VII
So they went, having nothing better on hand, and at two o'clock theysidled into the squatty little theater, shyly sought their reservedseats and sat very still, abashed in the presence of the massedintellects of Manhattan.
When Clarence Guilford, the Poet of Simplicity, followed by six healthy,vigorous young daughters, entered the middle aisle of the New ArtsTheater, a number of people whispered in reverent recognition:"Guilford, the poet! Those are his daughters. They wear nothing but pinkpajamas at home. Sh-sh-h-h!"
Perhaps the poet heard, for he heard a great deal when absent-minded.He paused; his six tall and blooming daughters, two and two behind him,very naturally paused also, because the poet was bulky and the aislenarrow.
Those of the elect who had recognized him had now an opportunity to viewhim at close range; young women with expressive eyes leaned forward,quivering; several earnest young men put up lorgnettes.
It was as it should have been; and the poet stood motionless in dreamyabstraction, until an usher took his coupons and turned down sevenseats. Then the six daughters filed in, and the poet, slowly turning tosurvey the house, started slightly, as though surprised to find himselfunder public scrutiny, passed a large, plump hand over his forehead, andslowly subsided into the aisle-seat with a smile of whimsicalacquiescence in the knowledge of his own greatness.
"Who," inquired young Harrow, turning toward Lethbridge--"who is thatduck?"
"You can search me," replied Lethbridge in a low voice, "but forHeaven's sake _look_ at those girls! Is it right to bunch such beautyand turn down Senators from Utah?"
Harrow's dazzled eyes wandered over the six golden heads and snowynecks, lovely as six wholesome young goddesses fresh from a bath in theHellespont.
"The--the one next to the one beside you," whispered Lethbridge, edgingaround. "I want to run away with her. Would you mind getting me ahansom?"
"The one next to me has them all pinched to death," breathed Harrowunsteadily. "Look!--when she isn't looking. Did you ever see such eyesand mouth--such a superb free poise----"
"Sh-sh-h-h!" muttered Lethbridge, "the bell-mule is talking to them."
"Art," said the poet, leaning over to look along the line of fragrant,fresh young beauty, "Art is an art." With which epigram he slowly closedhis eyes.
His daughters looked at him; a young woman expensively but not smartlygowned bent forward from the row behind. Her attitude was almostprayerful; her eyes burned.
He paused; his six tall and blooming daughters two and two behind him.]
"Art," continued the poet, opening his heavy lids with a large, sweetsmile, "Art is above Art, but Art is never below Art. Art, to be Art,must be artless. That is a very precious thought--very, very precious.Thank you for understanding me--thank you." And he included in his largesmile young Harrow, who had been unconsciously bending forward,hypnotized by the monotonous resonance of the poet's deep, rich voice.
Now that the spell was broken, he sank back in his chair, looking atLethbridge a little wildly.
"Let me sit next--after the first act," began Lethbridge, coaxing;"they'll be watching the stage all the first act and you can look at 'emwithout being rude, and they'll do the same next act, and I can look at'em, and perhaps they'll ask us what Art really is----"
"Did you hear what that man said?" interrupted Harrow, recovering hisvoice. "_Did_ you?"
"No; what?"
"Well, listen next time. And all I have to say is, if that firing-line,with its battery of innocent blue eyes, understands him, you and I hadbetter apply to the nearest night-school for the rudiments of aneducation."
"Well, what did he say?" began the other uneasily, when again the poetbent forward to address the firing-line; and the lovely blue batteryturned silently upon the author of their being.
"Art is the result of a complex mental attitude capable of producingconcrete simplicity."
"Help!" whispered Harrow, but the poet had caught his eye, and wasfixing the young man with a smile that held him as sirup holds a fly.
"You ask me what is Art, young sir? Why should I not heed you? Whyshould I not answer you? What artificial barriers, falsely calledconvention, shall force me to ignore the mute eloquence of yourquestioning eyes? You ask me what is Art. I will tell you; it is_this_!" And the poet, inverting his thumb, pressed it into the air.Then, carefully inspecting the dent he had made in the atmosphere, heerased it with a gesture and folded his arms, looking gravely at Harrow,whose fascinated eyes protruded.
Behind him Lethbridge whispered hoarsely, "I told you how it would be inthe New Arts Theater. I told you a young man alone was likely to getspoken to. Now those six girls know you're a broker!"
"Don't say it so loud," muttered Harrow savagely. "I'm all right so far,for I haven't said a word."
"You'd better not," returned the other. "I wish that curtain would go upand stay up. It will be my turn to sit next them after this act, youknow."
Harrow ventured to glance at the superb young creature sitting besidehim, and at the same instant she looked up and, catching his eye, smiledin the most innocently friendly fashion--the direct, clear-eyed advanceof a child utterly unconscious of self.
"I have never before been in a theater," she said; "have you?"
"I--I beg your pardon," stammered Harrow when he found his voice, "but_were_ you good enough to speak to _me_?"
"Why, yes!" she said, surprised but amiable; "shouldn't I have spoken toyou?"
"Indeed--oh, indeed you should!" said Harrow hastily, with a quickglance at the poet. The poet, however, appeared to be immersed inthought, lids partially closed, a benignant smile imprinted on his heavyfeatures.
"_What_ are you doing?" breathed Lethbridge in his ear. Harrow calmlyturned his back on his closest friend and gazed rapturously at hisgoddess. And again her bewildering smile broke out and he fairly blinkedin its glory.
"This is my first play," she said; "I'm a little excited. I hope I shallcare for it."
"Haven't you ever seen a play?" asked Harrow, tenderly amazed.
"Never. You see, we always lived in the country, and we have always beenpoor until my sister Iole married. And now our father has come to livewith his new son-in-law. So that is how we came to be here in New York."
"I am _so_ glad you _did_ come," said Harrow fervently.
"So are we. We have never before seen anything like a large city. Wehave never had enough money to see one. But now that Iole is married,everything is possible. It is all so interesting for us--particularlythe clothing. Do you like my gown?"
"It is a dream!" stammered the infatuated youth.
"Do you think so? I think it is wonderful--but not very comfortable."
"Doesn't it fit?" he inquired.
"Perfectly; that's the trouble. It is not comfortable. We never beforewere permitted to wear skirts and all sorts of pretty fluffy frillsunder them, and _such_ high heels, and _such_ long stockings, and _such_tight lacing--" She hesitated, then calmly: "But I believe father toldus that we are not to mention our pretty underwear, though it's hard notto, as it's the first we ever had."
Harrow was past all speech.
"I wish I had my lounging-suit on," she said with a sigh and a hitch ofher perfectly modeled shoulders.
"W--what sort of things do you usually dress in?" he ventured.
"Why, in dress-reform clothes!" she said, laughing. "We never have wornanything else."
"Bloomers!"
"I don't know; we had trousers and blouses and sandals--something likethe pink pajamas we have for night-wear now. Formerly we wore nothing atnight. I am beginning to wonder, from the way people look at us when wespeak of this, whether we were odd. But all our lives we have neverthought about clothing. However, I am glad you like my new gown, and Ifancy I'll get used to this tight lacing in time.... What is your name?"
"James Harrow," he managed to say, aware of an innocence and directnessof thought and speech which were awaking in him faintest responsiveechoes.
They were the blessed echoes from the dim, fair land ofchildhood, but he did not know it.
"James Harrow," she repeated with a friendly nod. "My name is Lissa--myfirst name; the other is Guilford. My father is the famous poet,Clarence Guilford. He named us all after butterflies--all mysisters"--counting them on her white fingers while her eyes rested onhim--"Chlorippe, twelve years old, that pretty one next to my father;then Philodice, thirteen; Dione, fourteen; Aphrodite, fifteen; Cybele,the one next to me, sixteen, and almost seventeen; and myself,seventeen, almost eighteen. Besides, there is Iole, who married Mr.Wayne, and Vanessa, married to Mr. Briggs. They have been off on Mr.Wayne's yacht, the _Thendara_, on their wedding trip. Now you know allabout us. Do you think you would like to know us?"
"_Like_ to! I'd simply love to! I----"
"That is very nice," she said unembarrassed.
"I thought I should like you when I saw you leaning over and listeningso reverently to father's epigrams. Then, besides, I had nobody but mysisters to talk to. Oh, you can't imagine how many attractive men I seeevery day in New York--and I should like to know them all--and many _do_look at me as though they would like it, too; but Mr. Wayne is so queer,and so are father and Mr. Briggs--about my speaking to people in publicplaces. They have told me not to, but I--I--thought I would," she ended,smiling. "What harm can it do for me to talk to you?"
"It's perfectly heavenly of you----"
"Oh, do you think so? I wonder what father thinks"--turning to look;then, resuming: "He generally makes us stop, but I am quite sure heexpected me to talk to you."
The lone note of a piano broke the thread of the sweetest, maddestdiscourse Harrow had ever listened to; the girl's cheeks flushed and sheturned expectantly toward the curtained stage. Again the lone note,thumped vigorously, sounded a staccato monotone.
"Precious--very precious," breathed the poet, closing his eyes in a sortof fatty ecstasy.
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