“If we could only see into the hearts! If we could only see into the homes!” said Ferdinand. If we could only see, it was Ferdinand's belief, we should see Love there, unexpected treasures of Love, waiting dormant for the arousing touch; slumbering, as Endymion slumbered, until Diana's kiss awakened him.
“Mush!” muttered one of the captive husbands to the young violinist. But the young violinist scowled; he was in accord with Ferdinand. “Mush, slush, and gush!” whispered the first captive husband to the second captive husband. But captive husband number two only nodded and grinned in an idiotic way; he was lucky enough to be quite deaf, and no matter where his wife took him he could sit and think of his Liberty Bonds, without being bothered by the lion of the hour....
The world, Ferdinand went on, was trembling on the verge of a great spiritual awakening. The Millennium was about to stoop and kiss it, as Morning kissed the mountain tops. It was coming soon. Already the first faint streaks of the new dawn were in the orient sky... for eyes that could see them. Ah, if one could only see! In more and more bosoms, the world around, Love was becoming conscious of itself, Love was beginning to understand that there was love in other bosoms, too! At this point, at least a dozen bosoms, among those bosoms present, heaved with sighs. Heart was reaching out to Heart in a new confidence, Ferdinand said. One knew what was in one's own heart; but hitherto one had often been so blind that one did not realize that the same thing was in the hearts of one's fellows. Ah, if one could only see!
Maeterlinck saw, Ferdinand said.
“Ah, Maeterlinck!” whispered the bosoms.
Yes, Maeterlinck saw, said Ferdinand. Nietzsche, said Ferdinand, had possessed a bosom full of yearning for all humanity, but he had been driven back upon himself and embittered by the world... by the German world in which he lived, said Ferdinand. So Nietzsche's strength had little sweetness in it, and Nietzsche had not lived to see the new light in the orient sky.
“Ah, Nietzsche!” moaned several sympathetic bosoms.
Bergson knew, Ferdinand opined. Several of the women present did not quite catch the connection between Bergson and Ferdinand's message, but they assumed that everyone else caught it. Bergson's was a name they knew and... and in a moment Ferdinand was on more familiar ground again. Tagore knew, said Ferdinand.
“Ah, Rabindranath Tagore!” And the bosoms fluttered as doves flutter when they coo and settle upon the eaves. Love! That was Ferdinand's message. And it appeared from the remarks with which he introduced and interspersed his own poems, that all the really brilliant men of the day were thinking in harmony with Ferdinand. He had the gift of introducing a celebrated name every now and then in such a manner that these women, who were at least familiar with the names, actually felt that they were also familiar with the work for which the names stood. And, for his part, he was repaid, this afternoon, as he had never been repaid before ... never before had he been so wrought upon and electrically vivified as to-day by these emanations of the feminine soul; never before had he felt these little winds run their fingers through his hair with such a caressing touch. Once or twice the poignancy of the sensation almost unsteadied him for an instant. And never before had Mrs. Watson regarded him with such singular intentness.
Love! That was Ferdinand's message! And, ah! if one could only see!