Huxley's Visit to Fiske

THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB.

WHEN John Fiske died, on July 4th of last year, he was giving final directions for the removal of his library from his former home on Berkeley Street to his new house. He had called me in, one day when I was passing, to show me his beautiful new room, which was in an upper story, separated from the rest of the house, in order that he might have perfect retirement while working.

The room was long and low, with an atmosphere of comfort and repose. Above the ample fireplace was written the motto of his life : —

He turned, and said, with that slow, radiant smile which lighted his face so wonderfully, “ This is the library of my dreams ; ” then remained silent.

On that day the books and furniture were lacking, but now his working desk, books, and pictures of friends are all in the places which he had assigned them. Conspicuous among the contents of the library, on an easel is a fine oil painting of his intimate friend, Professor Thomas Huxley. This portrait recalls to me an early experience of my life, which I remember as a week of unique interest.

Twenty-five years ago, when Professor Huxley came to America on a vacation trip, he visited Mr. and Mrs. Fiske. Mrs. Huxley accompanied her husband, and they spent the week before their return to England at Petersham, the childhood home of Mrs. Fiske. Petersham is a typical old New England village, with its elm-surrounded meeting house standing on the village green. A few comfortable houses, built in the early part of the last century, border the principal street, which follows the high ridge on which the town is placed. The pure air, the remoteness from railroads, but most of all the presence of Mr. Fiske and his family, had made the village a summer resort.

Here were gathered, in the old Brooks homestead and vicinity, an interesting group of people. The senior member of our party was Mr. Christopher Cranch, poet, artist, musician, and delightful companion, — always ready to help in entertainments of all kinds. Private theatricals were his special delight. Then came Professor J. K. Paine, of Harvard, and his wife. The genial composer, who was, perhaps, the nearest of all Mr. Fiske’s friends, — “ Brother Paine ” was his affectionate term for him, — played to us his delightful music, some of it written in that region. George Parsons Lathrop and his wife, Hawthorne’s gifted daughter, were also there. Besides these there were a dozen or more friends and relatives ; and the Fiske children should not be forgotten, as they added much to the merriment of every occasion. The relation of Mr. Fiske to his children was most charming, and he was never tired of quoting their bright savings.

Although this was vacation time, Mr. Fiske was not idle. He used to drive off in the morning, soon after breakfast, to a remote farmhouse, where he could be alone to work. The result of these solitary meditations was occasionally bestowed on the rest of us, who gathered about him and listened spellbound to his delightful reading. I think he was at work on Myths and Myth-Makers that summer ; at least, I know he read us some chapters from this book.

Fiske’s philosophic writings were often first thought out aloud in the companionship of his wife, as they strolled, according to their habit, through the woods and fields of Petersham. To see how easily and naturally these religious subjects suggested themselves to his mind, we have only to read the dedication of The Idea of God : —

TO MY WIFE

In remembrance of the sweet Sunday morning under the apple-tree on the hillside, when we two sat looking down into fairy woodland paths, and talked of the things since written in this little book

I NOW DEDICATE IT.

Ἀργύριον καὶ χρυσίον οὐχ ὑπάρΧει μοι ὃ δὲ ἔχω, τοῦτό σοι δίδωμι. ¹

One of Mrs. Fiske’s most valued possessions is a beautiful photograph bearing this inscription in Mr. Fiske’s familiar handwriting: “The apple-tree mentioned in the dedication to The Idea of God—planned under this tree Sunday morning, July 12, 1885.”

In the midst of our pleasant but uneventful life the news of the arrival of Professor and Mrs. Huxley produced a great excitement. The first sight of Mr. Huxley made us feel that he would fit easily into our circle. Though not a handsome man, Mr. Huxley had a fascinating and a mobile face. His eyes were rather small and his forehead low, but his eyebrows were heavy and shaggy, the nose was a most expressive feature, and the chin was fine and strong. His voice was delightfully modulated, every word perfectly chosen to express his meaning; and he was, besides, a very easy talker, ready to exchange ideas with any one in the most friendly way.

A characteristic which made everything he said interesting was his playfulness and keen sense of humor. The most serious and gravest subjects were relieved of dullness at his hands. He was a great smoker, and when he sat down with his pipe he always seemed uncommonly entertaining and sociable. Our meeting place in the evening was often at the office of Mr. Brooks, the brother of Mrs. Fiske. It was a small building near his house, and in former times had been his father’s law office. There, before a fire of blazing hickory logs, went on much of what Mr. Fiske has called “ exuberant nonsense.” I especially recall that the doctrines of evolution, then comparatively new, were the cause of much merriment. Mr. Huxley illustrated some amusing verses, written by Mrs. Huxley, with a funny sketch of the Garden of Eden, with apes climbing the tree of knowledge. At these times, when Mr. Cranch was called on for a song, our favorite was Little Billee.

In fact, there was always so much fun and amusing talk among the clever men that it was a great entertainment to listen. It takes a great man to bring out the finest wit of another great man : without Mr. Fiske’s knowledge and cleverness we never should have had such a display of wit and brilliancy from Mr. Huxley. Our appreciation, though obvious, certainly did not displease the latter gentleman ; for he wrote Mr. Fiske from England that nowhere in this country had he felt so perfectly at home and so in sympathy with his surroundings as in Petersham. There was also a good deal of friendly gossip between Mr. Huxley and Mr. Fiske about people in England whom they both knew. Many of the names were familiar to all of us, — Tyndall, Spencer, Browning, Forster, and particularly George Eliot. They thought the last a very unhappy woman ; that her manners were forbidding in general society, but that she was wonderfully interesting to those who saw her at her best.

Mr. Huxley had a great store of anecdotes. He told us that one day the Queen wished all the “ scientific lions ” trotted out for her inspection. The “lions” were accordingly notified that they were to be summoned to her Majesty’s presence, and were requested to wear court dress. Most of the scientists acceded to the request and custom ; but one of them — I think it was Mr. Spencer — said that not even to please a queen would he make himself ridiculous. The Queen proved a most delightful hostess, talked with each guest on his specialty as if she were quite at home in it, and her tact and kindness were unfailing.

Our host planned many delightful excursions, — drives along the breezy ridges of Petersham, which afforded fine views of Wachusett and Monadnock, picnics, and wonderful camp fires in the pine woods. One of the distant views of Petersham, with the church spires and housetops illumined by the setting sun, reminded Mr. Fiske of a scene in Pilgrim’s Progress, the book he had loved since his childhood ; and he would turn with intense pleasure and exclaim, “ See the New Jerusalem and the walls of Salvation ! ”

Music was one of our chief pleasures. Mr. Fiske had an extraordinary love for it, and was himself no mean performer on the piano, which he had begun to study seriously at the age of twentynine. Amid all his intellectual activity he found time to practice, so that he became able to render with taste compositions which did not require too rapid performance. His knowledge of all composers was intimate, and there was no stronger proof of his great memory than his power to play by heart their most important works. His face shone with a peculiar glow of happiness when he would say, “ Brother Paine, give us such an opus of Beethoven,” and he would call for more and more, and listen with rapt attention. Time, for him, sped on unheeded, when he was listening to great music.

Fiske’s love for Petersham was most ardent, for to him it meant peace and rest. He used to say, “ Dying is to me only going to Petersham to stay.” He has been laid in the little graveyard near the village street, beside his son Ralph, who shared his father’s affection for the place, and on whose gravestone are inscribed these lines, written by himself: —