Stories by American Authors | Page 5

the cover was the word "Armor" in German text, and,
underneath, a pen-and-ink sketch of a helmet, breastplate, and shield.
"Grief certainly needs armor," I said to myself, sitting down by the
table and turning over the pages. "I may as well look over the thing

now; I could not be in a worse mood." And then I began to read.
Early the next morning Simpson took a note from me to the given
address, returning with the following reply: "No; I prefer to come to
you; at four; A. CRIEF." These words, with their three semicolons,
were written in pencil upon a piece of coarse printing-paper, but the
handwriting was as clear and delicate as that of the manuscript in ink.
"What sort of a place was it, Simpson?"
"Very poor, sir, but I did not go all the way up. The elder person came
down, sir, took the note, and requested me to wait where I was."
"You had no chance, then, to make inquiries?" I said, knowing full well
that he had emptied the entire neighborhood of any information it
might possess concerning these two lodgers.
"Well, sir, you know how these foreigners will talk, whether one wants
to hear or not. But it seems that these two persons have been there but a
few weeks; they live alone, and are uncommonly silent and reserved.
The people round there call them something that signifies 'the
Madames American, thin and dumb.'"
At four the "Madames American" arrived; it was raining again, and
they came on foot under their old umbrella. The maid waited in the
anteroom, and Miss Grief was ushered into my bachelor's parlor. I had
thought that I should meet her with great deference; but she looked so
forlorn that my deference changed to pity. It was the woman that
impressed me then, more than the writer--the fragile, nerveless body
more than the inspired mind. For it was inspired: I had sat up half the
night over her drama, and had felt thrilled through and through more
than once by its earnestness, passion, and power.
No one could have been more surprised than I was to find myself thus
enthusiastic. I thought I had outgrown that sort of thing. And one would
have supposed, too (I myself should have supposed so the day before),
that the faults of the drama, which were many and prominent, would
have chilled any liking I might have felt, I being a writer myself, and

therefore critical; for writers are as apt to make much of the "how,"
rather than the "what," as painters, who, it is well known, prefer an
exquisitely rendered representation of a commonplace theme to an
imperfectly executed picture of even the most striking subject. But in
this case, on the contrary, the scattered rays of splendor in Miss Grief's
drama had made me forget the dark spots, which were numerous and
disfiguring; or, rather, the splendor had made me anxious to have the
spots removed. And this also was a philanthropic state very unusual
with me. Regarding unsuccessful writers, my motto had been "Væ
victis!"
My visitor took a seat and folded her hands; I could see, in spite of her
quiet manner, that she was in breathless suspense. It seemed so pitiful
that she should be trembling there before me--a woman so much older
than I was, a woman who possessed the divine spark of genius, which I
was by no means sure (in spite of my success) had been granted to
me--that I felt as if I ought to go down on my knees before her, and
entreat her to take her proper place of supremacy at once. But there!
one does not go down on one's knees, combustively, as it were, before a
woman over fifty, plain in feature, thin, dejected, and ill-dressed. I
contented myself with taking her hands (in their miserable old gloves)
in mine, while I said cordially, "Miss Crief, your drama seems to me
full of original power. It has roused my enthusiasm: I sat up half the
night reading it."
The hands I held shook, but something (perhaps a shame for having
evaded the knees business) made me tighten my hold and bestow upon
her also a reassuring smile. She looked at me for a moment, and then,
suddenly and noiselessly, tears rose and rolled down her cheeks. I
dropped her hands and retreated. I had not thought her tearful: on the
contrary, her voice and face had seemed rigidly controlled. But now
here she was bending herself over the side of the chair with her head
resting on her arms, not sobbing aloud, but her whole frame shaken by
the strength of her emotion. I rushed for a glass of wine; I pressed her
to take it. I did