_March 12._ Our talk at the Philomathean and Mr. Whitely’s tacit
assumption of membership had their penalty for me,—a penalty which, to
reverse the old adage, I first thought an undisguised blessing. When we
separated, he asked me to dinner the following evening, to fill in a
place unexpectedly left vacant; and as I knew, from a chance allusion,
that you were to be there, I accepted a courtesy at his hands.
Although there were several celebrities at the meal, it fell to my lot
to sit on your right; my host, who took you down, evidently preferring
to have no dangerous rival in your attention. But Mrs. Blodgett, who
sat on his other side, engaged him as much as she chose, and thus gave
me more of your time than I should otherwise have had. If you knew how
happy it made me that, whenever she interrupted his monopoly of you,
instead of making a trialogue with them, you never failed to turn to
me!
“I have just re-read Mr. Whitely’s book,” you remarked, in one of these
interruptions, “and I have been trying to express to him my genuine
admiration for it. I thought of it highly when first I read it, last
autumn, but on a second reading I have become really an enthusiast.”
I suppose my face must have shown some of the joy your words gave me,
for you continued, “Clearly, you like it too, and are pleased to hear
it praised. But then it’s notorious that writers are jealous of one
another! Tell me what you think of it?”
I tried to keep all bitterness out of my voice as I laughed. “Think how
unprofessional it would be in me to discuss my employer’s book: if I
praised it, how necessary; if I disparaged it, how disloyal!”
“You are as unsatisfactory as Mr. Whitely,” you complained. “I can’t
get him to speak about it, either. He smiles and bows his head to my
praise, but not a word can he be made to say. Evidently he has a form
of modesty—not stage fright, but book fright—that I never before
encountered. Every other author I have met was fatiguingly anxious to
talk about his own writings.”
“Remember in our behalf that a book stands very much in the same
relation to a writer that a baby does to its mother. We are tolerant of
her admiration; be equally lenient to the author’s harmless prattle.”
“I suppose, too,” you went on, “that the historian is less liable to
the disease, because his work is so much less his own flesh and blood;
so much less emotional than that of the poet or novelist.”
“No book worth reading ever fails to be steeped with the spirit of the
person who wrote it. The man on the stage is instinct with emotion and
feeling, but does he express more of his true individuality than the
man in real life? The historian puts fewer of his own feelings into his
work, but he plays far less to the gallery, and so is more truthful in
what he reveals of himself.”
“Your simile reminds me of a thought of my own, after my first reading
of this book: that the novelist is the demagogue of letters, striving
to please, and suing for public favor by catering to all its whims and
weaknesses; but the historian is the aristocrat of literature, knowing
the right, and proudly above taking heed of popular prejudice or moods.
I liked Mr. Whitely’s book for many things, but most of all for its
fearless attitude towards whatever it touched upon. I felt that it was
the truth, because the whole atmosphere told me that a man was writing,
too brave to tell what was untrue. That evidently pleases you, again,”
you laughed. “Oh, it is horrible to see this consuming jealousy!”
When the ladies withdrew, the men, as usual, clustered at one end of
the table; but my host beckoned me to join him, and sat down apart from
his guests.
“Dr. Hartzmann, what is the matter at the Philomathean?” he demanded,
in a low voice.
“Matter?” I questioned.
“Yes. What is the reason they don’t elect me?”
“I am not on the membership committee, Mr. Whitely,” I replied.
“Are you popular up there? Mr. Blodgett said that you were.”
“I have some good friends,” I answered.
“Then electioneer and get me put in,” he explained, revealing to me in
a flash why he had volunteered that the paper should pay the expenses
of my membership.
“I am hardly in a position to do that.”
“Why not?”
“I am a new member, and my position under you is so well known that it
would be very indelicate in me to appear in the matter.”
“For what do you suppose I helped you, then?” he asked severely.
“I did not understand till now.”
“Well, then, drop your talk about delicacy, and get your friends to
elect me.”
“I do not think I can do that,” I answered mildly.
“Then you won’t earn your pay?”
“Mr. Whitely, when you made the offer, you put it on an entirely
different ground, and it is unfair to claim that it involved any
condition that was not then expressed.”
“But you ought to be willing to do it. Haven’t you any gratitude about
you?”
“I understood that you wanted one of your staff a member of that club.
Had you mentioned your present motive, I should certainly have refused
to accept the offer; and under these circumstances I decline to
recognize any cause for gratitude.”
“What is your objection to doing it, though?” he persisted.
“Indeed, Mr. Whitely, I do not think I am called upon to say more than
I have said.”
“Do you want me in the club or not?” he demanded.
“I shall certainly never oppose your election in any way whatsoever.”
“But you will not work for me?”
“No.”
“Are you waiting to see how much I’ll give?”
My hand trembled at the insult, but I made no reply.
“Come,” he continued, “are you standing out in hopes I will offer you
something?”
“No.”
“How much?” he asked.
“I have been elected to the Philomathean, Mr. Whitely,” I said,
concluding that an explanation might be the easiest escape, after all,
“and to it I owe a distinct duty. If you were not my employer, I should
feel called upon to work against you.”
“Why?” he exclaimed, in surprise.
“Is it necessary to say?” I answered.
“Yes. What is your objection to me?”
“Did you never read Æsop’s fable of the jackdaw?” I asked.
“That’s it, is it? And you are opposing my election?”
“By not the slightest act.”
“Then why did Blodgett predict that I would surely be rejected? I’ve a
reputation as a writer, as a philanthropist, and as a successful
business man. What more do they want?”
“As I told Miss Walton yesterday,” I explained, “a man’s true and
eventual reputation depends, not on what the world thinks of him, but
on what his fellow-craft decide.”
“Well?”
“There is scarcely an author or editor at the Philomathean who is not
opposed to your election, Mr. Whitely.”
“You have been telling tales,” he muttered angrily.
“You should know better.”
“Then what have they against me?”
“Any man who works with his pen learns that no one can write either
editorials or books, of the kind credited to you, without years of
training. The most embarrassing ordeal I have to undergo is the joking
and questioning with which the fraternity tease me. But you need never
fear my not keeping faith.”
“Yet you won’t help me into the Philomathean?”
“No.”
“So you’ll make money out of me, but think your club too good?”
“I owe my club a duty.”
“I know,” he went on smoothly, “that you’re an awful screw, when
there’s a dollar in sight. How much do you want?”
My silence should have warned him, but he was too self-absorbed to feel
anything but his own mood.
“How much do you want?” he repeated, and I still sat without speaking,
though the room blurred, and I felt as if I were stifling. “The day I’m
elected to the Philomathean, I’ll give you”—
I rose and interrupted him, saying, “Mr. Whitely, if you wish me to
leave your house and employment, you can obtain my absence in an easier
way than by insulting me.”
For a moment we faced each other in silence, and then he rose.
“Hereafter, Dr. Hartzmann, you will pay those dues yourself,” he said
in a low voice, as he moved towards the door.
I only bowed, glad that the matter was so easily ended; and for nearly
two months our relations have been of the most formal kind that can
exist between employer and employed.
Far more bitter was another break. When the moment of farewell came,
that evening, I waited to put you and Mrs. Blodgett into your
carriages, and while we were delayed in the vestibule you thanked me
again for the pleasure of the previous afternoon, and then continued:
“I understand why you did not feel able to please Mrs. Blodgett about
the concert. But won’t you let me acknowledge the pleasure of yesterday
by sending you a ticket? I have taken a number, and as all my circle
have done the same, I am finding it rather difficult to get rid of
them.”
“That’s all right, Maizie,” interjected Mrs. Blodgett, who had caught,
or inferred from an occasional word that she heard, what you were
saying. “We took an extra ticket, and I am going to use the doctor for
an escort that evening.”
“I thank you both,” I answered, “but I shall not be able to attend the
concert.”
“Nonsense!” sniffed Mrs. Blodgett, as I helped her into her carriage.
“You’re going to do as I tell you.”
You did not speak in the moment we waited for your coupé to take its
place, but as the tiger opened the door you looked in my face for the
first time since my words, showing me eyes that told of the pain I had
inflicted.
“I am sorry,” you said quietly. “I had thought—hoped—that we were to be
friends.”
There was nothing for me to say, and we parted thus. From that time I
have seen little of you, for when I meet you now you no longer make it
possible for me to have much of your society. And my persistent refusal
to go to the concert with Mrs. Blodgett and Agnes increased their
irritation against me, so that I am no longer asked to their home, and
thus have lost my most frequent opportunity of meeting you. But harder
even than this deprivation is the thought that I have given you pain;
made all the greater, perhaps, because so ill deserved and apparently
unreasonable. I find myself longing for the hour when we shall meet at
that far-away tribunal, where all our lives, and not alone that which
is seen, will stand revealed. For two months I have not had a single
moment of happiness or even hope. I am lonely and weary, while my
strength and courage seem to lessen day by day. Oh, my darling, I pray
God that thought of you will make me stronger and braver, that I may go
on with my fight. Good-night.