Main Street
him in regard to Christian Science, socks and the sewing of buttons
upon vests; announced that she “simply wasn't going to stand his always
pawing girls when he went and got crazy-jealous if a man just danced
with her”; and rather more than sketched Dave's varieties of kisses.
So meekly did Carol give attention, so obviously was she at last
desirous of being one of them, that they looked on her fondly, and
encouraged her to give such details of her honeymoon as might be of
interest. She was embarrassed rather than resentful. She deliberately
misunderstood. She talked of Kennicott's overshoes and medical ideals
till they were thoroughly bored. They regarded her as agreeable but
green.
Till the end she labored to satisfy the inquisition. She bubbled at
Juanita, the president of the club, that she wanted to entertain them.
“Only,” she said, “I don't know that I can give you any refreshments as
nice as Mrs. Dyer's salad, or that simply delicious angel's-food we had
at your house, dear.”
“Fine! We need a hostess for the seventeenth of March. Wouldn't it be
awfully original if you made it a St. Patrick's Day bridge! I'll be
tickled to death to help you with it. I'm glad you've learned to play
bridge. At first I didn't hardly know if you were going to like Gopher
Prairie. Isn't it dandy that you've settled down to being homey with us!
Maybe we aren't as highbrow as the Cities, but we do have the daisiest
times and--oh, we go swimming in summer, and dances and--oh, lots of
good times. If folks will just take us as we are, I think we're a pretty
good bunch!”
“I'm sure of it. Thank you so much for the idea about having a St.
Patrick's Day bridge.”
“Oh, that's nothing. I always think the Jolly Seventeen are so good at
original ideas. If you knew these other towns Wakamin and Joralemon and
all, you'd find out and realize that G. P. is the liveliest, smartest
town in the state. Did you know that Percy Bresnahan, the famous auto
manufacturer, came from here and----Yes, I think that a St. Patrick's
Day party would be awfully cunning and original, and yet not too queer
or freaky or anything.”
CHAPTER XI
I
SHE had often been invited to the weekly meetings of the Thanatopsis,
the women's study club, but she had put it off. The Thanatopsis was,
Vida Sherwin promised, “such a cozy group, and yet it puts you in touch
with all the intellectual thoughts that are going on everywhere.”
Early in March Mrs. Westlake, wife of the veteran physician, marched
into Carol's living-room like an amiable old pussy and suggested, “My
dear, you really must come to the Thanatopsis this afternoon. Mrs.
Dawson is going to be leader and the poor soul is frightened to death.
She wanted me to get you to come. She says she's sure you will brighten
up the meeting with your knowledge of books and writings. (English
poetry is our topic today.) So shoo! Put on your coat!”
“English poetry? Really? I'd love to go. I didn't realize you were
reading poetry.”
“Oh, we're not so slow!”
Mrs. Luke Dawson, wife of the richest man in town, gaped at them
piteously when they appeared. Her expensive frock of beaver-colored
satin with rows, plasters, and pendants of solemn brown beads was
intended for a woman twice her size. She stood wringing her hands in
front of nineteen folding chairs, in her front parlor with its faded
photograph of Minnehaha Falls in 1890, its “colored enlargement” of
Mr. Dawson, its bulbous lamp painted with sepia cows and mountains and
standing on a mortuary marble column.
She creaked, “O Mrs. Kennicott, I'm in such a fix. I'm supposed to lead
the discussion, and I wondered would you come and help?”
“What poet do you take up today?” demanded Carol, in her library tone of
“What book do you wish to take out?”
“Why, the English ones.”
“Not all of them?”
“W-why yes. We're learning all of European Literature this year.
The club gets such a nice magazine, Culture Hints, and we follow its
programs. Last year our subject was Men and Women of the Bible, and next
year we'll probably take up Furnishings and China. My, it does make a
body hustle to keep up with all these new culture subjects, but it is
improving. So will you help us with the discussion today?”
On her way over Carol had decided to use the Thanatopsis as the tool
with which to liberalize the town. She had immediately conceived
enormous enthusiasm; she had chanted, “These are the real people. When
the housewives, who bear the burdens, are interested in poetry, it means
something. I'll work with them--for them--anything!”
Her enthusiasm had become watery even before thirteen women resolutely
removed their overshoes, sat down meatily, ate peppermints, dusted their
fingers, folded their hands, composed their lower thoughts, and invited
the naked muse of poetry to deliver her most improving message. They had
greeted Carol affectionately, and she tried to be a daughter to them.
But she felt insecure. Her chair was out in the open, exposed to their
gaze, and it was a hard-slatted, quivery, slippery church-parlor chair,
likely to collapse publicly and without warning. It was impossible to
sit on it without folding the hands and listening piously.
She wanted to kick the chair and run. It would make a magnificent
clatter.
She saw that Vida Sherwin was watching her. She pinched her wrist, as
though she were a noisy child in church, and when she was decent and
cramped again, she listened.
Mrs. Dawson opened the meeting by sighing, “I'm sure I'm glad to see you
all here today, and I understand that the ladies have prepared a number
of very interesting papers, this is such an interesting subject, the
poets, they have been an inspiration for higher thought, in fact wasn't
it Reverend Benlick who said that some of the poets have been as much an
inspiration as a good many of the ministers, and so we shall be glad to
hear----”
The poor lady smiled neuralgically, panted with fright, scrabbled about
the small oak table to find her eye-glasses, and continued, “We
will first have the pleasure of hearing Mrs. Jenson on the subject
'Shakespeare and Milton.'”
Mrs. Ole Jenson said that Shakespeare was born in 1564 and died 1616. He
lived in London, England, and in Stratford-on-Avon, which many American
tourists loved to visit, a lovely town with many curios and old houses
well worth examination. Many people believed that Shakespeare was the
greatest play-wright who ever lived, also a fine poet. Not much was
known about his life, but after all that did not really make so much
difference, because they loved to read his numerous plays, several of
the best known of which she would now criticize.
Perhaps the best known of his plays was “The Merchant of Venice,” having
a beautiful love story and a fine appreciation of a woman's brains,
which a woman's club, even those who did not care to commit themselves
on the question of suffrage, ought to appreciate. (Laughter.) Mrs.
Jenson was sure that she, for one, would love to be like Portia. The
play was about a Jew named Shylock, and he didn't want his daughter to
marry a Venice gentleman named Antonio----
Mrs. Leonard Warren, a slender, gray, nervous woman, president of the
Thanatopsis and wife of the Congregational pastor, reported the birth
and death dates of Byron, Scott, Moore, Burns; and wound up:
“Burns was quite a poor boy and he did not enjoy the advantages we enjoy
today, except for the advantages of the fine old Scotch kirk where he
heard the Word of God preached more fearlessly than even in the finest
big brick churches in the big and so-called advanced cities of today,
but he did not have our educational advantages and Latin and the other
treasures of the mind so richly strewn before the, alas, too ofttimes
inattentive feet of our youth who do not always sufficiently appreciate
the privileges freely granted to every American boy rich or poor. Burns
had to work hard and was sometimes led by evil companionship into low
habits. But it is morally instructive to know that he was a good
student and educated himself, in striking contrast to the loose ways and
so-called aristocratic society-life of Lord Byron, on which I have just
spoken. And certainly though the lords and earls of his day may have
looked down upon Burns as a humble person, many of us have greatly
enjoyed his pieces about the mouse and other rustic subjects, with their
message of humble beauty--I am so sorry I have not got the time to quote
some of them.”
Mrs. George Edwin Mott gave ten minutes to Tennyson and Browning.
Mrs. Nat Hicks, a wry-faced, curiously sweet woman, so awed by her
betters that Carol wanted to kiss her, completed the day's grim task by
a paper on “Other Poets.” The other poets worthy of consideration were
Coleridge, Wordsworth, Shelley, Gray, Mrs. Hemans, and Kipling.
Miss Ella Stowbody obliged with a recital of “The Recessional” and
extracts from “Lalla Rookh.” By request, she gave “An Old Sweetheart of
Mine” as encore.
Gopher Prairie had finished the poets. It was ready for the next week's
labor: English Fiction and Essays.
Mrs. Dawson besought, “Now we will have a discussion of the papers, and
I am sure we shall all enjoy hearing from one who we hope to have as a
new member, Mrs. Kennicott, who with her splendid literary training and
all should be able to give us many pointers and--many helpful pointers.”
Carol had warned herself not to be so “beastly supercilious.” She had
insisted that in the belated quest of these work-stained women was
an aspiration which ought to stir her tears. “But they're so
self-satisfied. They think they're doing Burns a favor. They don't
believe they have a 'belated quest.' They're sure that they have culture
salted and hung up.” It was out of this stupor of doubt that Mrs.
Dawson's summons roused her. She was in a panic. How could she speak
without hurting them?
Mrs. Champ Perry leaned over to stroke her hand and whisper, “You look
tired, dearie. Don't you talk unless you want to.”
Affection flooded Carol; she was on her feet, searching for words and
courtesies:
“The only thing in the way of suggestion----I know you are following
a definite program, but I do wish that now you've had such a splendid
introduction, instead of going on with some other subject next year you
could return and take up the poets more in detail. Especially actual
quotations--even though their lives are so interesting and, as Mrs.
Warren said, so morally instructive. And perhaps there are several poets
not mentioned today whom it might be worth while considering--Keats, for
instance, and Matthew Arnold and Rossetti and Swinburne. Swinburne would
be such a--well, that is, such a contrast to life as we all enjoy it in
our beautiful Middle-west----”
She saw that Mrs. Leonard Warren was not with her. She captured her by
innocently continuing:
“Unless perhaps Swinburne tends to be, uh, more outspoken than you, than
we really like. What do you think, Mrs. Warren?”
The pastor's wife decided, “Why, you've caught my very thoughts, Mrs.
Kennicott. Of course I have never READ Swinburne, but years ago, when
he was in vogue, I remember Mr. Warren saying that Swinburne (or was
it Oscar Wilde? but anyway:) he said that though many so-called
intellectual people posed and pretended to find beauty in Swinburne,
there can never be genuine beauty without the message from the heart.
But at the same time I do think you have an excellent idea, and though
we have talked about Furnishings and China as the probable subject for
next year, I believe that it would be nice if the program committee
would try to work in another day entirely devoted to English poetry! In
fact, Madame Chairman, I so move you.”
When Mrs. Dawson's coffee and angel's-food had helped them to recover