Through the Eye of the Needle: A Romance

by William Dean Howells

  XVIII

  I was one of the earliest of the guests, for I cannot yet believe thatpeople do not want me to come exactly when they say they do. I perceived,however, that one other gentleman had come before me, and I was bothsurprised and delighted to find that this was my acquaintance Mr.Bullion, the Boston banker. He professed as much pleasure at our meetingas I certainly felt; but after a few words he went on talking with Mrs.Strange, while I was left to her mother, an elderly woman of quiet andeven timid bearing, who affected me at once as born and bred in a whollydifferent environment. In fact, every American of the former generationis almost as strange to it in tradition, though not in principle, as Iam; and I found myself singularly at home with this sweet lady, whoseemed glad of my interest in her. I was taken from her side to beintroduced to a lady, on the opposite side of the room, who said she hadbeen promised my acquaintance by a friend of hers, whom I had met in themountains--Mr. Twelvemough; did I remember him? She gave a littlecry while still speaking, and dramatically stretched her hand towards agentleman who entered at the moment, and whom I saw to be no other thanMr. Twelvemough himself. As soon as he had greeted our hostess hehastened up to us, and, barely giving himself time to press the stilloutstretched hand of my companion, shook mine warmly, and expressed thegreatest joy at seeing me. He said that he had just got back to town, ina manner, and had not known I was here, till Mrs. Strange had asked himto meet me. There were not a great many other guests, when they allarrived, and we sat down, a party not much larger than at Mrs. Makely's.

  I found that I was again to take out my hostess, but I was put next thelady with whom I had been talking; she had come without her husband, whowas, apparently, of a different social taste from herself, and had anengagement of his own; there was an artist and his wife, whose looks Iliked; some others whom I need not specify were there, I fancied, becausethey had heard of Altruria and were curious to see me. As Mr. Twelvemoughsat quite at the other end of the table, the lady on my right couldeasily ask me whether I liked his books. She said, tentatively, peopleliked them because they felt sure when they took up one of his novelsthey had not got hold of a tract on political economy in disguise.

  It was this complimentary close of a remark, which scarcely began withpraise, that made itself heard across the table, and was echoed with aheartfelt sigh from the lips of another lady.

  "Yes," she said, "that is what I find such a comfort in Mr. Twelvemough'sbooks."

  "We were speaking of Mr. Twelvemough's books," the first lady triumphed,and several began to extol them for being fiction pure and simple, andnot dealing with anything but loves of young people.

  Mr. Twelvemough sat looking as modest as he could under the praise, andone of the ladies said that in a novel she had lately read there was adescription of a surgical operation that made her feel as if she hadbeen present at a clinic. Then the author said that he had read thatpassage, too, and found it extremely well done. It was fascinating, butit was not art.

  The painter asked, Why was it not art?

  The author answered, Well, if such a thing as that was art, then anythingthat a man chose to do in a work of imagination was art.

  "Precisely," said the painter--"art _is_ choice."

  "On that ground," the banker interposed, "you could say that politicaleconomy was a fit subject for art, if an artist chose to treat it."

  "It would have its difficulties," the painter admitted, "but thereare certain phases of political economy, dramatic moments, humanmoments, which might be very fitly treated in art. For instance, whowould object to Mr. Twelvemough's describing an eviction from an EastSide tenement-house on a cold winter night, with the mother and herchildren huddled about the fire the father had kindled with pieces of thehousehold furniture?"

  "_I_ should object very much, for one," said the lady who hadobjected to the account of the surgical operation. "It would be toocreepy. Art should give pleasure."

  "Then you think a tragedy is not art?" asked the painter.

  "I think that these harrowing subjects are brought in altogether toomuch," said the lady. "There are enough of them in real life, withoutfilling all the novels with them. It's terrible the number of beggarsyou meet on the street, this winter. Do you want to meet them in Mr.Twelvemough's novels, too?"

  "Well, it wouldn't cost me any money there. I shouldn't have to give."

  "You oughtn't to give money in real life," said the lady. "You ought togive charity tickets. If the beggars refuse them, it shows they areimpostors."

  "It's some comfort to know that the charities are so active," said theelderly young lady, "even if half the letters one gets _do_ turn outto be appeals from them."

  "It's very disappointing to have them do it, though," said the artist,lightly. "I thought there was a society to abolish poverty. That doesn'tseem to be so active as the charities this winter. Is it possible they'vefound it a failure?"

  "Well," said Mr. Bullion, "perhaps they have suspended during the hardtimes."

  They tossed the ball back and forth with a lightness the Americans have,and I could not have believed, if I had not known how hardened peoplebecome to such things here, that they were almost in the actual presenceof hunger and cold. It was within five minutes' walk of their warmth andsurfeit; and if they had lifted the window and called, "Who goes there?"the houselessness that prowls the night could have answered them from thestreet below, "Despair!"

  "I had an amusing experience," Mr. Twelvemough began, "when I was doing alittle visiting for the charities in our ward, the other winter."

  "For the sake of the literary material?" the artist suggested.

  "Partly for the sake of the literary material; you know we have to lookfor our own everywhere. But we had a case of an old actor's son, who hadgot out of all the places he had filled, on account of rheumatism, andcould not go to sea, or drive a truck, or even wrap gas-fixtures in paperany more."

  "A checkered employ," the banker mused aloud.

  "It was not of a simultaneous nature," the novelist explained. "So hecame on the charities, and, as I knew the theatrical profession a little,and how generous it was with all related to it, I said that I wouldundertake to look after his case. You know the theory is that we get workfor our patients, or clients, or whatever they are, and I went to amanager whom I knew to be a good fellow, and I asked him for some sort ofwork. He said, Yes, send the man round, and he would give him a jobcopying parts for a new play he had written."

  The novelist paused, and nobody laughed.

  "It seems to me that your experience is instructive, rather thanamusing," said the banker. "It shows that something can be done, if youtry."

  "Well," said Mr. Twelvemough, "I thought that was the moral, myself, tillthe fellow came afterwards to thank me. He said that he consideredhimself very lucky, for the manager had told him that there were sixother men had wanted that job."

  Everybody laughed now, and I looked at my hostess in a littlebewilderment. She murmured, "I suppose the joke is that he had befriendedone man at the expense of six others."

  "Oh," I returned, "is that a joke?"

  No one answered, but the lady at my right asked, "How do you manage withpoverty in Altruria?"

  I saw the banker fix a laughing eye on me, but I answered, "In Altruriawe have no poverty."

  "Ah, I knew you would say that!" he cried out. "That's what he alwaysdoes," he explained to the lady. "Bring up any one of our littledifficulties, and ask how they get over it in Altruria, and he says theyhave nothing like it. It's very simple."

  They all began to ask me questions, but with a courteous incredulitywhich I could feel well enough, and some of my answers made them laugh,all but my hostess, who received them with a gravity that finallyprevailed. But I was not disposed to go on talking of Altruria then,though they all protested a real interest, and murmured against thehardship of being cut off with so brief an account of our country as Ihad given them.

  "Well," said the banker at last, "if there is no cure for our poverty, wemight
as well go on and enjoy ourselves."

  "Yes," said our hostess, with a sad little smile, "we might as well enjoyourselves."