Page 90 of 135 CHAPTER XVI--THE BROWNING SOCIETY - A Duet

CHAPTER XVI--THE BROWNING SOCIETY

It all began by Mrs. Hunt Mortimer, the smart little up-to-date wife of the solicitor, saying to Mrs. Beecher, the young bride of the banker, that in a place like Woking it was very hard to get any mental friction, or to escape from the same eternal grooves of thought and conversation. The same idea, it seemed, had occurred to Mrs. Beecher, fortified by a remark from the Lady's Journal that an internal intellectual life was the surest method by which a woman could preserve her youth. She turned up the article--for the conversation occurred in her drawing-room--and she read extracts from it. 'Shakespeare as a Cosmetic' was the title. Maude was very much struck, and before they separated they had formed themselves into a Literary Society which should meet and discuss classical authors every Wednesday afternoon at each other's houses. That one hour of concentrated thought and lofty impulse should give a dignity and a tone to the whole dull provincial week.

What should they read? It was well that they should decide it before they separated, so as to start fair upon the next Wednesday. Maude suggested Shakespeare, but Mrs. Hunt Mortimer thought that a good deal of it was improper.

'Does it matter?' said Mrs. Beecher. 'We are all married.'

'Still I don't think it would be quite nice,' said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer. She belonged to the extreme right on matters of propriety.

'But surely Mr. Bowdler made Shakespeare quite respectable,' Mrs. Beecher argued.

'He did his work very carelessly. He left in much that might be dispensed with, and he omitted a good deal which was quite innocent.'

'How do you know?'

'Because I once got two copies and read all the omissions.'

'Why did you do that?' asked Maude mischievously.

'Because I wanted to make sure that they HAD been omitted,' said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer severely.

Mrs. Beecher stooped and picked an invisible hairpin out of the rug. Mrs. Hunt Mortimer continued.

'There is Byron, of course. But he is so very suggestive. There are passages in his works--'

'I could never see any harm in them,' said Mrs. Beecher.

'That is because you did not know where to look,' said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer. 'If you have a copy in the house, Mrs. Beecher, I will undertake to make it abundantly clear to you that he is to be eschewed by those who wish to keep their thoughts unsullied. Not? I fancy that even quoting from memory I could convince you that it is better to avoid him.'

'Pass Byron,' said Mrs. Beecher, who was a very pretty little kittenish person, with no apparent need of any cosmetics, literary or otherwise. 'How about Shelley?'

'Frank raves about Shelley,' observed Maude.

Mrs. Hunt Mortimer shook her head.

'His work has some dreadful tendencies. He was, I am informed, either a theist or an atheist, I cannot for the moment recall which-- I think that we should make our little course as improving as possible.'

		"What quarrel, what harshness, what unbelief in each other can subsist in the presence of a great calamity, when all the artificial vesture of our life is gone, and we are all one with each other in primitive mortal needs?" George Eliot