Stories by American Authors | Page 8

learning to smoke."
"You have tried?" I said, turning round.
"Yes: Serena and I tried, but we did not succeed."
"Serena is your maid?"
"She lives with me."
I was seized with inward laughter, and began hastily to look over her
manuscripts with my back toward her, so that she might not see it. A
vision had risen before me of those two forlorn women, alone in their
room with locked doors, patiently trying to acquire the smoker's art.
But my attention was soon absorbed by the papers before me. Such a
fantastic collection of words, lines, and epithets I had never before seen,
or even in dreams imagined. In truth, they were like the work of dreams:
they were Kubla Khan, only more so. Here and there was radiance like
the flash of a diamond, but each poem, almost each verse and line, was
marred by some fault or lack which seemed wilful perversity, like the
work of an evil sprite. It was like a case of jeweller's wares set before
you, with each ring unfinished, each bracelet too large or too small for
its purpose, each breastpin without its fastening, each necklace
purposely broken. I turned the pages, marvelling. When about half an
hour had passed, and I was leaning back for a moment to light another
cigar, I glanced toward my visitor. She was behind me, in an easy-chair
before my small fire, and she was--fast asleep! In the relaxation of her
unconsciousness I was struck anew by the poverty her appearance
expressed; her feet were visible, and I saw the miserable worn old
shoes which hitherto she had kept concealed.
After looking at her for a moment I returned to my task and took up the
prose story; in prose she must be more reasonable. She was less
fantastic perhaps, but hardly more reasonable. The story was that of a
profligate and commonplace man forced by two of his friends, in order
not to break the heart of a dying girl who loves him, to live up to a high
imaginary ideal of himself which her pure but mistaken mind has

formed. He has a handsome face and sweet voice, and repeats what
they tell him. Her long, slow decline and happy death, and his own
inward ennui and profound weariness of the rôle he has to play, made
the vivid points of the story. So far, well enough, but here was the
trouble: through the whole narrative moved another character, a
physician of tender heart and exquisite mercy, who practised murder as
a fine art, and was regarded (by the author) as a second Messiah! This
was monstrous. I read it through twice, and threw it down; then,
fatigued, I turned round and leaned back, waiting for her to wake. I
could see her profile against the dark hue of the easy-chair.
Presently she seemed to feel my gaze, for she stirred, then opened her
eyes. "I have been asleep," she said, rising hurriedly.
"No harm in that, Aaronna."
But she was deeply embarrassed and troubled, much more so than the
occasion required; so much so, indeed, that I turned the conversation
back upon the manuscripts as a diversion. "I cannot stand that doctor of
yours," I said, indicating the prose story; "no one would. You must cut
him out."
Her self-possession returned as if by magic. "Certainly not," she
answered haughtily.
"Oh, if you do not care--I had labored under the impression that you
were anxious these things should find a purchaser."
"I am, I am," she said, her manner changing to deep humility with
wonderful rapidity. With such alternations of feeling as this sweeping
over her like great waves, no wonder she was old before her time.
"Then you must take out that doctor."
"I am willing, but do not know how," she answered, pressing her hands
together helplessly. "In my mind he belongs to the story so closely that
he cannot be separated from it."

Here Simpson entered, bringing a note for me: it was a line from Mrs.
Abercrombie inviting me for that evening--an unexpected gathering,
and therefore likely to be all the more agreeable. My heart bounded in
spite of me; I forgot Miss Grief and her manuscripts for the moment as
completely as though they had never existed. But, bodily, being still in
the same room with her, her speech brought me back to the present.
"You have had good news?" she said.
"Oh no, nothing especial--merely an invitation."
"But good news also," she repeated. "And now, as for me, I must go."
Not supposing that she would stay much later in any case, I had that
morning ordered a carriage to come for her at about that hour. I told her
this. She made no reply beyond putting on her