The Philistines | Page 7

sense being obscured by an abstraction not to be distinguished
by an ordinary observer from slumber. The reader, however, is bound
to assume that all are listening, and if some sleep and others consider
their worldly concerns or speculate upon the affairs of their neighbors,
it interrupts not at all the steady flow of the reading.
Once this is finished, there is an end also of inattention, for the
discussion begins. The central and vital principle of all these clubs is
that a poem by Robert Browning is a sort of prize enigma, of which the
solution is to be reached rather by wild and daring guessing than by any
commonplace process of reasoning. Although to an ordinary and
uninspired intellect it may appear perfectly obvious that a lyric means
simply and clearly what it says, the true Browningite is better informed.
He is deeply aware that if the poet seems to say one thing, this is proof
indisputable that another is intended. To take a work in straightforward
fashion would at once rob the Browning Club of all excuse for
existence, and while parlor chairs are easy, the air warm and perfumed,
and it is the fashion for idle minds to concern themselves with that
rococo humbug Philistines call culture, societies of this sort must
continue.
Once it is agreed that a poem means something not apparent, it is easy
to make it mean anything and everything, especially if the discussion,
as is usually the case, be interspersed with discursions of which the
chief use is to give some clever person or other a chance to say smart
things. When all else fails, moreover, the club can always fall back
upon allegory. Commentators on the poets have always found much
field for ingenious quibbling and sounding speculation in the line of
allegory. Let a poem be but considered an allegory, and there is no
limit to the changes which may be rung upon it, not even Mrs.
Malaprop's banks of the Nile restraining the creature's headstrong
ranging. Only a failure of the fancy of the interpreter can afford a check,
and as everybody reads fiction nowadays, few people are without a
goodly supply of fancies, either original or acquired.
Although Fenton had declined to go to Mrs. Gore's with his wife, he
had finished his cigar when the carriage was announced, and decided to
accompany her, after all. The parlors were filling when they arrived,
and Arthur, who knew how to select good company, managed to secure
a seat between Miss Elsie Dimmont, a young and rather gay society girl,

and Mrs. Frederick Staggchase, a descendant of an old Boston family,
who was called one of the cleverest women of her set.
"Is Mr. Fenwick going to read?" he asked of the latter, glancing about
to see who was present.
"Yes," Mrs. Staggchase answered, turning toward him with her
distinguished motion of the head and high-bred smile. "Don't you like
him?"
"I never had the misfortune to hear him. I know he detests me, but then
I fear, that like olives and caviare, I have to be an acquired taste."
"Acquired tastes," she responded, with that air of being amused by
herself which always entertained Fenton, "are always the strongest."
"And generally least to a man's credit," he retorted quickly. "What is he
going to inflict upon us?"
"Really, I don't know. I seldom come to this sort of thing. I don't think
it pays."
"Oh, nothing pays, of course," was Fenton's reply, "but it is more or
less amusing to see people make fools of themselves."
The president of the club, at this moment, called the assembly to order,
and announced that Mr. Fenwick had kindly consented--"Readers
always kindly consent," muttered Fenton aside to Mrs. Staggchase--to
read, _Bishop Blougram's Apology_, to which they would now listen.
There was a rustle of people settling back into their chairs; the reader
brushed a lank black lock from his sallow brow, and with a tone of
sepulchral earnestness began:
"'No more wine? then we'll push back chairs, and talk.'"
For something over an hour, the monotonous voice of the reader went
dully on. Fenton drew out his tablets and amused himself and Miss
Dimmont by drawing caricatures of the company, ending with a sketch
of a handsome old dowager, who went so soundly to sleep that her jaw
fell. Over this his companion laughed so heartily that Mrs. Staggchase
leaned forward smilingly, and took his tablets away from him; whereat
he produced an envelope from his pocket and was about to begin
another sketch, when suddenly, and apparently somewhat to the
surprise of the reader, the poem came to an end.
There was a joyful stir. The dowager awoke, and there was a
perfunctory clapping of hands when Mr. Fenwick laid down