by Kate Chopin
“Philosopher! What good is philosophy when a fellow wants to get on in the world and make a living and make a mark?”
“I wasn’t talking about the successful person; I was talking about the person I like. Then there’s the loafer. Sometimes I’ve discovered a charming companion in a loafer.”
“Oh, I see you’re roasting me. Well, I’m not a poet or a philosopher, and, thank heavens, I ain’t a loafer.”
“But you are all three, my dear, and that’s why I like you. Do you know what illusions are?”
“Let’s see. An illusion is when— “
“No, you don’t. We never know what illusions are till we have lost them. They belong to youth, and they are poetry and philosophy, and vagabondage, and everything delightful. And they last till men and the world, life and the institutions, come along with — but gracious! I forgot whom I was talking to. Run on and get your skates. I hear there’s great sport out at Forest Park.
II
It has lately been my unhappy experience to make the acquaintance of a gentleman who said:
“Look this way; that way, please; to the right; to the left; up; now, down.” And while striving to follow these conflicting instructions as nimbly as they were given, it was further my miserable fate to have a glance of ten million candle-power turned upon my defenseless right eye. The very wastes and caverns of my inner thought must have been resolved by the searching probe.
“Only a little inflammation,” he said politely; “the eye needs rest.” I quite agreed with him.
“And what mustn’t I do for it, doctor?”
“You must not read, write, nor sew.”
“Thank you. And may I clean out closets; go see people; play whist; and think upon my sins and the means of escaping the penalty thereof?”
“Next, please!”
The snub direct from a professional gentleman in the discharge of his duty!
Well, the newspapers remain unread; letters are lying unanswered, and the boys are sewing on their own buttons. Women who are in the full enjoyment of these several delights and privileges will not, I trust, withhold their sympathy and a prayer for my speedy restoration.
Yet have I not lacked the kindly ministrations of well-meaning souls. One sweet woman has sent me a green eye-shade, fashioned with her own deft fingers. A second has brought me a homeopathic specific of such subtle quality and insidious efficacy that there seems to me to be no excuse for blindness upon the face of the earth unless she has been misinformed. Another willing friend has sought to induce me to visit with her a gentleman by the name of Sullivan, who — well, never mind what he does. And yet another has come and read to me the MS. of an address which she will soon deliver before an Intellectual Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Adults.
There is something very pleasing and restful in being read to. If the reader happen to be a sympathetic personality and the volume anything half so attractive as Alexander Kielland’s little stories, then the charm is complete. Speaking of Kielland — but let me say that the courteous editor of THE CRITERION, obeying some misguided impulse, has kindly placed at my disposal a couple of columns of this entertaining journal, in which to exploit my opinions upon books and writers, and matters and things pertaining thereto.
The mistake which the editor of THE CRITERION made was in not giving an imperative command. When a person is politely offered carte blanche to discourse upon “matters and things,” that person is going to talk about herself and her own small doings, unless she is old enough to know better. One must be very old indeed to be old enough to know better.
A second mistake — if I may be permitted to mention mistakes and the editor of THE CRITERION in the same breath — a second mistake was in supposing that I had any opinions. Very long ago I could do nothing with them; nobody wanted them; they were not self-supporting, and perished of inanition. Since then I have sometimes thought of cultivating a few — a batch of sound, marketable opinions, in anticipation of just such an emergency, but I neglected to do so. Of course there are such things as transplanted opinions; then one may know them, even steal them; there are lots of ways; but what is the use? I did not tell all this to the editor of THE CRITERION beforehand, because I might have lost the opportunity of telling it to the public.
But, speaking of Kielland, I am not going to advise anyone to read his stories; I would not be guilty of advising anyone to do anything. I only want to say that they possess a subtle quality that suited the ear, the understanding, the mood with which I listened to them. The book, “Tales of Two Countries,” is not new; it was published, I think, in ‘91 or earlier. There is no rush upon the libraries to obtain it. There are no newspapers discussing it, and, so far as I can be certain, no medicoliterary societies dissecting it for the purpose of ascertaining what it died of.
Norwegian translations always seem to possess a certain crudeness, not usually found in translations from the Spanish, German, French, or Italian. A something — it must be an idiomatic simplicity for which the English translator seemed unable to find in our language any corresponding expression. It is essential, in order to enjoy these tales of Kielland, to distrust our own point of view; to set aside all prejudice as to nicety of technique; to abandon ourselves to the spirit of the narrator, and project ourselves into the very atmosphere of the subject.
In “Pharaoh,” the first tale in the volume, there is a fine psychological touch. The beautiful countess is being conveyed in her carriage to some imperial ball. She was always beautiful, but she was not always a countess. Her beauty had been the means of lifting her from the ranks of the “people,” in which she was born. The carriage is slowly, and with difficulty, making its way through a dense throng of grumbling, hungry-eyed humanity; shoving and jostling each other to get snatched glimpses of that luxurious existence filing by; further from their reach than heaven itself. As the beautiful woman gazes out at this surging sea of up-turned faces, her heart, her very soul goes out to them; not with any sympathy born of compassion, but with the sympathy of blood. She wants to be where she belongs, out there with the growling multitude. A quick hate is born within her for the jewels upon her arms, the soft fabrics that enfold her, for the palace in which she is shortly to enter, and the people of rank whom she will find there. That is all the story; but it is enough.
And how I wish some one would paint a picture of the poor little mountebank “At The Fair!” The screaming, unhappy little being is crying behind the tent, his face buried in the grimy canvas, so as to stifle his sobs that they be not heard on the other side. He has a yellow and a red leg, and he stands on his yellow leg “like a stork,” with the red one doubled up under him. “Maman m’a pris mon sou,” he wails between sobs. His mother has taken his sou!
The story of “Two Friends” is one of the most subtle delineations of character which I ever read. It is not told as I like stories to be told; but that, perhaps, is because it is Norwegian. I stayed quite still after hearing it, quite still for a long time, pretending to be asleep, thinking of it, wondering at it.
III
Several years ago I read in Lippincott’s Magazine a story by Ruth McEnery Stuart, entitled “Carlotta’s Intended.” It was the novelette of the number, a tale of such marked excellence that it left an impression upon my mind which has never been disturbed. The character, the dialect of the dagoes with whom it deals, and of the Irish cobbler who plays so important a rôle, are singularly true to nature. Their fidelity must appear striking to anyone who has lived in New Orleans in familiar touch with the life which the author so graphically depicts in this story.
Since then I have read Mrs. Stuart’s stories, as they frequently appeared in the magazines, and I have never failed to find the same wholesome, human note sounding through and through them. Mrs. Stuart’s work deals mainly with the negroes and “poor whites” of Louisiana, her native state.
Her humor is rich and plentiful, with nothing finical or feminine about it. Few of our women writers have equalled her in th
is respect. Even Page and Harris among the men have not surpassed her in the portrayal of that child-like exuberance which is so pronounced a feature of negro character, and which has furnished so much that is deliciously humorous and pathetic to our recent literature.
I had sometimes thought that if ever I met Mrs. Stuart I would talk to her about her stories. I would seek a further acquaintance with sweet Carlotta; with some of the whole-souled darkies; above all, with that delightful “Sonny,” whom we have recently come to know through the pages of the Century Magazine. I have met Mrs. Stuart, and did not speak of her stories.
It was a week or two ago — maybe longer — at all events the morning of the big snow, that I went to call upon her out in the suburbs, where she was visiting with friends. There was something peculiarly beautiful about that one day’s snow. There was so much of it; an abundance so thick, soft, clinging, that for three hours or more the world seemed transformed into fairyland. People moved noiselessly along like dream-figures. There was no rumble of wheel or beat of hoof as carriages rolled by; a spell of silence had fallen upon the earth during the night. A spell of peace, too, and quietude which the silent, white snow brings, and which I would have liked to hold and cling to — till the snow melted, anyway.
But there was present with me the disturbing anticipation of meeting an unfamiliar personality — a celebrity, moreover. I had met a few celebrities, and they had never failed to depress me.
There is no question about Mrs. Stuart being a celebrity. Her achievements have entitled her to that distinction, and as such she is recognized throughout the length and breadth of these United States — everywhere, except in one small parish in Louisiana. I am quite sure that when Mrs. Stuart occasionally wanders back to Les Avoyelles there comes sauntering up to her some black wench or other, who accosts her with:
“G’long Mis’ Ruth! you knows des well as me, we all colo’ed people we don’ talk dat away lack you makes us talk in yo’ books!” And I am greatly mistaken in this guess work if some old chap from Bayou de Glaize hasn’t said more than once, “Hit seems Ruth MicHenry’s took to writin’ books. But land! they ain’t like no books I ever seen! Thes about common eve’y day talk an’ people!” In short, Mrs. Stuart is a prophet outside of Les Avoyelles.
But pshaw! I should have known better than to have been bothered at the thought of meeting her. I might have known that a woman possessing so great an abundance of the saving grace — which is humor — was not going to take herself seriously, or to imagine for a moment that I intended to take her seriously.
Mrs. Stuart is not one whose work overshadows her personality. That — I subsequently discovered in thinking the matter over — was the reason I failed to speak to her of her stories — possibly failed to think of them while in her presence. Her voice in conversation (I did not hear her read) has a melting quality that penetrates the senses, as some soothing ointment goes through the skin. Her eyes do the rest — complete the charm begun by voice, expression, and a thoroughly natural and sympathetic manner. Sympathy and insight are the qualities, I believe, which make her stories lovable, which make them linger in the memory like pleasant human experiences — happy realities that we are loath to part with. I fancy there are no sharp edges to this woman’s soul, no unsheathed prejudices dwelling therein wherewith to inflict wound, or prick, or stab upon her fellow-man or woman.
Mrs. Stuart, in fact, is a delightful womanly woman. I just wanted to sit there beside her all the rest of the day, while the snow melted out of doors and the world waked up from its fantastic, voiceless snow-dream. I know she would not have bored me the whole day long. I know she does not inflict the penalty of speech upon sympathetic companionship. Failing in this desire, I should have liked to spirit Mrs. Stuart away — out through a window or a defenseless back door. I wanted to take her up and set her down beside my sitting-room fire; to lock the door against receptions, luncheons, and the clamor of many voices. I would have had her sleep and rest there for a week, for a month, for a year!
But I could do nothing of all this. I could only carry away with me her sweet voice and the memory of a captivating presence, which lingered with me the whole day like the echo of some delicious strain of music that one cannot and would not banish.
This may be all wrong. If it is, I trust Mrs. Stuart herself will set me right. But for this once I should hate to be wrong.
IV
A while ago there was lying upon my table a book, which for some inscrutable reason has been withdrawn, I am told, from circulation at our libraries. The spectacle of this book lying in evidence communicated a severe shock to the susceptibilities of a woman who was calling upon me.
“Oh! how can you!” she exclaimed, “with so many young people about!”
The question of how much or how little knowledge of life should be withheld from the youthful mind is one which need only be touched upon here. It is a subject about which there exists a diversity of opinion with the conservative element no doubt, greatly in preponderance. As a rule the youthful, untrained nature is left to gather wisdom as it comes along in a thousand-and-one ways and in whatever form it may present itself to the intelligent, the susceptible, the observant. In this respect experience is perhaps an abler instructor than direct enlightenment from man or woman; for it works by suggestion. There are many phases and features of life which cannot, or rather should not be expounded, demonstrated, presented to the youthful imagination as cold facts, for it is safe to assert they are not going to be accepted as such. It is moreover robbing youth of its privilege to gather wisdom as the bee gathers honey.
The book referred to a moment ago is a ponderous and formidable looking affair at best. There is nothing alluring in its title or in its sombre black binding. It has the outward appearance of a Congressional Record, and it might easily have escaped the attention of the young person if some reviewers, a few gossips and the libraries had seen fit to let it work out its own damnation. I read the book and then I laid it upon the table.
“Any good?” asked one or two youngsters who have a propensity for getting at the inside of an interesting novel.
“Unutterably tiresome,” I said, “but you might like it.”
“Oh! thank you.”
So there it remained unmolested till the reviewers and others began to get in their work. Then a sudden interest in that volume awoke among people I knew, moving them to borrow; and the young folks began to pick it up and turn it over, in some instances attempting to read it. If any one of them succeeded in reading it from start to finish (which I believe is not the case) he is to be congratulated upon the achievement of having surmounted obstacles the like of which have never before confronted the seeker after entertainment.
From beginning to end there is not a gleam of humor in the book. From beginning to end there is not a line, a thought, a suggestion which could be called seductive. Its brutality is an obvious and unhappy imitation of the great French realist. The characters are so plainly constructed with the intention of illustrating the purposes of the author, that they do not for a moment convey any impression of reality. A gloom which is never lightened pervades the pages. The art is so poor that scenes intended to be impressive are at best but grotesque. The whole exposition is colorless. The hero arouses so little sympathy that at the close one does not care whether he lives or dies; he might be put upon the rack and submitted to unspeakable torture, and I am sure nobody would object; for no one minds much about the spilling of sawdust or the wrenching of rubber joints! A villainous brute of a woman commits deeds that ought by right (if the author knows his craft) to make the hair of the person who reads of them stand on end; but somehow they don’t. You will just keep on munching a cream chocolate, or wondering if the postman has gone by or if there is coal on the furnace.
The book is detestably bad; it is unpardonably dull; and immoral, chiefly because it is not true.
It seems rather irrelevant and late in the day to say all this about Jude the Obscure. It is only sympa
thy for the young person which moves me to do so. I hate to know that deceptions are being practised upon him. He has been led to believe that the work is dangerous and alluring. Failing to obtain it at the libraries he is quite convinced that it is pernicious and altogether delightful, whereupon he hurries, in some instances, to the nearest book store and spends his week’s allowance in procuring it. I feel very sorry to think that he should part with so many good silver quarters and receive nothing in return but disappointment and disillusion.
After all, that investigating spirit in the young person is in no sense peculiar, or is it to be wondered at or condemned. It is a characteristic shared in common with the rest of the human race, to seek to unravel mysteries and things hidden and denied. There are the scientists, probing the heavens for its secrets, delving in the depths of the earth for what they may discover. And what about explorers, Theosophists, Hoodoos?
I should like to say to the young people that books which are withheld from their perusal are usually not worth reading. They are not worth bothering about or going to any trouble or expense to obtain. If they are written by thoughtful men, they are not addressed to the youthful imagination and are not fashioned to be comprehended by such. If they are written by other than thoughtful people, there is apt to be no truth in them, and they cannot appeal to lovers of sincerity of any age or condition.
I once knew a very young person who, while rummaging in a bureau drawer discovered a volume secreted in its disordered profundity. The book was obviously in hiding, and no other than she herself was the important personage from whom it was being hidden! She at once locked the door, abstracted the volume, and sat herself down to its perusal. Expectation was rampant within her. She had been scenting mysteries in the air, and the hour of illumination was at hand! The book was something obscure, metaphysical, hysterical. It was dull reading, but she persevered. She would greatly rather have been up in the attic reading Ivanhoe. But no one had hidden Ivanhoe in the far depths of a bureau drawer — Voilà!