_March 4._ My impressions of that first winter in New York are
curiously dim except for the extreme loneliness of my life, which,
after the close companionship with my father for so many years, seemed
at times almost unbearable. Indeed, I doubt if I could have borne the
long hours of solitude and toil but for my occasional glimpses of you.
I should think myself fatuous in claiming that you influence me
physically,—that I am conscious of a material glow, ecstasy, thrill,
call it what you please, when with you,—if I had not once heard Agnes
declare that she always felt, when you were in the room, as if she had
been drinking champagne; showing that I am not the only one you can
thus affect.
My pleasantest recollection is of our long talk in my employer’s study;
and strangely enough, it was my books which gained it for me. Mr.
Whitely, when I first came into his service, had just endowed a free
library in one of the Western cities where some of his oil interests
centred, and I hinted to him the purchase of my books as a further gift
to his hobby. The suggestion did not meet with his approval,—I fear
because there was not the self-advertising in it that there is in a
money gift,—but after a week he told me that he might buy the
collection to furnish his editorial study. “I plan,” he said, “to make
my office attractive, and then have informal literary receptions once a
week. I shall therefore require some books, and as your library should
be marked by breadth and depth of learning, I presume it will serve my
purpose.”
“There are quite a number of Eastern manuscripts of value,” I told him,
“and few of the books are in languages that can be read by the average
New Yorker.”
“That gives the suggestion of scholarship which I wish,” he
acknowledged.
We easily came to terms under these circumstances, and I cannot tell
you how happy I was to find myself once more surrounded by my books. As
soon as they were in place and the study was handsomely furnished, my
employer issued cards; and though he had nothing in common with the
literary and artistic set, the mere fact that he controlled the columns
of a great paper brought them all flocking to his afternoons. It is a
case of mutual cultivation, and I am sick of being told to write puffs
of books and pictures. Even foreigners do not seem above this
log-rolling, and toady to the editor of the influential journal. And
yet we think Johnson mean-spirited for standing at Chesterfield’s door!
It humiliates me to see writers and artists stooping so low merely to
get notices that are worthless in a critical sense, and doubly am I
degraded that mine is the pen that aids in this contemptible chicane.
You, Mrs. Blodgett, and Agnes came to one of these afternoons, and made
me happy, not alone by your presence, but by an insinuated reproof,
which meant, I thought, that you had become enough interested in me to
care what I did. You expressed surprise at my being there, and so I
explained to you that I had become Mr. Whitely’s secretary.
“And is your work congenial?” you asked.
I shrugged my shoulders, and quoted, “Civilized man cannot live without
dining.”
“But you told me you were making a living. Is not a crust with
independence and a chance to make a name better than such work?”
“If one is free, yes. But if one must earn money?”
“I had somehow fixed it in my mind that you were _en garçon_. One’s
fancies are sometimes very ridiculous. Who invented the mot that a
woman’s intuitions were what she had when she was wrong?”
“Some man, of course,” I laughed. “And you were right in supposing me a
bachelor.”
“How little people really know about one another,” you observed, “and
yet we talk of the realism of life! I believe it is only in fiction
that we get it.”
“Napoleon said, ‘Take away history and give me a novel: I wish the
truth!’ Certainly, our present romance writers attempt it.”
“Only to prove that truth is not art.”
“How so?”
“To photograph life in literature is no more art than a reproduction of
our street sounds would be music.”
“Painting and sculpture are copying.”
“And the closer the copy, the less the art.”
“Then you would define art as”—
“The vivifying of work with the personality of the workman.”
“That is not very far from Saadi’s thought that art is never produced
without love.”
“I have to confess that you mention an author of whom I had never even
heard till I read The Debatable Lands. The extracts printed there made
me think he must be one of the great philosopher poets of the world.
Yet there is no copy of his works at the Lenox.”
“There are copies of all his writings here.”
“I think I shall disobey Polonius by trying to be a borrower,” you
announced, and turning to Mr. Whitely, you asked, “Do you ever loan
your books?”
“To lend to you would be a pleasure, and give added value to the
volume,” assented Mr. Whitely, joining us. “Take anything you wish.”
“Thank you so much. Will you let me see what you have of Saadi, so that
I may take my choice?”
“You were speaking of”—hemmed Mr. Whitely.
“Saadi.”
“Ah, yes. Dr. Hartzmann knows where it is.”
When I had led the way to the proper shelf, you selected the Gulistan,
opened it, and then laughed. “You have the best protection against
borrowers. I envy both of you the ability to read him in the original,
but it is beyond me.”
“As you read Latin, you can read Gentius’ translation of the Bostan,” I
suggested, taking the book down.
“How do you know that I can read Latin?” you asked.
I faltered for a moment, too much taken aback to think what to reply,
and fortunately Mr. Whitely interposed quickly, “Miss Walton’s
reputation for learning is so well recognized that knowledge of Latin
is taken for granted.”
Taking advantage of the compliment, I surmised, “Perhaps you will care
less to read the poet if I quote a stanza of his:—
‘Seek truth from life, and not from books, O fool!
Look at the sky to find the stars, not in the pool.’”
“You only make me the more eager,” you said, running over the pages.
“The book is worth reading,” vouched Mr. Whitely.
“How good that is!” you appealed to him, laying your finger on lines to
the effect that a dozen poor men will sleep in peace on a straw heap,
while the greatest empire is too narrow for two kings.
“Very,” answered my employer, after looking at the text with a critical
air. If you could only have enjoyed the joke with me!
Suddenly, as I watched you, you became pale, and glancing down to learn
the cause, I saw a manuscript note in my father’s handwriting on the
margin of the page. “Mr. Whitely,” you asked huskily, “how did you get
this book?”
Had you looked at me you would have seen one paler than yourself, as I
stood there expecting the axe to fall. Oh! the relief when Mr. Whitely
replied, “I bought it in Germany.”
You closed the volume, remarking, “I do not think I will ask the loan,
after all. He seems an author one ought to own.”
“I hoped you would add an association to the book,” urged Mr. Whitely.
“Thank you,” you parried gravely, “but so old a volume can hardly be
lacking in association. I think we must be going.”
I took you down to the carriage, and Mrs. Blodgett kindly offered me
the fourth seat. You were absolutely silent in the drive up-town, and I
was scarcely less so as I tried to read your thoughts. What feelings
had that scrap of writing stirred in you?
I have often since then recalled our parting words that afternoon, and
wondered if I allowed a mere scruple—a cobweb that a stronger man would
have brushed aside without a second thought—to wreck my life. If I had
taken what you offered? Perhaps the time might have come when I could
have told you of my trick, and you would have forgiven it. Perhaps—
You said to me graciously, when we separated at your door, “I shall be
very happy, Dr. Hartzmann, if you will come to see me.”
I flushed with pleasure, for I felt it was not a privilege you gave to
many. But even as I hesitated for words with which to express my
gratitude, I realized that I had no moral right to gain your
hospitality by means of my false name; and when I spoke it was to
respond, “I thank you for the favor most deeply, Miss Walton, but I am
too busy a man for social calls.”
Oh, my darling, if you had known what those few words cost me, and the
struggle it was to keep my voice steady as I spoke them! For I knew you
could only take them to mean that I declined your friendship. Hide my
shame as I might try to do, I could not escape its pains. God keep you
from such suffering, Maizie, and good-night.