you must know, in the first place, that i am a resident of the thriving city of ourtown, where for twenty years past i have held the position of librarian in the town library—a place which has, of course, brought me into contact with the most intellectual circles of society, and has won for me general recognition as the leader of literary and artistic thought in my native city.
last winter i returned to ourtown after a six months’ absence, and found to my dismay that the social life of the place was altered almost beyond recognition. “and is the coasting club still[pg 261] flourishing?” i inquired, eagerly, for there was a foot of snow on the ground, and my memory went back to the jolly moonlight slides that we used to enjoy on the north hill, and the late suppers of fried oysters, beer, cheese, and even hot mince-pie which had no terrors for us.
“the coasting club!” retorts mrs. jack symple, to whom my remark was addressed; “mercy, no! we haven’t even thought of coasting this winter. as for me, i’ve been so interested in the saturday night club that i haven’t had a moment’s time for anything else. oh, you’ll be surprised when you see how much more cultured the town is now than it was when you went away! you never hear anything now about skating or coasting or sleigh-rides or doings of that sort. it’s all ibsen and browning and tolsto? and pre-raphaelite art and emerson nowadays, and professor gnowital says that there’s as much real culture in ourtown,[pg 262] in proportion to the number of inhabitants, as there is in boston.”
my eyes dilated as mrs. symple rattled off this jargon about the intellectual growth of ourtown. a year ago i had regarded her as a young woman with brain-cells of the most primitive form imaginable, picking up pebbles on the shores of the shakespeare class; and here she was drinking deep draughts of advanced thought, and talking about ibsen and tolsto? and emerson as glibly as if they were old acquaintances.
“and who is professor gnowital?” i asked, “and by what formula does he estimate the comparative degrees of culture to the square foot in boston and ourtown? he must be a man of remarkable gifts.”
“remarkable gifts!” echoed mrs. symple, “well, i should think so. he comes from boston and he’s been giving readings here before the saturday night club.[pg 263] and oh, you must come and make an address at the meeting next week! it’s to be the grand gala one of the whole course. professor gnowital is coming on to attend it with some really cultivated people from boston, and you’ll be surprised to see what a fine literary society there is here now.”
i agreed to address the saturday night club, but i saw with deep sorrow that the town had simply gone mad over what it termed “culture.” people whom i had always regarded as but little better than half-wits were gravely uttering opinions about carlyle and emerson, or “doing” german literature through the medium of english translations. and all this idiocy in place of the shakespeare club, sleigh-rides, late suppers, and coasting, that once made life so delightful for us all.
mrs. symple had asked me to address the club on whatever topic i might select, and while i was considering the invitation[pg 264] a great idea took possession of my brain. to think was to act; and without a moment’s delay i sat down and wrote a long letter to my old friend, dr. paulejeune, begging him to come up and address the club in my stead, and by so doing render a service not only to his lifelong friend, but to the great cause of enlightenment and human progress as well.
now dr. paulejeune is not only an educated man with the thinking habit long fastened upon him, but also that rara avis, a frenchman who thoroughly understands the language, literature, and social structure of america. moreover he possesses in a marked degree the patriotism, wit, and cynicism of his race, and has a few hearty prejudices against certain modern vogues in art which are remote from the accepted ideals of the latin race. happily enough his name was well known in ourtown by reason[pg 265] of his little volume of essays, which had just then made its appearance.
our town society never gathered in stronger force than it did on the evening of the saturday night club meeting at the assembly rooms. at half-past eight the president of the club introduced the first speaker, mr. w. brindle fantail, a young man who made himself conspicuous in boston a few years ago by means of browning readings, which he conducted with a brazen effrontery that compelled the unwilling admiration of his rivals. in the words of jack symple, “he caught the browning boom on the rise and worked it for all it was worth.” mr. fantail advanced to the edge of the platform, ran a large flabby hand through his dank shock of light hair, and then announced as his subject, “tolsto?, the modern homer.” then, with that calm self-possession which has carried him unharmed through many a dreary monologue[pg 266] or reading, he told his hearers what a great man tolsto? was, and how grateful they ought to be for an opportunity to learn of his many excellences. of course he did not put it quite as broadly as that, but that was the gist of his remarks. he told us, moreover, that the whole range of english literature contained no such work of fiction as sevastopol, and that no writer of modern times excelled—or even equaled—this russian homer. “in short,” he said, impressively, “tolsto? is distinctly epoch-making.”
the next speaker was the illustrious professor gnowital, who declared that ourtown would never experience any genuine intellectual development unless a thorough study of the fantastic romances of hoffmann was begun at once. i cannot imagine what started the professor off on that tack unless it was a desire to choose a subject of which his hearers knew absolutely nothing. his[pg 267] words had a great effect, however, for very few members of the club had ever heard of hoffmann, and it had never occurred to these that his ghostly tales were at all in the line of that modern culture which they all adored.
the next speaker was mrs. measel, whose career i have watched with feelings of mingled respect and amazement. mrs. measel has taught art in a dozen towns, lectured on the great unknowable in at least two of the large cities, and given “mornings with montaigne,” “babblings from browning,” and “studies from stepniak,” in whatever place she could obtain a hearing. on this occasion she talked about the renaissance of something or other, i’ve forgotten exactly what—and, by the way, there is no better word for use in culture circles than renaissance, and that, too, whether you can pronounce it or not—well, she began with her renaissance, but very soon[pg 268] branched off into a dissertation on tolsto? and ibsen and a few more “epoch-making” people with whose names she happened to be familiar. i remember she said that the doll’s house was one of the grandest plays of modern times, whereat dr. paulejeune, who had listened to everything up to this point without turning a hair, smiled broadly. on the whole mrs. measel’s was a good shallow talk for good shallow people, and i am sure she made a delightful impression on us all.
then, at a signal from the president, dr. paulejeune made his way to the platform and delivered an address which i am sure will never be forgotten by those who heard it. it was a daring speech for any one to make, and particularly so for a stranger, and that it proved effective in a far higher degree than either of us had ever expected was due to the tact, scholarship, subtlety, and sincerity of my distinguished friend, dr. émile paulejeune.
[pg 269]the doctor began with a graceful tribute to the eloquence, wit, and scholarship of the speakers who had preceded him, and then went on to say that he had chosen as the subject of his discourse one of the greatest writers of fiction that the world has ever known—daniel de foe.
there was hearty applause at this, and some scratching of heads and obvious efforts on the part of certain guests to remember who de foe was and what he had written. i could not help turning in my chair to take a look at mrs. symple. the poor little woman was leaning forward with an expression of absolute dismay on her silly face. i could read her thoughts plainly: “oh dear, this new doctor has been and gone and dragged up another man for me to read about, and i’m sure if i get one more book into my head it’ll crowd some other one out!”
but the look of dismay changed to one of blank, open-mouthed amazement, which[pg 270] was shared by a large number of the guests, as dr. paulejeune continued impressively: “and the book which i have come prepared to speak of is robinson crusoe.”
then the doctor took up, each in its turn, the writings and writers whom we had heard commended by the previous speakers. “tolsto? is all very well,” he said, “if you happen to be fond of russian pessimism, and are not fortunate enough to be familiar with classic english literature, which contains hundreds of stronger, better-drawn pictures than sevastopol.” he dismissed hoffmann from the discussion with the contemptuous remark that he was “simply a dutch poe, and very dutch at that.” in speaking of ibsen he threw his audience into convulsions of laughter by gravely comparing the doll’s house with jacob abbott’s rollo learning to work, a book which he assured us not only surpassed[pg 271] ibsen’s masterpiece in the simplicity and directness of its style, but abounded in dramatic situations that were as thrilling as any that the northern writer had ever devised. “for instance,” he said, “there is a chapter in that estimable little rollo book which tells us how the hero was making a woodpile, and, disregarding the sound counsel of the conservative jonas, insisted upon piling the sticks of wood with the small ends out and the large ends inside against the wall of the woodshed. do any of you, my friends, recall the scene of the heap toppling over? it is portrayed in mr. abbott’s most realistic style, and is in itself an ideal ibsen climax.
“do you know,” he exclaimed, advancing to the edge of the platform and shaking a long, bony forefinger at his auditors, “do you know—you who call this scandinavian a dramatist—that perhaps the most thrilling dramatic situation in[pg 272] all literature is found here in this book, robinson crusoe? if you want to know what a dramatic situation is, read daniel de foe’s account of crusoe finding the human footprint on the shore of his desert island. and then read the whole book carefully through and enjoy its vivid descriptions, its superb english, its philosophy, and the great lessons which it teaches. and when you have finished it ask yourselves if any man ever obtained as complete a mastery of the magic, beautiful art of story-telling as did daniel de foe!”
when the doctor finished his address he was greeted with thunders of applause, while fantail, gnowital, and mrs. measel sat dazed at this sudden attack on their stronghold.
“thank heaven for a little plain, ordinary sense at last,” was the way in which some one expressed the common sentiment of the club.
“and to think,” chattered mrs. symple, “that we were cultivated all along and didn’t know it! why, i read the rollo books and robinson crusoe when i was a child, and never dreamt that they were artistic or literary or that sort of thing. i thought they were just stories. the idea of our paying a dollar apiece for mrs. measel’s lectures, and muddling our heads with ibsen and tolsto? and the rest of them that professor gnowital told us were so grand, while all the time we were really cultured and didn’t know it!”
the result of my friend’s lecture was that within a week we were sliding downhill and enjoying ourselves in the old way, and in less than a fortnight the prophets of culture had departed in search of fresh pastures.
i do hope, however, that mrs. measel will succeed, for she deserves to if ever a woman did. she has educated two children on the profits—or rather the spoils[pg 274] —of the browning craze, and has made tolsto? pay for the care of an invalid sister. she gives more culture for the money than any one in the business, and i can heartily commend her to any club or community that feels a yearning for the unknowable.