§ 19
She chose for this visit one of her simplest costumes—a white muslin, with pale green sprigs in it, and a pale green toque of a most alluringly Quakerish effect. A poet had designed it for her—one of her victims at the State University—and had specified that she must never wear it without a prayer-book in her hand. In this costume she sat in Mrs. Winthrop’s sombre paneled dining-room, with generations of sombre Puritan governors staring down from the walls at her; while the strange white servants stole noiselessly about on the velvet carpets, she gazed with wide, innocent eyes, and listened to her hostess’ delicately-worded sermon.
Mrs. Winthrop appreciated the symbolism of the costume, and used it in making a cautious approach to her subject. She said that Sylvia had wonderful gifts of beauty—not merely of the person, but of taste and understanding. Women so favored owed a great debt to life, and must needs feel keenly the desire to make recompense for their privileges. That, said Mrs. Winthrop, was something always present in her own thoughts. How could she pay for her existence? It was fatally easy to fall into the point of view of those who rebelled against social conditions, and justified the discontent of the poor. “You know, we have such people even in Boston,” she explained, “and they win a good deal of sympathy. But there is a deeper and saner view, it seems to me. Life must have its graces, its embellishments; there must be those who embody a higher ideal than mere animal comfort. I think we should take our stand there—we should justify ourselves, having the consciousness of a mission in preserving the allurements and amenities of life. People talk about the poor shop-girls, and how hard they have to work; they seem to desire that one should give up one’s ease, one’s culture, and go and join the shop-girls. But I say, No, I am not to be seduced by such arguments. I am something in the lives of those shop-girls, something definite, something vital; I am to them an uplifting vision, an ideal of grace and dignity. When one goes among the lower classes and sees the brutality, the sordid animalism of their lives—oh, it is terrifying! One flies back to the world of refinement and serenity as to a city of refuge.”
Mrs. Winthrop paused. Her beautiful eyes had talked with her; they had gazed terrified into social abysses, and now they came back to regions of brooding calm. Sylvia was under their spell, and was not conscious of any extravagance in the lady’s next utterance: “Speaking with a deep conviction, I say that I am something necessary to life, that the world could not get on without me. I say, I am Beauty, I am Art! Have you ever felt that, Sylvia?”
“I have thought a good deal about such things, Mrs. Winthrop. But as a rule, I only manage to bewilder myself and make myself unhappy. There is so much terrible suffering in the world!”
“Yes,” said the other. “How many times I find myself asking, with tears in my eyes, ‘How can you be happy, while all around you the world is dying? Go, bow your head with shame, because you have been happy!’” And sure enough, Mrs. Winthrop bowed her head, and two glistening, pearly tears trickled slowly from her eyes. “It is a faith I have had to fight for,” she continued, “something I feel most earnestly about. For we live in times when, as it seems to me, civilization is threatened by the terrible forces of materialism—by the blind greed of the masses especially. And I think that we who have the task of keeping alive the flame of beauty ought to be aware of our mission, and to support one another.”
Sylvia thought that this was the point of approach to the real subject; but she said nothing, and Mrs. Winthrop veered off again. “I have always been especially interested in University life,” she said. “My father was a University professor, and I was brought up in a University town. After I was married and found that I had leisure and opportunity, I said to myself that it would be my task in life to do what I could to influence young men during their student years, by teaching them generous ideals, and above all by giving them a model of a dignified and gracious social life. It is in these years, you see, that the tastes of young men are formed; afterwards they go out to set an example to the rest of the world. More than any university, I think, Harvard is our source of culture and idealism; our crude Western colleges look to its graduates for teachers, and to its standards for their models. So you see it is really no little thing to feel that you are helping to guide and shape the social life of Harvard.”
“I can understand that,” said Sylvia, much impressed.
“You come from another part of our country,” continued Mrs. Winthrop—“a part which has its own lovely culture. Whether you have ever realized it consciously or not, I am sure that ideas such as these must have been often impressed upon you by your family.”
“Yes,” said Sylvia, “my mother often talks of such things.”
“I felt that, Sylvia, when I saw you. I said, ‘Here is an ally.’ You see, I must have help from the young people—especially from the girls, if I am to do anything with the men.”
There was a solemn pause. “I hope I haven’t disappointed you too much,” said Sylvia at last.
Mrs. Winthrop fixed upon her one of those intense gazes. “I’ve been perplexed,” she said. “You must understand, I can’t help hearing what’s going on. People come to ask me for advice, and I must give it. And I’ve felt that what I’ve learned made it really necessary for me to talk to you. I hope that you won’t mind, or think that I’m presuming.”
“My dear Mrs. Winthrop,” said Sylvia, “please don’t apologize. I am glad to have your advice.”
“I will speak frankly, then. As well as I can read the situation, you seem to have taken offense at the social system we have at Harvard. Is that true?”
Sylvia thought. “Yes,” she said—“some parts of it have offended me.”
“Can you explain, Sylvia?”
“I don’t know that I can. It’s a thing that one feels. I have had a sense of something cruel about it.”
“Something cruel? But can’t one feel that about any social system? Haven’t you classes at home? Don’t your people hold themselves above some others?”
“Yes, but I don’t think they are so hard about it—so deliberate, so matter of fact.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Winthrop, “that is something I have often talked about with Southern people. The reason is that in the South you have a social class which is definitely separated by color, and which never thinks of crossing the line. But in the North, my dear, our servants look like us, and it’s not quite so simple drawing the line.”
“Oh, but I’m not talking of servants, Mrs. Winthrop. I mean here, within the boundaries of a college class. Your servants do not go to college.”
The other laughed. “But they do,” she said.
“Oh, surely not!”
“It costs a hundred and fifty dollars a year to go to Harvard. Any man can come, black or white, who can borrow the money. He may come, and earn his living while he’s here by tending furnaces. As a matter of fact, there’s a man in the class with Douglas van Tuiver whose father is a butler.”
“You don’t mean it!” exclaimed Sylvia.
“A man,” said Mrs. Winthrop, “named Firmin.”
Sylvia was aghast. “Tom Firmin!”
“Yes. Have you heard of him before?”
She answered in a faint voice, “Yes,” and then was silent.
“You see, my dear,” said the other, gently, “why we are conscious of our class lines in the North!”