“There we are then,” said Carol.  “The remedy?  Is there any?  Criticism, perhaps, for the beginning of the beginning.  Oh, there’s nothing that attacks the Tribal God Mediocrity that doesn’t help a little . . . and probably there’s nothing that helps very much.  Perhaps some day the farmers will build and own their market-towns. (Think of the club they could have!) But I’m afraid I haven’t any ‘reform program.’  Not any more!  The trouble is spiritual, and no League or Party can enact a preference for gardens rather than dumping-grounds. . . .  There’s my confession.  Well?”

“In other words, all you want is perfection?”

“Yes!  Why not?”

“How you hate this place!  How can you expect to do anything with it if you haven’t any sympathy?”

“But I have!  And affection.  Or else I wouldn’t fume so.  I’ve learned that Gopher Prairie isn’t just an eruption on the prairie, as I thought first, but as large as New York.  In New York I wouldn’t know more than forty or fifty people, and I know that many here.  Go on!  Say what you’re thinking.”

“Well, my dear, if I did take all your notions seriously, it would be pretty discouraging.  Imagine how a person would feel, after working hard for years and helping to build up a nice town, to have you airily flit in and simply say ‘Rotten!’ Think that’s fair?”

“Why not?  It must be just as discouraging for the Gopher Prairieite to see Venice and make comparisons.”

“It would not!  I imagine gondolas are kind of nice to ride in, but we’ve got better bath-rooms!  But——­My dear, you’re not the only person in this town who has done some thinking for herself, although (pardon my rudeness) I’m afraid you think so.  I’ll admit we lack some things.  Maybe our theater isn’t as good as shows in Paris.  All right!  I don’t want to see any foreign culture suddenly forced on us—­whether it’s street-planning or table-manners or crazy communistic ideas.”

Vida sketched what she termed “practical things that will make a happier and prettier town, but that do belong to our life, that actually are being done.”  Of the Thanatopsis Club she spoke; of the rest-room, the fight against mosquitos, the campaign for more gardens and shade-trees and sewers—­matters not fantastic and nebulous and distant, but immediate and sure.

Carol’s answer was fantastic and nebulous enough: 

“Yes. . . .  Yes. . . .  I know.  They’re good.  But if I could put through all those reforms at once, I’d still want startling, exotic things.  Life is comfortable and clean enough here already.  And so secure.  What it needs is to be less secure, more eager.  The civic improvements which I’d like the Thanatopsis to advocate are Strindberg plays, and classic dancers—­exquisite legs beneath tulle—­and (I can see him so clearly!) a thick, black-bearded, cynical Frenchman who would sit about and drink and sing opera and tell bawdy stories and laugh at our proprieties and quote Rabelais and not be ashamed to kiss my hand!”