Stories by American Authors | Page 9

bonnet and shawl.
"You will hear from me soon," I said; "I shall do all I can for you."
She had reached the door, but before opening it she stopped, turned and
extended her hand. "You are good," she said: "I give you thanks. Do
not think me ungrateful or envious. It is only that you are young, and I
am so--so old." Then she opened the door and passed through the
anteroom without pause, her maid accompanying her and Simpson with
gladness lighting the way. They were gone. I dressed hastily and went
out--to continue my studies in psychology.
Time passed; I was busy, amused and perhaps a little excited
(sometimes psychology is exciting). But, though much occupied with
my own affairs, I did not altogether neglect my self-imposed task
regarding Miss Grief. I began by sending her prose story to a friend, the
editor of a monthly magazine, with a letter making a strong plea for its
admittance. It should have a chance first on its own merits. Then I
forwarded the drama to a publisher, also an acquaintance, a man with a
taste for phantasms and a soul above mere common popularity, as his
own coffers knew to their cost. This done, I waited with conscience
clear.

Four weeks passed. During this waiting period I heard nothing from
Miss Grief. At last one morning came a letter from my editor. "The
story has force, but I cannot stand that doctor," he wrote. "Let her cut
him out, and I might print it." Just what I myself had said. The package
lay there on my table, travel-worn and grimed; a returned manuscript is,
I think, the most melancholy object on earth. I decided to wait, before
writing to Aaronna, until the second letter was received. A week later it
came. "Armor" was declined. The publisher had been "impressed" by
the power displayed in certain passages, but the "impossibilities of the
plot" rendered it "unavailable for publication"--in fact, would "bury it
in ridicule" if brought before the public, a public "lamentably" fond of
amusement, "seeking it, undaunted, even in the cannon's mouth." I
doubt if he knew himself what he meant. But one thing, at any rate, was
clear: "Armor" was declined.
Now, I am, as I have remarked before, a little obstinate. I was
determined that Miss Grief's work should be received. I would alter and
improve it myself, without letting her know: the end justified the means.
Surely the sieve of my own good taste, whose mesh had been
pronounced so fine and delicate, would serve for two. I began; and
utterly failed.
I set to work first upon "Armor." I amended, altered, left out, put in,
pieced, condensed, lengthened; I did my best, and all to no avail. I
could not succeed in completing anything that satisfied me, or that
approached, in truth, Miss Grief's own work just as it stood. I suppose I
went over that manuscript twenty times: I covered sheets of paper with
my copies. But the obstinate drama refused to be corrected; as it was it
must stand or fall.
Wearied and annoyed, I threw it aside and took up the prose story: that
would be easier. But, to my surprise, I found that that apparently gentle
"doctor" would not out: he was so closely interwoven with every part
of the tale that to take him out was like taking out one especial figure in
a carpet: that is, impossible, unless you unravel the whole. At last I did
unravel the whole, and then the story was no longer good, or Aaronna's:
it was weak, and mine. All this took time, for of course I had much to

do in connection with my own life and tasks. But, though slowly and at
my leisure, I really did try my best as regarded Miss Grief, and without
success. I was forced at last to make up my mind that either my own
powers were not equal to the task, or else that her perversities were as
essential a part of her work as her inspirations, and not to be separated
from it. Once during this period I showed two of the short poems to
Isabel, withholding of course the writer's name. "They were written by
a woman," I explained.
"Her mind must have been disordered, poor thing!" Isabel said in her
gentle way when she returned them--"at least, judging by these. They
are hopelessly mixed and vague."
Now, they were not vague so much as vast. But I knew that I could not
make Isabel comprehend it, and (so complex a creature is man) I do not
know that I wanted her to comprehend it. These were the only ones in
the whole collection that I would have shown her, and I was rather glad