
natural air of chivalrous respect which came so easily to the young men
of the phalanstery, and kissed it twice over fervidly with quiet
reverence. "Let us go into the music-room, Olive dearest," he said as he
rose; "you are too sad to-night. You shall play me that sweet piece of
Marian's that you love so much; and that will quiet you, darling, from
thinking too earnestly about this serious matter."