The Contributors' Club

I HAVE often been puzzled when I tried to understand the difference one feels in the first and second reading of a letter. The first reading is like being with the friend at the time of writing. You say to yourself, as you glance down the page, “He wrote me because he thought he must,” and you become indignant and chilled by his indifference and coldness. But next day, when you read the letter again, you find that it is most kindly worded, and that after all your friend said everything that you could reasonably expect. Then you blame yourself a little, and say that you must have been out of spirits, or not simpatica, as the Italians say. What messengers of love letters have proved themselves at times ! You feel a quick sense of pleasure and warmth; you are as glad as if you really had had two minutes’ talk with your dear friend, — as if he had touched you lovingly. A little note seems like a caress as you read it; but the words of it may not be particularly interesting, or in the least important to you in any way. They bring you no news and no tidings of good fortune. It was the love, and not the letter, that pleased you so much.

How quickly one tells the feeling with which a person has responded to a request! A note comes to bring a message that the writer will give a certain sum of money for which you have made application. You have an instinctive certainty that he grudged it. And perhaps in the next note another man uses the same words, and you know that he was glad of the chance to help on some good work, and that he is a cheerful giver. I believe that I might give because I must and give because I wished to, and write exactly the same letter to two people, and one would know I was pleased, and the other be equally sure of my unwillingness. What is it that seems to bring us into personal contact with our friends, and why are the second and third readings of our letters different from the first? They have become fragments of literature; they are like pages in printed books ; they are entirely impersonal, and if we think about them, and try again to catch their meaning, it is only the form of expression and the significance of the sentences. The letter is severed from its writer; it seems no longer a bit of the person’s life who sent it, —it is a sheet of paper on which he wrote down his thoughts. The vitality and the quality of that life which you felt so unmistakably at first have completely vanished. I believe that we really do receive something of what we are pleased to call personal atmosphere in the letters we open, and that we always fold up a gleam or a shadow of ourselves to send to our friends. We are most of us quick enough at catching the mood of people we are with ; we know instinctively when they are glad and when they are sorry,— when we are pleasing them and when we are boring them. No disguise is possible between people who know each other well. If you try to be cross when you are in good humor, it seems a great joke, and you are most amusing ; and as for being very polite when you are ready to tear a friend in pieces, unless he is a wooden-headed friend, he takes your courtesy for what it is worth. You are a charmingly worded note, that came from somebody who swore at you as he wrote it.

I am sure that exactly as we should be sensitive to the mood of the person as we stood near him and heard him speak to us, so we are sensitive to the fragment of his life that clings to the letter-paper which comes from his hand to ours. He has held it, — it has been with him; you somehow strike out the spark of electricity that was left by him in it, when you touch it first.

It is strange that so little should have been written and said of our sensitiveness to each other’s atmosphere. A very wise person once said that each of us lives in an invisible sphere : with a person whom we do not like, this sphere touches his at only one point, as two billiard balls touch ; but with a congenial friend each sphere, to follow a familiar law of gases, is a vacuum to the other, and there is a comfortable result of harmony and sympathy.

This atmosphere is not exactly the same thing as character ; it is more a physical thing than it is that individuality of our moral nature which follows us as our shadow does. It is certainly our closest means of coming in contact with other human natures. The attractions and repulsions we feel at meeting strangers are always instinctive, and are usually true. Who has not had to acknowledge, in nineteen cases out of twenty, the truth of his first impressions of an acquaintance? We often persuade ourselves later into thinking we were at first mistaken, but it seldom happens. We do not like people or dislike them half so often for moral or intellectual good reasons as we do from instinct. The root of our friendships and our antipathies is in the electric laws which underlie our lives. Through some persons are sent positive currents that draw our natures and theirs closer and closer together ; and others — from whom the saints protect us ! — are negative, and we never can control the quick shrinking and recoil that our whole souls feel at the sight and sound of them. They may be very good people, but they are not good for us ; we may persuade and force ourselves into right and kind behavior, and into treating them decently, but as for the dislike, — we are not to blame for it, or they either, which moral aspect of the situation is at times most difficult to be remembered.

— The suggestion lately made of a color-cure for nervous and mental ailments has led me to wonder how much color really has to do with making one contented or ill at ease in certain houses. I am positive that most people fail as house furnishers because they aim at effects, and not at harmonies. It is not the arrangement of the furniture or the choice of pictures and ornaments that we find fault with in some parlors ; the chairs are delightfully comfortable, and yet one is possessed with a spirit of unrest. Something jars and frets us ; there are false notes and wrong keys struck in the attempted tune ; and indeed a harmony of color is far more difficult to achieve than a harmony of sound. It takes a most refined and enlightened skill to furnish a parlor so that from the first it will have a lived-in look, and afterward be satisfactory to its owners, while it leaves a pleasant impression upon the minds of the strangers who come within its gates. It is easy now for most people to make a room decently pretty to look at, since the cabinet-makers and upholsterers and decorators have lent a helping hand with their artistic wares. But the modern style of furnishing, with its brilliant effects, seems much like the bewitching tunes which catch everybody’s ear for a time, and soon whistle and sing themselves into tiresomeness and oblivion. You admire a new, bright little parlor when you first see it, but soon find yourself wondering what that charm could have been ! It seems to lack something, after all. The pleasantest parlor is one that has been lived in for many years ; in which the chairs and tables have associated together and shared each other’s fortunes for so long that, in spite of their strong individualities and apparent unlikenesses, they have become members of one family. Year by year small and great treasures have been brought to the room, because it claimed them and they belonged to it; and year by year there have been carried away to other parts of the house, or to well-merited destruction, the treasures that have not proved congenial. After a time, a room becomes toned up or down to the right pitch, and nothing stares at you, and it may be that nothing pleases you, especially at the first sight; only you take a greater and greater satisfaction in being in it, and you like to get back to that corner of the world, after you have been away from it. There is a companionship even in its silence, and a restfulness that is delightful, and that brings out your best thoughts and those traits of your disposition which people find admirable. It is possible only in certain places as well as with certain people to be at one’s best.

With what pity we see the mistakes that our neighbors make in furnishing their houses ! There are pictures whose presence is to be resented and carpets that one heartily deplores, while every chair is put in exactly the wrong place, according to one’s own way of thinking. The colors in the room swear at each other, as the French say, and one is ready to forgive them any reasonable amount of profanity. A friend of mine, whose library is otherwise a pleasant place, keeps two dreadful little bright green sofas in it, that fairly bark at me whenever I open the door. They are the shade of green which one associates with jealousy. If the principles of the color-cure are well founded, I wonder that my friend’s family ever wish any good to their neighbors. Nothing surprises one more than finding that people’s characters almost always show themselves in the quality of the things they buy. The choice that is made in a shop is simply the buyer’s idea of what belongs to him. People contrive to free themselves from the things they really hate, and are not apt to choose for companions the inanimate objects that seem to them totally depraved. Fate may place them in the midst of incongruous surroundings, but they will manage to make a little oasis for themselves with their own dear greenery and flowers in the midst of any desert. A living spring of good taste in a family will make one room charming, at any rate; and if there is one person who does n’t care what things are about her, in a house that may be elsewhere charming, her own corner of it will be sure to be unpleasant. Harmony is a great puzzle to most of us who are keenly sensitive to its presence, and who are dull sometimes at understanding the reasons for the lack of it. People are suited with such different things, and the distance between the over-critical connoisseur and the man who is indifferent to his surroundings is very wide. But our loves and aspirations take shape, somehow; we are not yet sufficiently spiritual to be willing to stop making idols, or enjoying their profitable companionship.

There are other things that make a room or a whole house uncomfortable, beside unharmonized colors. A room may be like a poem, or it may be only like verses, with a charming subtlety of arrangement and expression that still lacks the one touch of life which would give it life of its own. It is, after all, not from the chairs and tables and portières and pictures in our houses that we are to expect the delightful harmony and sympathy which are so dear to our tiredness ; it is from the people who live in the houses, who have only gathered these lifeless things together, and who unwittingly have told us by means of them what manner of men we have for neighbors. Show me your carpets or show me your books, and I will tell you who you are, might be a good rendering of the old Spanish proverb, and as sensible a demand as its familiar “ Show me jour friends.”

— Children’s books abound nowadays, but I question if children are as well off as when their libraries were scantier. The opportunity for choice is so large that parents are commonly too bewildered to make selection, and end by taking the book the bookseller recommends, or which recommends itself by having the greatest number of pictures. Of illustrated books there are now a hundred where there used to be one. Illustration is in itself a good thing when the work is as well done as we find it to-day, but, except for the smallest juveniles, it ought not to be made of more importance than the text. It is a wellknown fact that many publishers select pictures, and then order a story written to fit them ; an author so hampered can never produce so good work as though his invention were given free play, and the result of his labor is often of the poorest. Comparatively few fathers and mothers interest themselves seriously to provide the best possible mental food for the growing intelligences in their charge. The want, of a sense of responsibility in this matter is as astonishing as with regard to matters more important still. A child’s mind is just as much dependent for its best development on the quality of the food furnished it as its body is upon its physical support. A child often gets more real mental culture from browsing at will in its father’s library than it gets from all its school lessons. The school-teaching is mainly good for discipline of the mental faculty, secondarily for information; while the reading of books may be made a powerful instrument for moral training as well as for education of the higher qualities of the intellect, — imagination, humor, and the like. There is a notion of the necessity for “ writing down ” to the supposed level of the childish intelligence, which is quite mistaken. A milk-and-water diet is inferior to one of the milk undiluted, figuratively as well as literally speaking. A compulsory cramming of the child’s mind is one thing, and a very bad one ; to surround it with the best literature, and leave it to its natural reaching out after what it can comprehend and enjoy, is quite another, and a very desirable thing to be done. The intellect of many grown persons, as well as children, is dwarfed, or becomes flabby, nerveless, and inactive, for want of wholesome and substantial sustenance. Children’s reading, it seems to me, is at present especially defective in stimulus to the imagination. Fairy tales have not the vogue they had twenty years ago. I have seen children whose reading I knew was limited to that class of flavorless literature so plentiful now, and it was plain that their prosaic little minds needed above all things some of this culture of the fancy and imagination. They knew nothing of those most fascinating plays of my childhood, in winch my brother and I used to live out of ourselves and out of the world of every day, having transferred our personality entirely, for the time being, into that of some favorites of fiction, — Robin Hood and his men, Friar Tuck, and King Richard, or any of the long list of Waverley-novel heroes. A move has been made in the right direction, of late, by the publication of certain classics of literature in a form suited to children’s capacity. Such are the abridged editions of Froissart’s Chronicle, Mallory’s King Arthur, and other books which I have noticed on booksellers’ counters. Some of these are, unfortunately, gotten up with so much elegance that people of moderate means cannot indulge in their purchase. The established favorites in the line of fairy tales ought never to be allowed to get out of print, for the newly-written ones do not approach the old ones in merit.

— As there seems to be a little Browning epidemic in the community, I am moved to make my humble confession to the Club, and explain why Mr. Browning included Pauline in his edition of 1868. I was the cause of his printing it, and when I have told my story the Club will see how honestly I sinned. In the preface which the poet wrote when he included Pauline among his acknowledged works he said, “ The first piece in the series [that is, Pauline] I acknowledge and retain with extreme repugnance, — indeed, purely of necessity; for not long ago I inspected one, and am certified of the existence of other transcripts, intended sooner or later to be published abroad: by forestalling these I can at least correct some misprints (no syllable is changed), and introduce a boyish work by an exculpatory word.” When I read that preface I felt as if I had shot a poet. When I was in London, in 1865, Mr. D. G. Rossetti told me that in looking through a collection of poems in a bound volume in the British Museum — any one may find it there if he looks for Poetæ Angli 13 L L h/1523 — he came upon Pauline, and was confident, after reading it, that it was Browning’s. He taxed the poet with having written it, and received a surprised assent. Rossetti had copied the poem, and I found it a pleasant task to do the same. I told him afterward what I had done, and he proposed to me to print it when I returned to America ; but I assured him that I wished it only for my own study, and should have no right to make it public against the poet’s wish. Now Browning did not know my general high character and reputation for probity and delicate honor, nor did Rossetti, who probably forgot that I had said I should not print the poem, and so — this is what I guess —he told R. B. that a young American had crossed the Atlantic with Pauline in his bag. Thus, while the poem was lying in manuscript in my desk, and I was proudly aware that I was probably the only student in America who owned it, the printed work came out with that reproachful little preface. I am sincerely sorry, but was it my fault ?

— I am no longer able to look forward to a pleasure which had beckoned me on for twenty years. I am certain that people in general do not think seriously enough of anticipation as a motive power. It is a force which is most controlling in life, but when a long-looked-for day has dawned at last, and its sun shines and sets, there is not a little sadness which comes with the twilight, and I now find myself plunged into a depth of reverie and retrospection, from the effect of which I may not soon recover. While I had the promise of carrying out this plan the years went by faster and faster : I have had time to grow up, and I have lived my life ; great things have happened in the world; kings have died, and empires have fallen, and people have grown old, while this pleasure was kept for me. It was not a great thing in itself; it only seemed great to me. I was like the old French peasant in the poem. All his life long he had lived within sight of the towers of Carcassonne, and all his life long he had wished to see the lovely city. He thought of it as keeping a continual holiday; he pictured to himself the knights who went riding through its streets, and the gay ladies who smiled at them from the windows. Everything was beautiful. His brother and his son had seen Carcassonne ; one of them had even been to Narbonne ; but he had only dreamed about tins town, and had never reached it. The harvests had failed, one thing and another had hindered him ; he never went to Carcassonne. Each of us has his Carcassonne, the poet sings sadly. The old peasant dies unsatisfied, but one remembers that all his life was happier because it was urged on by this hope. To journey toward some hoped-for goal, to find all one’s life bordering on the road that leads to it, this is to have an inspiration that keeps one’s heart brave, and will not let one stand idle or go astray.

Many years ago there was a mild day in spring, when I went to my first play. It was Bluebeard, and it was at the Museum in Boston. I was a little thing, but I had read my story-books, and I knew there were such things as plays in the world ; I even had a distinct idea of the stage, and I expected a great deal from the actors. I felt myself to be, although a country child, already a dramatic critic, whose standards were not low. I had chosen to see Bluebeard rather than some other show which had been offered me. It was a great day in my life. I had even found out about Mrs. Siddons, in my story-books, and I knew how Garrick had played in London, and how Jenny Lind had sung. They were all in one grand dazzle together in my mind. I was, at last, going to the theatre myself.

I was under the charge of a friend who was a few years older than I, and I looked at her with great admiration. She had spent all her life in town ; she was used to these things, but a little thrill went over me at the thought that she did not dream how I felt about the way we were to spend the afternoon together. We had been given our lunch early, for I was assured that I should find much to interest me in the Museum before the play began.

But we were delayed on our way,— most likely at a candy shop, or to talk with some one in the street, — and I had seen only a few of the amazing curiosities in the glass cases in the lower hall of the Museum, when my friend became uneasy. I was delighted, but they were old stories to her. The people were hurrying to take their seats, and at length we heard the violins strike up a cheerful air. “ We must go in,” said my friend; “ the play is going to begin. We will see the rest of these things after it is over. The wax figures are upstairs.” We pushed our way to our seats in the theatre, but I grudged the few minutes while we sat waiting for the curtain to rise ; ever since I could remember I had been longing to see some wax figures, and I asked about these eagerly. My friend told me that they were horrible things, — murders, and the like. I should see them, of course ; if I wished, but I should always be dreaming of them, they would frighten me out of my wits. Nothing could be pleasanter than that, it seemed to me, and all the afternoon I was half-hearted in my joy, though the play was acted to my great satisfaction. On the whole, I have never seen one since that pleased me so much. It was long, and when we came out from the brightly lighted theatre we found that it seemed very late in the afternoon. “ It is almost dark,” said my friend. “ We shall come again some day, you know, and you shall see the wax-works then ; ” and my little heart stopped, and I choked down the tears that started to my eyes, and took bold of my friend’s hand to save myself from being lost in the crowd, and we went home together. I had my first lesson that everything in life bears this world’s stamp of imperfection. There was the one thing lacking in that afternoon’s pleasure; there is always one thing lacking; there is one flaw that keeps everything from reaching its perfection. We must not blame ourselves for the failure ; it is the mark which this imperfect world sets on the things that belong to it.

I suppose I have been a hundred times to the Museum since that day. My childish eagerness to see the treasures of art that are stored away in the upper corridors changed at last into a sad and funny sentiment about the pleasure that would some day, in its own good time, be mine ; but I often thought, as I went hurrying to a play, that next time I must manage to secure the lingering delight.

The day came at last. It also happened that I was going to the Museum in company with the same friend who had taken me to see Bluebeard. “ You never have kept your promise,” I told her, laughingly, and we stood solemnly face to face, while I could see that she rose to a sense of the majesty of the occasion, and of my having patiently waited the greater part of my life-time. We turned, and scurried up the stairs, followed wonderingly by a companion, who was told our story, to her rare delight, as we raced along the dusty corridors. The bones and stones in the cases jingled and jarred, and must have longed to attract our attention, being of so much consequence, and treated with cold neglect; but we climbed the three crooked flights, and stood at last in the presence of the wax figures. It was altogether a sad moment to me. I caught my breath, and felt as if it were all a dream, for those strange ghastly creatures frightened me as they might have done when I longed to see them first.

I wished that I had stayed away. I not only felt keenly the burden of my years as I never had before, but it was like forcing one’s self upon the secrets of the dead. I had intruded upon a solemn company of ghosts, and I might suffer for it in ways that I should hate.

It was as strange a contrast to everyday life as one is likely to find in the world. The color of the wax had been changed by time, until the faces of the men and women had an unearthliness that no words of mine can tell. There were groups of people who were dead or dying, with awful glazed eyes, and a look of horror that forty years had not worn away. The bruises on their poor foreheads made one’s own head begin to ache, and the blood-thirsty pirates were such wicked creatures that one shuddered at the thought of their some day having to suffer for these sins. I walked about and looked at every group. There were reasons why I tried to behave myself well in that strange company.

The three warnings of the evils of intemperance and the simpering beauties and historical personages were alike affecting to me ; it was altogether strange and dreadful. I could not laugh at their delightfully old-fashioned clothes then, as I can now; there was a pathos and dignity about their suffering and their neglected, forgotten existence that went to my heart. Above the merry players and the idle people who come evening after evening to laugh or cry at the play, above the shops and the noisy street, they sit in silence : actors who have no audience ; who pose and strike impressive attitudes ; who have been keeping the same smile for half a century, or mocking a death scene in such wise that if it were on the stage below they would hear such a storm of applause as the curtain fell that they would have to take each other’s hands and come out, panting and wide-eyed with excitement, before the foot-lights again and again. I wondered who took care of them, and ministered to their few wants, and dusted them once a year or so. I fancied that it must be some worn-out actor, who had played well in the tragedies in his day, who still clung to the old theatre, and performed the slight duties which were left him, with a sacred care and devotion. There should be some such man as showman ; I dare say that he had left his charge for a few minutes only, and had gone down to the green room to see what was going on. I half expected to meet him coming up the stairs, with slow and feeble footsteps. The light was dim in that strange upper room, and the air seemed full of a fine dust, such as one imagines might be found in a long-closed inner chamber of the pyramids.

It seemed strange enough to go into the theatre afterward. We had to hurry, as had happened on that other day so long before, for the musicians were already playing the overture, and we found our seats quickly; but everything seemed careless and trivial for a while. I could not forget the dismal sights overhead, and it was not until good Mrs. Vincent came close to the foot-lights, and happened to look me straight in the face with her dear, merry old eyes, that I took heart again, and seemed to wake up to the cares and fashions of every-day life.