The Adventures of a Widow

afterward tried to do so; the introductions had been very rapid for some little time; one, so to speak, had trodden upon the heel of another. Her medit

owing embarrassed to the verge of actual bewilderment. She was now the centre of a lit

s Upton. "That is the way I announce myself to all strangers. I should have gone on the stage and played Juliet if it hadn't been for my unpoet

ed. He was Mr. Leander Prawle, and he was known to have written verses for which he himself had unbounded admiration. "Indeed," the young poet continue

stop its discords and listen to

ays writing transcendental verses about Man with a capital M and the grand amelioration of Humanity with a capital H. Prawle has no color. He hates an adjective as if i

n an unconventional, audacious way. His collar gave a lower glimpse of his firm yet soft throat than usage ordinarily sanctions; the backward wave of his hair was certainly against any conceded form

im, "you really relieve me, Mr. Trevor. I was so prepared,

y French," said Le

iddle finger of which was the tawny tell-t

wle," he said, "is

can," slowly corre

h emphasis and a certain excitement. "We are always fighting, Prawle and I. I tell Prawle that in his own beloved

as if he were repeating some fragment o

white, sound teeth, "Keats was an immens

d nothing," said

oetry is that. There is nothing else. Even

rhapsodist," sai

er while he did so. He now exclusively addressed Pauline

know that though you and Mr. Prawle are always quarrelling about poetry, and belong to two diff

and South poles never come together, whil

s if chaos were the r

man, with a bald, pink scalp and a pair of dull, uneasy eyes. "Here is our friend, Rufus Corson," he continued. "Rufus has not spoken a word to you

" murmured Pau

wonderful fellow, and he has written some verses that

ad Baudelaire,

tering way. He wore the dress of a man who scorns all edic

f plump prosperity; even his rosy baldness had a vivid suggestion of youth and of the enjoyments which youth bestows. "

ed," said Leander Praw

"It has been praised by people whom you don't

h the confirmed pallor of his face made still darker. "Mrs. Varick," he went on, "I am sure that you will a

hat they are not beautiful-and for

his hair while he thus spoke. But he still kept an arm about the neck of his friend, Corson. "I maintain," he continued, "that Corson has a pe

it's only a mere dead body! None of the great poets have ever written in that dreadful style, Mr. Trevor. Of course, I know that Mr. Corson has done

mmonplace," sai

said Mr.

d Leander Prawle. "It means ev

ong as your technique is good, so long as you have the rig

They haven't been done to death, like faith, and philanthropy, and freedom. Optimism is so tire

e said, "but that is not poetry. You can deplore the allurements of women wit

llow Irish brogue to Pauline, as he just then stol

ored," she said, as they moved off, "but I was just beginning

find other sor

wranglers, Mr. Trevor, M

tics," he said. "Each one believ

ey succ

azines, but secretly they would give worlds to see their names in print. Heaven knows, the magazines print rubbish eno

erce tiger-li

assionate pois

in drunken

geous b

-pated posing Corson's tra

better than t

s that soon mu

that soon must c

ck embrace of

eander Prawle's buncombe, which s

one day deve

walks unwinged

l and mope-to

pinions to outs

s are partially mad, of course. But then they are mad withou

ways quarrelling

cure; they've no cause, yet, to hate one another. If one of them should get a book publish

gray eyes and a nose like the beak of a carniv

cle for his new American Cyclop?dia," declared this gentlem

e man," replied Kindelon.

k, to snatch a short interval between dinner-time and bed-time for whatever I can accomplish with my poor tired pen. My case is a peculiar and pathetic one-and this Powers ought to understand it. But, no; he comes to me in the coolest manner, and makes my doing that article for him a question of actual good-nature and friendly support. So, of course, I consent. But it shows a great want of delicacy in Powers. He knows

n, rather dryly, "that Powers has not offered

indelon!" he exclaimed, "do you know yo

before, Barrowe," said Kindelon, qu

revent the indignant Mr. Barrow

hat man," he said to Pauline, presentl

answered. "They are published abroad,

than almost any author whom I know. He was sensible enough, years ago, to embark in commercial affairs. I forget just what he does; I think he is a wholesale druggist, or grocer. He writes brilliantly and with extraordinary speed. His neglect of social duties, as he calls them,

llow-authors?" asked Pauline.

ut if you answer him he considers it an interruption, and if you disagree with him he ranks it as impertinence. I think he rather likes me because I persistently, fearlessly, and relentlessly do both. But with all his faults, Barrowe has a

cipient of Kindelon's last cordial sentence of salutation. After he had made the nee

of no less than five

aid Mr. Whitcomb, in a voice quite as pensive as his face. "I

ake any mistake on that point. A few days ago I chanced to meet your publisher, Sours. Now,

ked Mr. Whitcomb, with a

omb was our coming American historian. The

. I can't say that I think Sours's compliment meant much. It's got to be a sort of set phrase about me, that I'm coming. It never occurs to anybody

with a kind of weary amiability, still shaking his g

e you managed to enjoy yourself, thus far? If you recollect, w

," said Pauline. "And I find it v

ed from an ancestral chest near the lavendered laces and faded love-letters of a long-dead grandmother. She was by no means an agreeable-looking lady; she was so ungentle in her quick, snapping speech and so unfeminine in her gaunt, bony, and almost towering figure, that she promptly impressed you with an idea of Nature having maliciously blended the harsher traits of both sexes in one austere personality, a

ow you've moved a good deal in fashionable society, and I

hingly," retu

I saw you at the opera the other evening. You were with Mrs. Poughkeepsie and her daughter; I was down stairs in the orchestra. I go a

w said Kindelon, with a chilly ring in his

nowadays. One good story from high life, with a moderate spice of scandal in it, will pay me six times as well as anything else. They say I'm always hunting about for material, and no wonder that I am. The thing is bread and butter to me-and not much butter, either. You see, the rich classes here are getting to represent so large a body; so many people are trying to push themselves into society. And when they can't elbow their way into the swell balls and parties, why, the next best thing is to read about who were there, and what they had on, and who led the German, and what they ate and drank, and how the house was decorated. It seemed a queer enough business for me, at first; I started with grand ideas, but I've had to come down a good many pegs; I've had to pull in my horns. And now I don't mind it a bit; I suppose Kindelon would say that I enjoyed it ... eh, Kindelon? Why, Mrs. Varick, I used to write book

de up her mind to dislike Miss Cragge very much inde

rd, and Pauline, who still had his ar

even more than her usual blunt, curt manner. "It was because I knew Kindelon would be apt to say hard

uline, as blandly as her

o doubt," said Kindelon, when they

rson I have ever met," replied

ittle time ago you were prepared to be exhilarated and ... what w

heed the last str

ss Cragge enemi

ng printed a lot of libellous folly about a certain friend of mine. He had written a rather harmless and weak novel of New York society, New York manners. Miss Cragge had some old grudge against him; I think it was on account of an adverse criticism which she believed him to have written regarding some dreary, amateurish poems for whose author she had conceived a liking. This was quite enough for Miss Cragge. She filled a column of the Rochester "Rocket," or the Topeka "Trumpet," or some such sheet, with irate fictions about poor Charley Erskine. He had no redress, poor fellow; she declared that he had slandered a pure, high-minded lady in society here by caricaturing her in his novel. She parodied some of poor Charley's rather fragile verses; she accused him of hab

long, worried sigh, now, which Kindelon just heard above the conversational hum surrounding them. "I am afraid it all comes to picking and choosing, everyw

own; he fixed his light-blue eyes, in which lay so warm and

A, when they give parties in little rooms of tenement houses and hire a fiddler to speed the dance. There is always some Michael or Fritz who has been ostracized. The O'Haras and the Schneiders follow the universal law. Wherever three are gathered together, the third is pretty sure to b

they had both been presented to her not long ago. She recollected their names, too; her memory had been nerved to meet all retentive exigencies. The large, florid ma

ery opposite repute. Kindelon had already caught

ith his companion, while either gentleman bowed recognition to Pauline. "Isn't t

ggles. "I wish it had," he proceeded, somewhat wearily. "No; Bedlowe and I were having one of our old quarrels. I say that we nove

a habit of grasping his sorrel beard in one hand and thrusting its end toward

press ourselves in fiction. And he goes still further-Howe is always going still further every fresh time that I me

ing downward from the eerie glasses. "But he doesn't

blishes me!" fro

ou go in for that when you write your novels. It pays, and y

some faith," he proceeded, with hostility. "That's why I wrote 'The Christian Knight in Armor' and 'The Doubtful Soul Satisf

o qualities as a modern novel-writer which are simply atrocious-I mean, plot and piety. The natura

ise ana

rely igno

thoughts witho

are wholly devo

or sub

each se

ousands l

etely to repres

present my time, do

ages and christenings in the m

Sensible people have a sensible curiosity

s the one sole interest that should concern the more cultured mind. And tho

o Pauline, after he had pressed with her into other conversational re

joyed it," s

lon. "It was just as well that we retired without committing ourselves by

said Pauline. "They are very popular

and tame sort. And how few fine minds are there to-day which are not rationalistic, unorthodox? A man like Bedlowe coins money from his milk-and-water platitudes, while Howe must content himself with the recognition of

turned Pauline. "He

seley?" asked Kindelon, as the gentleman who had ju

I've got a piece on hand that I'm doing for Mattie Molloy. Do you know her at all? She does the song-

d of Cain,' was very successful

trongest lines that have been put into any actor's mouth for the past twenty years-fact! as sure as you're born! Moore makes up horribly, and Kitty Vane is so over-weighted that Miss Cowes, in a straight little part of only a few lengths, gets away with her for two scenes; and Sanders is awfully preachy. If I could hav

seemed to be hearing a new language. And yet, although the wo

then, in fitting stars," said K

y or Sardou-don't you make any mistake! But those foreign fellows are always crowding us natives out of New York. The managers hem and smirk over our pieces, and say they're good enough, but they've got something that's running well at the Porte Sang Martang or the Odeun in Paris. The best we can do is to h

w of the American stage," said Pauline to

rimary object. Now, I do not believe that the lust of gain has ever been a foremost incentive in the production of any great mental achievement. Our novels and poems are to-day better than our plays, I think, because they are writ

ore individualities, that evening,

t?" asked Kindelon, as they w

ly enjoyed it," wa

been dis

es

of the salon sti

my work-I shall issue my invitations in a few days. Mrs. Dares

ill invite

ns. I shall pi

as so odd a blending of the jocose and serious that