Part 29

They brought forth many instances; Marian mentioned the English miracle plays, and Virginia spoke of American Indian drawings, saying, however, that they were more often used for communication. I showed her how the first rude figures of animals, the totems, for instance, were also used as religious symbols.

I spoke, too, of the way in which art related us with great minds in ages past. “Ruskin mentions that,” said Ruth and Marian.

“But it is a one-sided relation,” I said, “for we cannot speak to them.”

“I wish we could,” answered Marian. “I so often wish I could ask them questions.”

We said again how hard it was, when asked, to explain to outsiders the purpose of our club. Ruth said: “When I try to tell people, they answer: ‘Oh, yes, I suppose you just talk nonsense, and have a good time.’”

Marian said people wondered that she was willing to stay in-doors on Sunday afternoons.

Virginia said: “I don’t tell any one of it.”

I suggested to them that if one got a perfect standard of beauty in art, it might be all one would need as a moral standard to make one’s life beautiful in the same way.

Now we spoke of the novel. I said I had noticed that last week when I told them of completeness in novels and plays, they seemed not to know just what I meant. Florence said she knew. “It means,” she said, “that every word and every person and every incident must count. It must not be like life, where distracting and unimportant things are always happening.”

“Just so,” I answered. She had learned all that from brother Arthur.

I went over it more explicitly, citing instances, and then told them that we were all of us story-tellers, in the sense that we tried to make every story complete.

“In telling anything that has happened,” I said, “we naturally leave out anything that has no effect on the story.”

“And,” added Florence, “we unconsciously make up little details that help to fill out the story.”

“Now,” said Marian, “I think I must forgive some one I know, who is always exaggerating.”

“I know some one who does it all the time,” said Florence.

“I don’t think that makes it right, though,” Ruth protested.

“No,” I answered, “not right, but not wrong, either. When we realize the artist’s tendency in us all to turn everything into a story, first, we will not judge people harshly for doing it, and, second, we will be careful when we are trying to tell the truth, not to allow ourselves to be cheated by the artist in us.”

“I think,” said Virginia, “people often miss-tell an event, and get it all twisted, because they really forget what was said.”

“Of course,” answered Ruth, “one is not to blame for forgetting.”

I said: “I think that most of us, unconsciously, are story-tellers in both senses. Many of us are constantly telling ourselves stories about ourselves.”

“Oh, yes,” said Ruth, Marian and Florence. They gave me a hint of those wonderful romancings. Marian is always beautiful in her stories, “as in a real novel,” she said. Florence said she was always as homely “as a mud fence,” but I could see by her expression that none the less she was always triumphant. Virginia in her stories was accomplished and a great artist.

I forgot to be one of them for a moment. I said: “Until very lately I, too, used to tell myself stories about myself.”

“I still do it,” said Ruth.

On the subject of unimportant details and characters, we had a long talk. We spoke of Dickens’ many characters and interwoven stories, and Virginia maintained that many had nothing to do with the plot, that they were soon forgotten, and there seemed to be no special reason for them. Marian saw, however, that at times six or seven plots might be woven into a single story. Instead of fitting the standard to Dickens, they fitted Dickens to the standard, and found, indeed, that “The Tale of Two Cities,” which had least characters and distracting stories, was most interesting, and well constructed. Virginia spoke of “Lorna Doone,” and we all agreed with her that the long descriptions of how things were done—fishing, for instance—which the author gave because he was interested in the country, and which had nothing whatever to do with characters and story, made it monotonous and almost spoiled an otherwise delightful book.

Virginia said: “He even tells what pattern of suit he wore when he went fishing.”

They found the same fault with Scott. Indeed, none of them likes Scott. The criticisms were amusing. His blonde heroines were always weak, his dark ones strong, but none of them interesting. Ivanhoe was a flabby nobody.

We spoke of Shakespeare, of the part his clowns played in the story.

Marian said: “I see in what sense his plays are complete, and I feel in him wonderful understanding of men and great sympathy. But he doesn’t uplift me.”