VictorianLady
Member
I beg the company's pardon if there is already a thread for general short stories. For that contingency, I can only offer the poor excuse that I could not find it. I did not begin this thread for myself only; all such as do not feel that they could fill a whole thread may use this one also.
In placing the following story before you all, I assume none of that false modesty for which authors may often be so justly criticized. Of course I do not think my work totally devoid of merit and unworthy of your attention, and were I to begin with such humble protestations, you readers could be forgiven for asking why I present the work at all. Therefore, I will merely say that while I do not love much criticism, I will gladly accept all such remarks as may tend towards the improvement of my work.
Conversation
What devious channels of thought work through a woman’s mind as she arranges the complicated sequences that make up the seating of her dinner guests? What strange conflicts in her character lead her with one generous impulse to seat the young debutante beside the handsome bachelor attorney, while with a seemingly morbid twist she places the sprightly society woman beside the old doctor?
These were questions, which even Mrs. Barlow—a social woman herself and used to making such arrangements—could not answer to her own satisfaction. She herself was seated between two middle-aged gentlemen: one of them a red-haired banker with little to say, and the other a wealthy occupationless man of the world. This latter, Mrs. Barlow quickly decided, was one of that disagreeable sort who are not happy unless they can discourse on some subject of which their listener is ignorant, and presumably will neither understand nor appreciate.
He began by asking her whether she had traveled much. She replied in the negative. She wished she could see her husband, but in concordance with the rule that husbands and wives do not converse well together, he had been seated at the other end of the table on the far side of a huge merchant.
“That’s a pity, madam. To live one’s whole life in one small locality is so limiting to the mind.”
Mrs. Barlow thought this quite rude, neither did she consider Philadelphia a “small locality”, and she said so with some asperity.
“That is just what I mean,” he said, snatching at her words. “You view this city from behind the hazy aurora of familiarity, and see nothing of its meanness, squalor, and petty spitefulness. I, who have seen it from the distance of foreign lands, see it as it really is.”
Mrs. Barlow did not see how vision could be improved by distance, as her experience had always pointed in the opposite direction. She felt confirmed in her opinion of the innate lack of sense of men in general, but she simply said, “You mistake, sir. I did not say that I thought this a perfect city; merely that it is a large one.”
“But is it not true that you would say you love it?” he persisted.
“It is my home,” she said shortly. “I see its faults, but I think its strengths make the faults worth correcting. Is there no place that you love, Mr. Simpson?”
“No,” he replied, “In my youth I held some such feelings for my hometown, but places are made out of people and my travels have taught me the selfishness of all people. I love no place now.”
“You seem to have lost rather than gained by your travels. I at least love one place—you none.”
“On the contrary, madam, I have gained. If an object of your supposed affection was proved to you to be unworthy, would you not feel that you had gained, at least in knowledge?”
“I am not sure that I understand you,” said Mrs. Barlow. “Are you assuming that in such a case I could not continue to love, despite the unworthiness of the object? And what do you mean by ‘supposed affection’?”
“The whole question of love is very problematic. It is a subjective feeling, to say the least, and could hardly be considered a viable fact in the real world. But surely you would not continue to hold such feelings for an unworthy object?”
“I am not at all sure of what I would do,” Mrs. Barlow replied, “but my whole philosophy depends upon Somebody being able to do it.”
“Ah, now you speak from the popular Christian morality of our time,” Mr. Simpson said triumphantly. “The idea that man is in some way “redeemable” is a favorite with us. It gives some dignity to our race—some escape from the economic factors that drive the course of history.”
“Well really, I had no idea that Christianity had grown so fashionable,” Mrs. Barlow retorted, “but that is beside the point. What do you mean by saying that economic factors drive the course of history? I’m sure I was always taught that things like nationalism and a search for truth had a great deal to do with it.”
“I am not surprised. I was taught so also. But our teachers were wrong. All men’s decisions, and hence history, have been driven by the desire for material gain. That idea about nationalism is only true in that men have often seen that the wealth of their nation was their own wealth, and worked on that principle. I appeal to you, Mr. Morris, to back me up.”
The banker did not appear to appreciate this appeal as it necessitated the opening of his mouth, without the compensation of a mouthful of stewed oysters. “The role of wealth in the life of the ideal citizen has long been debated,” he said. “The Scriptures call it the ‘root of all evil,’ which I have no doubt is as accurate a description as may be found. Yet, I presume to say that the responsible and intelligent citizen may profitably give some attention to the proper maintenance and er—storage of such wealth, without direct harm, provided of course that he is guided by philanthropic motives.”
“What then of the search for truth?” Mrs. Barlow asked.
“A search for ‘truth’ in the abstract form has never affected history,” Mr. Simpson replied. “In the concrete sense, as in the search for scientific advances which bring prosperity, there I will grant you, it has had an impact.”
Mrs. Barlow finished chewing a bite of roasted partridge before she replied. “And what part do you play in this race of selfish people, Mr. Simpson? I suppose you do not claim to be better than the rest.” She felt the discourtesy of this comment, but she could not help saying it.
Mr. Simpson looked offended. “May I help you to a glass of sherry, madam? I see that your glass is empty.”
“Thank you, no,” said Mrs. Barlow. “How can I know that after dinner you would not hand me a bill for your services?”
“You mock me,” he said stiffly.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, “but you yourself denied the possibility of disinterested service.”
“I spoke of man’s natural course of action. There are of course, various courtesies and modes of action foreign to our natures, imposed on us by social conventions and moral codes.”
“Dear me,” Mrs. Barlow said innocently, “how very foolish of us to have imposed such laws on ourselves. They seem to be very worthless—at least, they have never affected history. I suppose we did make them ourselves?”
He looked at her suspiciously. “Of course, madam. Had you anyone else to propose?”
“Oh, I simply wished to clarify. It is odd though—our making rules so ‘foreign to our natures’.” Mrs. Barlow was beginning to feel sarcastic.
“They are usually made for others by people who do not intend to keep them, themselves,” Mr. Simpson said.
“Are you sure?” Mrs. Barlow asked. “My mother gave me most of the rules I had as a child, and I’m sure she kept them herself.”
Mr. Simpson smiled faintly. “It is a confusing subject, madam.”
“Very,” she replied. “Much too confusing for me. But see? Everyone is rising to go to the drawing room. We must not keep our hostess waiting.”
Mr. Simpson rose and politely drew back Mrs. Barlow’s chair. She arose, and he offered her his arm. She took it, smiling archly as she said, “I do feel for you, being obliged to keep all these social codes, when you must be dying to do something more profitable—economically speaking.”
“You wrong me, madam,” Mr. Simpson replied. “It is quite my pleasure to serve you.”
In placing the following story before you all, I assume none of that false modesty for which authors may often be so justly criticized. Of course I do not think my work totally devoid of merit and unworthy of your attention, and were I to begin with such humble protestations, you readers could be forgiven for asking why I present the work at all. Therefore, I will merely say that while I do not love much criticism, I will gladly accept all such remarks as may tend towards the improvement of my work.
Conversation
What devious channels of thought work through a woman’s mind as she arranges the complicated sequences that make up the seating of her dinner guests? What strange conflicts in her character lead her with one generous impulse to seat the young debutante beside the handsome bachelor attorney, while with a seemingly morbid twist she places the sprightly society woman beside the old doctor?
These were questions, which even Mrs. Barlow—a social woman herself and used to making such arrangements—could not answer to her own satisfaction. She herself was seated between two middle-aged gentlemen: one of them a red-haired banker with little to say, and the other a wealthy occupationless man of the world. This latter, Mrs. Barlow quickly decided, was one of that disagreeable sort who are not happy unless they can discourse on some subject of which their listener is ignorant, and presumably will neither understand nor appreciate.
He began by asking her whether she had traveled much. She replied in the negative. She wished she could see her husband, but in concordance with the rule that husbands and wives do not converse well together, he had been seated at the other end of the table on the far side of a huge merchant.
“That’s a pity, madam. To live one’s whole life in one small locality is so limiting to the mind.”
Mrs. Barlow thought this quite rude, neither did she consider Philadelphia a “small locality”, and she said so with some asperity.
“That is just what I mean,” he said, snatching at her words. “You view this city from behind the hazy aurora of familiarity, and see nothing of its meanness, squalor, and petty spitefulness. I, who have seen it from the distance of foreign lands, see it as it really is.”
Mrs. Barlow did not see how vision could be improved by distance, as her experience had always pointed in the opposite direction. She felt confirmed in her opinion of the innate lack of sense of men in general, but she simply said, “You mistake, sir. I did not say that I thought this a perfect city; merely that it is a large one.”
“But is it not true that you would say you love it?” he persisted.
“It is my home,” she said shortly. “I see its faults, but I think its strengths make the faults worth correcting. Is there no place that you love, Mr. Simpson?”
“No,” he replied, “In my youth I held some such feelings for my hometown, but places are made out of people and my travels have taught me the selfishness of all people. I love no place now.”
“You seem to have lost rather than gained by your travels. I at least love one place—you none.”
“On the contrary, madam, I have gained. If an object of your supposed affection was proved to you to be unworthy, would you not feel that you had gained, at least in knowledge?”
“I am not sure that I understand you,” said Mrs. Barlow. “Are you assuming that in such a case I could not continue to love, despite the unworthiness of the object? And what do you mean by ‘supposed affection’?”
“The whole question of love is very problematic. It is a subjective feeling, to say the least, and could hardly be considered a viable fact in the real world. But surely you would not continue to hold such feelings for an unworthy object?”
“I am not at all sure of what I would do,” Mrs. Barlow replied, “but my whole philosophy depends upon Somebody being able to do it.”
“Ah, now you speak from the popular Christian morality of our time,” Mr. Simpson said triumphantly. “The idea that man is in some way “redeemable” is a favorite with us. It gives some dignity to our race—some escape from the economic factors that drive the course of history.”
“Well really, I had no idea that Christianity had grown so fashionable,” Mrs. Barlow retorted, “but that is beside the point. What do you mean by saying that economic factors drive the course of history? I’m sure I was always taught that things like nationalism and a search for truth had a great deal to do with it.”
“I am not surprised. I was taught so also. But our teachers were wrong. All men’s decisions, and hence history, have been driven by the desire for material gain. That idea about nationalism is only true in that men have often seen that the wealth of their nation was their own wealth, and worked on that principle. I appeal to you, Mr. Morris, to back me up.”
The banker did not appear to appreciate this appeal as it necessitated the opening of his mouth, without the compensation of a mouthful of stewed oysters. “The role of wealth in the life of the ideal citizen has long been debated,” he said. “The Scriptures call it the ‘root of all evil,’ which I have no doubt is as accurate a description as may be found. Yet, I presume to say that the responsible and intelligent citizen may profitably give some attention to the proper maintenance and er—storage of such wealth, without direct harm, provided of course that he is guided by philanthropic motives.”
“What then of the search for truth?” Mrs. Barlow asked.
“A search for ‘truth’ in the abstract form has never affected history,” Mr. Simpson replied. “In the concrete sense, as in the search for scientific advances which bring prosperity, there I will grant you, it has had an impact.”
Mrs. Barlow finished chewing a bite of roasted partridge before she replied. “And what part do you play in this race of selfish people, Mr. Simpson? I suppose you do not claim to be better than the rest.” She felt the discourtesy of this comment, but she could not help saying it.
Mr. Simpson looked offended. “May I help you to a glass of sherry, madam? I see that your glass is empty.”
“Thank you, no,” said Mrs. Barlow. “How can I know that after dinner you would not hand me a bill for your services?”
“You mock me,” he said stiffly.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, “but you yourself denied the possibility of disinterested service.”
“I spoke of man’s natural course of action. There are of course, various courtesies and modes of action foreign to our natures, imposed on us by social conventions and moral codes.”
“Dear me,” Mrs. Barlow said innocently, “how very foolish of us to have imposed such laws on ourselves. They seem to be very worthless—at least, they have never affected history. I suppose we did make them ourselves?”
He looked at her suspiciously. “Of course, madam. Had you anyone else to propose?”
“Oh, I simply wished to clarify. It is odd though—our making rules so ‘foreign to our natures’.” Mrs. Barlow was beginning to feel sarcastic.
“They are usually made for others by people who do not intend to keep them, themselves,” Mr. Simpson said.
“Are you sure?” Mrs. Barlow asked. “My mother gave me most of the rules I had as a child, and I’m sure she kept them herself.”
Mr. Simpson smiled faintly. “It is a confusing subject, madam.”
“Very,” she replied. “Much too confusing for me. But see? Everyone is rising to go to the drawing room. We must not keep our hostess waiting.”
Mr. Simpson rose and politely drew back Mrs. Barlow’s chair. She arose, and he offered her his arm. She took it, smiling archly as she said, “I do feel for you, being obliged to keep all these social codes, when you must be dying to do something more profitable—economically speaking.”
“You wrong me, madam,” Mr. Simpson replied. “It is quite my pleasure to serve you.”
