Stories by American Authors | Page 6

not quite know what to do, but, putting myself in her
place, I decided to praise the drama; and praise it I did. I do not know
when I have used so many adjectives. She raised her head and began to

wipe her eyes.
"Do take the wine," I said, interrupting myself in my cataract of
language.
"I dare not," she answered; then added humbly, "that is, unless you
have a biscuit here or a bit of bread."
I found some biscuit; she ate two, and then slowly drank the wine,
while I resumed my verbal Niagara. Under its influence--and that of the
wine too, perhaps--she began to show new life. It was not that she
looked radiant--she could not--but simply that she looked warm. I now
perceived what had been the principal discomfort of her appearance
heretofore: it was that she had looked all the time as if suffering from
cold.
At last I could think of nothing more to say, and stopped. I really
admired the drama, but I thought I had exerted myself sufficiently as an
anti-hysteric, and that adjectives enough, for the present at least, had
been administered. She had put down her empty wine-glass, and was
resting her hands on the broad cushioned arms of her chair with, for a
thin person, a sort of expanded content.
"You must pardon my tears," she said, smiling; "it was the revulsion of
feeling. My life was at a low ebb: if your sentence had been against me
it would have been my end."
"Your end?"
"Yes, the end of my life; I should have destroyed myself."
"Then you would have been a weak as well as wicked woman," I said
in a tone of disgust. I do hate sensationalism.
"Oh no, you know nothing about it. I should have destroyed only this
poor worn tenement of clay. But I can well understand how you would
look upon it. Regarding the desirableness of life the prince and the
beggar may have different opinions.--We will say no more of it, but

talk of the drama instead." As she spoke the word "drama" a triumphant
brightness came into her eyes.
I took the manuscript from a drawer and sat down beside her. "I
suppose you know that there are faults," I said, expecting ready
acquiescence.
"I was not aware that there were any," was her gentle reply.
Here was a beginning! After all my interest in her--and, I may say
under the circumstances, my kindness--she received me in this way!
However, my belief in her genius was too sincere to be altered by her
whimsies; so I persevered. "Let us go over it together," I said. "Shall I
read it to you, or will you read it to me?"
"I will not read it, but recite it."
"That will never do; you will recite it so well that we shall see only the
good points, and what we have to concern ourselves with now is the
bad ones."
"I will recite it," she repeated.
"Now, Miss Crief," I said bluntly, "for what purpose did you come to
me? Certainly not merely to recite: I am no stage-manager. In plain
English, was it not your idea that I might help you in obtaining a
publisher?"
"Yes, yes," she answered, looking at me apprehensively, all her old
manner returning.
I followed up my advantage, opened the little paper volume and began.
I first took the drama line by line, and spoke of the faults of expression
and structure; then I turned back and touched upon two or three glaring
impossibilities in the plot. "Your absorbed interest in the motive of the
whole no doubt made you forget these blemishes," I said
apologetically.

But, to my surprise, I found that she did not see the blemishes--that she
appreciated nothing I had said, comprehended nothing. Such
unaccountable obtuseness puzzled me. I began again, going over the
whole with even greater minuteness and care. I worked hard: the
perspiration stood in beads upon my forehead as I struggled with
her--what shall I call it--obstinacy? But it was not exactly obstinacy.
She simply could not see the faults of her own work, any more than a
blind man can see the smoke that dims a patch of blue sky. When I had
finished my task the second time she still remained as gently impassive
as before. I leaned back in my chair exhausted, and looked at her.
Even then she did not seem to comprehend (whether she agreed with it
or not) what I must be thinking. "It is such a heaven to me that you like
it!" she murmured dreamily, breaking the silence. Then, with more
animation, "And now you will let me recite it?"
I was too weary to oppose her; she threw aside her shawl and