Main Street by Sinclair Lewis (ink book reader .TXT) 📕

China. My, it does make a body hustle to keep up with all these new culture subjects, but it is improving. So will you help us with the discussion today?”

On her way over Carol had decided to use the Thanatopsis as the tool with which to liberalize the town. She had immediately conceived enormous enthusiasm; she had chanted, “These are the real people. When the housewives, who bear the burdens, are interested in poetry, it means something. I’ll work with them⁠—for them⁠—anything!”

Her enthusiasm had become watery even before thirteen women resolutely removed their overshoes, sat down meatily, ate peppermints, dusted their fingers, folded their hands, composed their lower thoughts, and invited the naked muse of poetry to deliver her most improving message. They had greeted Carol affectionately, and she tried to be a daughter to them. But she felt insecure. Her chair was out in the open, exposed to their gaze, and it was a hard-slatted, quivery, slippery church-parlor chair, likely to collapse publicly and without warning. It was impossible to sit on it without folding the hands and listening piously.

She wanted to kick the chair and run. It would make a magnificent clatter.

She saw that Vida Sherwin was watching her. She pinched her wrist, as though she were a noisy child in church, and when she was decent and cramped again, she listened.

Mrs. Dawson opened the meeting by sighing, “I’m sure I’m glad to see you all here today, and I understand that the ladies have prepared a number of very interesting papers, this is such an interesting subject, the poets, they have been an inspiration for higher thought, in fact wasn’t it Reverend Benlick who said that some of the poets have been as much an inspiration as a good many of the ministers, and so we shall be glad to hear⁠—”

The poor lady smiled neuralgically, panted with fright, scrabbled about the small oak table to find her eyeglasses, and continued, “We will first have the pleasure of hearing Mrs. Jenson on the subject ‘Shakespeare and Milton.’ ”

Mrs. Ole Jenson said that Shakespeare was born in 1564 and died 1616. He lived in London, England, and in Stratford-on-Avon, which many American tourists loved to visit, a lovely town with many curios and old houses well worth examination. Many people believed that Shakespeare was the greatest playwright who ever lived, also a fine poet. Not much was known about his life, but after all that did not really make so much difference, because they loved to read his numerous plays, several of the best known of which she would now criticize.

Perhaps the best known of his plays was The Merchant of Venice, having a beautiful love story and a fine appreciation of a woman’s brains, which a woman’s club, even those who did not care to commit themselves on the question of suffrage, ought to appreciate. (Laughter.) Mrs. Jenson was sure that she, for one, would love to be like Portia. The play was about a Jew named Shylock, and he didn’t want his daughter to marry a Venice gentleman named Antonio⁠—

Mrs. Leonard Warren, a slender, gray, nervous woman, president of the Thanatopsis and wife of the Congregational pastor, reported the birth and death dates of Byron, Scott, Moore, Burns; and wound up:

“Burns was quite a poor boy and he did not enjoy the advantages we enjoy today, except for the advantages of the fine old Scotch kirk where he heard the Word of God preached more fearlessly than even in the finest big brick churches in the big and so-called advanced cities of today, but he did not have our educational advantages and Latin and the other treasures of the mind so richly strewn before the, alas, too ofttimes inattentive feet of our youth who do not always sufficiently appreciate the privileges freely granted to every American boy rich or poor. Burns had to work hard and was sometimes led by evil companionship into low habits. But it is morally instructive to know that he was a good student and educated himself, in striking contrast to the loose ways and so-called aristocratic society-life of Lord Byron, on which I have just spoken. And certainly though the lords and earls of his day may have looked down upon Burns as a humble person, many of us have greatly enjoyed his pieces about the mouse and other rustic subjects, with their message of humble beauty⁠—I am so sorry I have not got the time to quote some of them.”

Mrs. George Edwin Mott gave ten minutes to Tennyson and Browning.

Mrs. Nat Hicks, a wry-faced, curiously sweet woman, so awed by her betters that Carol wanted to kiss her, completed the day’s grim task by a paper on “Other Poets.” The other poets worthy of consideration were Coleridge, Wordsworth, Shelley, Gray, Mrs. Hemans, and Kipling.

Miss Ella Stowbody obliged with a recital of “The Recessional” and extracts from Lalla Rookh. By request, she gave “An Old Sweetheart of Mine” as encore.

Gopher Prairie had finished the poets. It was ready for the next week’s labor: English Fiction and Essays.

Mrs. Dawson besought, “Now we will have a discussion of the papers, and I am sure we shall all enjoy hearing from one who we hope to have as a new member, Mrs. Kennicott, who with her splendid literary training and all should be able to give us many pointers and⁠—many helpful pointers.”

Carol had warned herself not to be so “beastly supercilious.” She had insisted that in the belated quest of these work-stained women was an aspiration which ought to stir her tears. “But they’re so self-satisfied. They think they’re doing Burns a favor. They don’t believe they have a ‘belated quest.’ They’re sure that they have culture salted and hung up.” It was out of this stupor of doubt that Mrs. Dawson’s summons roused her. She was in a panic. How could she speak without hurting them?

Mrs. Champ Perry leaned over to stroke her hand and whisper, “You look tired, dearie. Don’t you talk unless you want to.”

Affection flooded Carol; she was on her feet, searching