The Maiden CHAPTER 4.
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"What in the world kept you away from Mrs. Leslie's?" said a young friend and companion, about her own age, who called in to see Anna Lee on the next day. Her name wasFlorence Armitage. "We had a most delightful time. Everybody was asking for you, and everybody was disappointed at your absence. I was afraid you were sick, and have called in to see. What did keep away?"
"Mother was not well, and I did not think it right to go out and leave her."
"Was she very ill?"
"She had one of her violent attacks of headache, and was in bed nearly all day."
"I'm sorry. But did that keep you at home?"
"Yes. The children needed to be looked after, and I knew if I were out of the way, and mother not able to attend to them, that there would be trouble. Something, I was afraid, might occur to disturb her mind, and bring back the headache; and then she would have been sick all night. I would rather have missed a dozen parties, than that should have happened."
Florence did not seem altogether satisfied that the mere fact of her mother's not being well, was a sufficient reason why Anna should forego the pleasures of company. But she did not say this. She only remained silent for a moment or two, and then began to speak of the delightful time they had had.
"I don't know when I have spent a more pleasant evening," she said. "We missed you very much. And that isn't all. Your absence deprived us of the company of another, whose presence all would have welcomed. Or, at least, it was the opinion of some of us that such was the case."
"Of whom do you speak?" asked Anna.
"Of a certain young man."
The eyes of Anna fell to the floor for an instant. Then raising them to the face of her friend, she said,
"Speak out, Florence. Who do you mean? I know of no one who was absent on my account."
"O, yes you do."
"No, Florence."
"Mr. Gardiner was not there." And as Florence said this, she looked at Anna with an sly smile.
The latter could not prevent a soft blush from stealing over her face, and her eyes were again cast upon the floor. Lifting them, however, after a thoughtful pause, she said to her friend in a serious voice,
"Florence, are you sure Mr. Gardiner was not there?"
"He came, it is true; but only stayed a little while. It was almost as good as if he hadn't been there at all."
"But you ought not to say that my absence kept him away."
"No. Only that your absence caused him to go away." This was laughingly said.
"You have no right to draw such an inference, Florence. I would much rather it would not be done. I am yet too young to have my name associated with that of any young man."
"What harm can it do, Anna! I am sure you needn't be ashamed to have your name mentioned with that of Herbert Gardiner. I certainly would not. I only wish he would take a fancy to me. Mother would have to have something more than a headache to cause me to decline going to a party with him. Such a prize doesn't go a-begging every day."
"Why do you call him a prize?"
"Why?" And Florence looked really surprised at the question. "Why? Isn't he rich? Isn't he one of the most elegant and agreeable young men you have ever seen? I don't think you can point out his equal. Try now, and see if you can?"
"As to that, my acquaintance with young men is not very extensive. I am not prepared to make any comparisons. As I before said, I am yet too young to allow my mind to become interested in these matters."
"How old are you, please? Perhaps I have mistaken your age. Are you fifteen yet?" This was said laughingly.
"I believe I am about eighteen."
"It isn't possible! And too young to make comparisons between young men, or have a lover Why, I'm not quite your age, and I have had two or three lovers. It's delightful!"
Anna shook her head.
"I know you like young Gardiner," continued the friend. "You can't help it. And all I blame you for, is that you didn't go to Mrs. Leslie's with him, through thick and thin."
"And neglect a sick mother?"
"It wasn't any serious matter; that you know well. Only a headache. You could have gone well enough."
"Not with a clear conscience, Florence, and without that, I could not have been happy anywhere. External circumstances are nothing in the scale of happiness, if all be not rightwithin. I can say from my heart, that I enjoyed myself far more at home than I could possibly have done at Mrs. Leslie's, no matter who was or was not there."
"You don't deny, then, that you like young Gardiner?"
"I said nothing in regard to him. Why should I deny or affirm on the subject? I don't know anything about him. I have only seen him a few times in company; and I would be a weak one, indeed, either to think or wish myself beloved by a man who is almost a total stranger."
"He is no stranger. Doesn't every one in the city know his family and standing?"
"But what do you or I know about him — of his feelings, character, or principles?"
"You are a strange girl to talk so, Anna."
"I think not. Isn't it of importance to know something of the governing principles of the man whose attentions are received — who is admitted, as your intimate, in the character of a lover?"
"Certainly. But, then, it is easy enough for any one to see, at a glance, what a young man is. I can do so. There is young Hartley, who tries to be so gracious with me. It is no hard matter to see what he is."
"How do you estimate him?"
"As a very narrow-minded person. I don't like him at all."
"Why?"
"I have just said. Because he is narrow-minded."
"That is, you think so. Now, I differ in opinion, judging from the few opportunities I have had of observing him. I would call him a young man of strong good sense; and one who could never stoop to a base action."
"You don't know him as well as I do."
"Perhaps not. As before intimated, I do not think much about the characters of young men."
"It seems you have thought about Hartley's character."
"My opinion of him is only one of those first impressions which are usually received by us all. I have met him some three or four times, and in every conversation I have had with him, I have been pleased to remark a strong regard for truth and honor, and a generous feeling towards everyone, except those who deliberately do wrong."
"But he is base, I am sure."
"How?"
"Narrow-minded, as I have said. Old-fashioned, if you please."
"As to the latter, I have no means of judging. How do you know it?"
Florence thought a moment, and then said —
"I will tell you. Fanny Ellsler, you remember, was here three or four weeks ago. A few of us girls were dying to see her, and we hatched up a plot among ourselves, that we would make some of our gentlemen acquaintances take us to the theater."
"Why Florence!" ejaculated Anna, in grave astonishment.
"To be sure we did! You need not look moon-struck about it. Where is the harm, I wonder? Well! I talked at Hartley until I was downright ashamed of myself, but the base fellow wouldn't go. Sarah Miller had no trouble at all with Mr. Granger. She had only to turn the conversation upon Fanny Ellsler, and then express a strong desire to see her, to be invited at once. Harriet Jones did the same with young Erskine, and all was settled to her heart's content. But I tried my best — and Hartley would not understand me."
"What did he say?" asked Anna, curious to learn how the young man had received such a strange application — for such it really was.
"Oh!" tossing her head, "he affected to disapprove of the attendance of young ladies at the theater — at least while these public dancers were exhibiting themselves."
"My father thinks as he does."
"As to that, so does mine. But I don't agree with him in all his opinions. He's like a great many other old people; old-fashioned in his notions, and full of prejudice against modern improvements."
"But, would you have gone to see Fanny Ellsler dance against your father's wishes?"
"Would I? Certainly I would — and did."
"Florence!"
"Certainly. If I were to do only as he thought and said — I would have to give up all pleasure. Hartley wouldn't take me, and so I tried Mr. Archer; who did not need a second hint."
"Not William Archer!"
"Yes."
"Did you really go to the theater with William Archer?"
"I did."
"My dear friend," said Anna Lee, with a look of deep regret, laying her hand upon the arm of her young and thoughtless companion, "how could you be so unguarded? — how could you be so imprudent? I need not tell you that his character is very bad."
"With that, you know, I had nothing to do. I merely went to see Fanny Ellsler with him, and was much obliged to him for taking me. His character, good or bad, can have no effect upon me."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, very sure. What effect could it have?"
"Apart from the friendly feelings you may have entertained for a bad man, which are always more or less injurious to an innocent-minded woman, you have placed yourself in a position that may cause you to be lightly spoken about, by those who do not know you. Whenever a woman appears at any place of public amusement with a man of notoriously bad character — she becomes, in a degree, tainted. Light things are said about her, and she no longer holds that position in the minds of truly virtuous people which she did before."
"You speak from the book. How do you know all this?"
"I have heard my mother say as much, and in her judgment, I have great confidence. Besides, it is a truth that must be apparent on the least reflection."
"Oh, as to that, I have heard my mother say such things a hundred times over. But I let them go in at one ear — and out at the other. These old people think it necessary to give line upon line, and precept upon precept, here a little and there a good deal, to us young things, as if we had no more sense than little children, and were as blind as bats."
"I think you are wrong to talk so. I am very careful never to do anything against my mother's opinion of right."
"Does your mother approve of the theater?"
"Not in its present state."
"Have you never been there?"
"O yes. Several times."
"Indeed! And against your father and mother's opinion as to its being a proper place for young ladies?"
"No — for I was not made fully acquainted with their views on the subject, until after I had been for a few times."
"Who went with you?"
"My father and mother."
Florence lifted her hands in astonishment.
"Your father and mother take you to the theater! Goodness! Mine would as soon take me to my grave!"
"Are they not aware of the fact that you went to see Fanny Ellsler?"
"They? No indeed! And I wouldn't have them find it out for the world. It would almost kill them. They would think I was ruined completely."
"Such being the case, Florence, I cannot but say, that I think you have done a double wrong — first, in deceiving your excellent father and mother; and next, in going to the theater with a man whom every pure-minded woman would shun with horror."
"In that we may differ in opinion. But, there is one thing that I do not exactly understand," replied Florence; "and that is, how your father and mother could take you to the theater when they disapprove of theatrical representations."
"No — don't misunderstand them. They do not disapprove of scenic representations in the abstract, but of theaters as now conducted. If the stage, I have heard my father say, were only made an accessory to virtue, it would be powerful for good, because principles are seen and felt more clearly and distinctly when impersonated, or, in other words, personified."
"But still I do not understand how your father could take you to the theater as it is, when he disapproves of it."
"I can explain that. He knew that I must hear the stage alluded to — he knew then my imagination must be excited by glowing representations of its attractions, and he feared that possibly, I might be tempted to do as you have done."
"How!"
"Go without a parent's knowledge."
"Well, never mind that. Go on."
"He, therefore, determined to go with me himself, to guard me from evil. To go with me himself, and point out the perversions of the drama so clearly, that I might see them myself, and from a rational conviction shun their false allurements."
"And did he succeed? Could you see the evil he was so anxious to point out?"
"Most clearly! It was as plain to my eyes as a dark spot in the beautiful azure of Heaven."
"Indeed! I must have been blind then; for I could never see it."
"And my vision might have been obscured — had not there been one by my side to take the mist from my eyes."
"What great evil did you discover?"
"I saw that vice and crime are too often made attractive, instead of being condemned. Let me give an instance. On one occasion my father took me to see the opera of Fra Diavalo."
"Were you not delighted?"
"I was very much pleased. The music of the piece was exquisite. Some of the choruses have haunted me ever since."
"And were you not struck with the bold bearing, the nobility, if I may so speak, of Fra Diavalo himself?"
"I must confess that my sympathies were too much with him; and that, when he was foiled and killed at last, I was disappointed. On returning home, my father said — "How were you pleased Anna?"
"'Oh, I was delighted,' I replied.
"Do you think that representation, aided by such noble music, was calculated to inspire any heart with a love of virtue?"
"This was putting a new face upon the matter. Such a thought had not once occurred to me.
"The brigand's song was encored. Were you pleased to hear it again?"
"'Yes,' I replied.
"'Did your mind revolt at the sentiments?'
"'No,' I answered.
"'Why?" he continued.
"'It was the music, I suppose, that made even cruel words, and a boast of evil deeds, pleasant.'
"'Yes, that was it, aided by the external attractions of beautiful scenery, and a mirthful company, apparently filled with delight at the brigand's rehearsal of his valiant achievements.'
"'Do you think it good to feel such pleasure at witnessing the representation of evil?' asked my father.
"I could not but answer 'No.'
"'Suppose,' he continued, 'that the spirited air just alluded to, had been sung to true and elevating sentiments — to a national song, for instance, inspiring the heart with a love of country — would not everyone who heard it, and in whose memory it fixed itself as a familiar friend, feel a deeper love of his country than he had ever known before? Extend it farther. You doubtless felt an emotion of pain, when the brigand lost his life. That is, you regretted to see a robber and murderer receive the just reward of his deeds; for all the charms of music, scenery, and inspiring circumstances, had led your mind away into an overmastering sympathy with a bold brigand. How much better, had the hero of the opera been a true nobleman; one who sought the good of his fellows; one who could perform deeds of daring — could be bold, and brave, and noble in the cause of virtue. No harm, but great good would result from such representations. The stage would be the hand-maid of morality and religion, if pledged to virtue — as it now, alas! seems pledged tovice. You understand, now, my friend, I hope, why I think it is not good for young people to visit the theater, as it now is?"
"I could not but approve all my father had said. His remarks opened up to my mind a new view. He had given me a standard by which to estimate the stage, and I could now determine its quality for myself. And I do determine, and pronounce its tendency to be lowering, and its effects injurious to young minds."
"Really! you meet the whole matter in the broadest manner. Then you think there is no good whatever in the stage as it now is?"
"If there were no good at all — if all were evil, in scenic representations, as they are now conducted — my father says, and it seems reasonable that they would no longer be permitted to exist. There can be such a thing, he says, as mere gratuitous evil; that is, evil which is permitted, in order to elevate some from lower degrees of depravity, or to prevent their sinking into deeper moral obscurity. In all the representations of real life that we see upon the stage, we find something that is good — something that impresses the mind with the beauty of truth and virtue — something that makes us think of God as a Divine guide and protector. Take, for instance, in the opera just alluded to, that portion of the chamber scene in which Zerlina murmurs a prayer in her sleep, and the hand of the assassin, already raised to strike her innocent heart, is stayed, and the wretch shrinks away in trembling consciousness that He to whom that prayer was sweetly breathed, even in sleep, was present. That was good. It was a boldly redeeming point, and could not fail to make a due impression on every mind. Have you seen Fra Diavalo?"
"O yes."
"Do you remember the scene?"
"Yes. It was more distinctly impressed upon my mind than any other."
"How were you affected by it'"
"Not pleasantly."
"Why?"
"It caused me to recollect, too distinctly, that I was at that very moment acting directly in opposition to the wishes of my father and mother; that I could not now pray, as I had once prayed in earlier years, that God would watch over me while in sleep."
"You can now understand, I am sure, what I mean by the balance of good yet to be found in the stage."
"Yes, Anna, I do," Florence said, after a silence of nearly a minute. She spoke in a voice that was slightly touched with sadness. "And from my heart, I wish that my parents had laid aside a portion of their prejudice, and taken me to the theater, as yours did you, and then as carefully lifted my mind up and enabled me to see the good and evil so intimately blended, as they doubtless are. You have been often, you say?"
"Yes; that is, a half a dozen times, perhaps."
"Did you see Ellsler?"
"No."
"I think you would have been delighted with her dancing. It was, truly, the poetry of motion."
"I did not wish to see her."
"Why?"
"I have witnessed stage dancing."
"Who did you see?"
"Celeste."
"Ah! I wanted to see her badly; but no one invited me to go. How did you like her?"
"There was a charming grace and ease in all her motions; and some of her pantomimic performances were admirable. But my cheek burned the whole time. Could a modestwoman expose herself as she did? No! nor could a truly modest woman look upon such an exposure without a feeling of deep shame and humiliation."
"But crowds of the most respectable women went to see her, night after night. She could not have exposed herself more than Fanny Ellsler did; and yet I saw present, Mrs. Larson, and Miss Thompson , and Mrs. Simmons, and dozens of virtuous women, and no cheek was covered with blushes of shame. Indeed, every one was charmed with the creature's airy and graceful motions. No one thought of the exposure you allude to."
"Didn't you think of it?"
"Yes; perhaps I did."
"And so did others. Would you be willing to expose yourself, as she did, in a drawing-room filled with gentlemen and ladies?"
"No!"
"Why?"
"I wouldn't be willing to expose myself under any circumstances."
"Suppose your friend Mary Gaston were to dress herself in short clothes, and flourish about in a company of men and women, after the fashion of Fanny Ellsler — would you approve of it? Wouldn't you blush with shame?"
"I think I would."
"Is the fact of the exposure any different because it is made under the different circumstances now presented? I think you will not say so. Depend upon it, the way in which stage dancing is now conducted, is but a tribute to an impure and perverted taste; and no woman, in my opinion, can look upon it with pleasure, without parting with a portion of woman's purest and most holy feelings."
"If you were to say so to some people that I know, you would offend them," Florence said, in a more subdued tone than any in which she had yet spoken.
"I could not help that. I believe all I say, from my heart."
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