George felt like a man who has committed himself to take part in some
public competition although not properly prepared for the contest, and
during the night that succeeded his last meeting with Constance he slept
little. He had promised to write a book. That was bad enough,
considering that he felt so little fitted for the task. But, at least,
if he had undertaken to finish the work, revise it and polish it and
eliminate all the errors he could discover before bringing it to Miss
Fearing in its final shape, he could have comforted himself with the
thought that the first follies he committed would be known only to
himself. He had promised, however, to read the chapters to Constance as
he wrote them, one by one, and the thought filled him with dismay. The
charming prospect of numberless meetings with her was marred by the fear
of being ridiculous in her eyes. It was for her alone that the book was
to be written. It would be a failure and he would not even attempt to
publish it, but the certainty that the public would not witness his
discomfiture brought no consolation with it. Better a thousand times to
be laughed at by the critics than to see a pained look of disappointment
in Constance’s eyes. Nevertheless he considered his promise sacred, and,
after all, it was Constance who had driven him to make it. He had
protested his incapacity as well as he could. She would see that he had
been right and would acknowledge the wisdom of waiting a little longer
before making the great attempt.
At first, he felt as though he were in a nightmare, in a dim labyrinth
from which he had pledged himself to find an escape in a given time. His
nerves, for the first time in his life, played him false. He grew
suddenly hot, and then as suddenly cold again. Attempting to fix his
imagination, monstrous faces presented themselves before his eyes in the
dark, and he heard fragments of conversation in which there were long
sentences that meant nothing. He lit a candle and sat up in bed,
clasping his forehead with his long, smooth fingers, and beginning to
feel that he knew what despair really meant.
This then was the result of years of preparation, of patient practice
with the pen, of thoughtful reading and careful study. He had always
felt that he lacked the imagination necessary for producing a novel, and
now he felt sure of it. Johnson had told him that he was no critic, and
he had believed Johnson, because Johnson was himself the best critic he
knew. What then was he? A writer of short papers and articles. Yes, he
could do that. How easily now, at this very moment, could he think of
half a dozen subjects for such work, and how neatly he could put them
into shape, develop them in a certain number of pages and polish them to
the proper degree of brilliancy!
The morning dawned and found him still searching and beating his brain
for a subject. As the light increased he felt more and more nervous. It
was not in his nature to put off the beginning upon which he had
determined, and he knew that on that day he must write the first words
of his first book, or forfeit his self-respect for ever. There was an
eminently comic side to the situation, but he could not see it. His
dread of being ridiculous in the eyes of the woman he loved was great
enough to keep him from contemplating the absurdity of his case. His
sensations became intolerable; he felt like a doomed man awaiting his
execution, whose only chance of a reprieve lay in inventing a plot for a
novel. He could bear it no longer, and he got out of bed and opened his
window. The fresh air of the May morning rushed in and suddenly filled
the room with sweetness and his excited brain with a new sense of
possibilities. He sat down at his table without thinking of dressing
himself, and took up his pen. A sheet of paper lay ready before him, and
the habit of writing was strong in itself—too strong to be resisted. In
a few minutes that white sheet would be covered with words that would
mean something, and those words would be the beginning of his book, of
the novel he was about to write but of the contents of which he had not
the remotest conception. This was not the way he had anticipated the
commencement of the work that was to lay the first stone of his
reputation. He had fancied himself sitting down to that first page, calm
and collected, armed with a plot already thoroughly elaborated, charmed
beforehand with the characters of his own invention, carried away from
the first by the spirit of the action, cheered at every page by the
certainty of success, because failure was to have been excluded by the
multiplicity of his precautions. And here he was, without an idea in his
brain or the least subject for an excuse, beginning a romance which was
to be judged step by step by the person of all others most dear to him.
George dipped his pen into the ink a second time and then glanced at the
calendar. It was the fifth of May.
“Well,” he said aloud, “there is luck in odd numbers. Here goes my first
novel!”
And thereupon, to his own great surprise, he began writing rapidly. He
did not know what was coming, he hardly knew whether his hero had black
hair or brown, and as for the heroine, he had not thought of her at all.
But the hero was himself and was passing a night of great anxiety and
distress in a small room, in a small house, in the city of New York. The
reason of his anxiety and distress was a profound secret as yet, because
George had not invented it, but there was no difficulty in depicting his
state of mind. The writer had just spent that very night himself, and
was describing it while the sun was yet scarcely risen. He chuckled
viciously as he drove his pen along the lines and wrote out the ready
phrases that rushed into his brain. It was inexpressibly comic to be
giving all the details of his hero’s suffering without having the
smallest idea of what caused it; but, as he went on, he found that his
silence upon this important point was lending an uncanny air of mystery
to his first chapter, and his own interest was unexpectedly aroused.
It seemed strange, too, to find himself at liberty to devote as much
space as he pleased to the elaboration of details that attracted his
attention, and to feel that he was not limited in space as he had
hitherto been in all he wrote. Of course, when he stopped to think of
what he was to do next, he was as much convinced as ever that nothing
could come of his attempt beyond this first chapter. The whole affair
was like a sort of trial gallop over the paper, and doubtless when he
read over what he had written he would be convinced of its
worthlessness. He remembered his first fiery article upon the critics,
and the wholesale cutting and pruning it had required before he could
even submit it to Johnson. Then, however, he had written under the
influence of anger; now, he was conscious of a new pleasure in every
sentence, his ideas came smoothly to the surface and his own language
had a freshness which he did not recognise. In old times he had studied
the manner of great writers in the attempt to improve his own, and his
style had been subject to violent attacks of Carlyle and to lucid
intervals of Macaulay, he had worshipped at Ruskin’s exquisite shrine
and had offered incense in Landor’s classic temple, he had eaten of
Thackeray’s salt and had drunk long draughts from Dickens’s loving-cup.
Perhaps each had produced its effect, but now he was no longer conscious
of receiving influence from any of them. For the first time in his life
he was himself, for better, for worse, to fail or to succeed. His soul
and his consciousness expanded together in a new and intoxicating life,
as he struck those first reckless strokes in the delicious waters of the
unknown.
He forgot everything, dress, breakfast, his father, the time of day and
the time of year, and when he rose from his seat he had written the
first chapter of his novel. For some occult reason he had stopped
suddenly and dropped his pen. He knew instinctively that he had reached
his first halting-place, and he paused for breath, left the table and
went to the window. To his astonishment the sun was already casting
shadows in the little brick yard, and he knew that it must be past noon.
He looked at himself and saw that he was not dressed, then he looked at
his watch and found that it was one o’clock. He rubbed his eyes, for it
had all been like a dream, like a vision of fairyland, like a night
spent at the play. On the table lay many pages of closely-written
matter, numbered and neatly put together by sheer force of habit. He
hardly knew what they contained, and he was quite unable to recall the
words that opened the first paragraph. But he knew the last sentence by
heart, for it was still ringing in his brain, and strange to say, he
knew what was to come next, though he seemed not to have known it so
long as he held his pen. While he dressed himself the whole book,
confused in its details but clear in its general outline, presented
itself to his contemplation, and he knew that he should write it as he
saw it. It would assuredly not be a good novel, it would never be
published, and he was wasting his time, but it would be a book, and he
should keep his promise to Constance. He went downstairs and found his
father at luncheon, with a newspaper beside him.
“Well, George,” said the old gentleman, “I thought you were never going
to get up.”
“I am not quite sure that I have been to bed,” answered the young man.
“But I know that I have been writing since it was daylight and have had
no breakfast.”
“That is a bad way of beginning the day,” said Jonah Wood, shaking his
head. “You will derange your digestion by these habits. It is idle to
try such experiments on the human frame.”
“It was quite an unwilling experiment. I forgot all about eating. I had
some work that had to be done and so I put it through.”
“More articles?” inquired his father with kindly interest.
“I believe I am writing a book,” said George. “It is a new sensation and
very exhilarating, but I cannot tell you anything about it till I have
got on with it further.”
“A book, eh? Well, I wish you success, George. I hope you are well
prepared and that you will do nothing hasty or ill considered.”
“No, indeed!” exclaimed George with a laugh.
Hasty and ill considered! Could any two epithets better describe the way
in which he had gone to work? What rubbish it would be when it was
finished, he thought, as he attacked the cold meat and pickles. He
realised that he was desperately hungry, and unaccountably gay
considering that he anticipated a total failure, and it was surprising
that while he believed that he had been producing trash he should be in
such a hurry to finish his meal in order to produce more. Nothing,
however, seemed to be of the slightest importance, except to write as
fast as he could in order to have plenty of manuscript to read to
Constance at the first opportunity.
That night before going to bed he sat down in a comfortable chair, lit a
pipe and read over what he had written. It must be very poor stuff, of
course, he considered, because he had turned it out so quickly; but he
experienced one of the great pleasures of his life in reading it over.
The phrases sent thrills of satisfaction through him and his hand
trembled as he took up one sheet after another. It was strange that he
should be able to take such delight in what must manifestly be so bad.
But, bad or not, the thing was alive, and the characters were his
companions, whispering in his ear the words that they were to speak, and
bringing with them their individual atmospheres, while a sort of
secondary and almost unconscious imagination performed the
scene-shifting in a smooth and masterly fashion.
Three days later, he sat beside Constance Fearing upon a wooden bench in
a retired nook in Central Park. The weather was gloriously beautiful,
and the whole world smelt of violets and sunshine. Everything was fresh
and peaceful, and the stillness was broken only by the voices of
laughing children who played together a hundred yards away from where
the pair were sitting.
“And now, begin,” said Constance eagerly, as George produced his folded
manuscript.
“It is horrible stuff,” he said. “I had really much rather not read it.”
“Shall I go away?”
“No.”
“Then read!”
A great wave of timidity came over the young man in that moment. He
could not account for it, for he had often read to Constance the
manuscript of his short articles. But this seemed very different. He let
the folded sheets rest on his knee, and gazed into the distance, seeing
nothing and wishing that he might sink through the earth into his own
room. To judge from the sensation in his throat, he would not be able to
read at all. Then all at once, he grew cold. He had undertaken to do
this thing and he must carry it through, come what might. Constance
would not laugh at him, and she would be just. He wished that she were
Johnson, for it would be easier.
“I am waiting,” she said with a gentle smile. George laughed.
“I never was so frightened in my life,” he said. “I know what stage
fright is, now.”
Constance looked at him, and she liked his timidity more than she had
often liked his boldness. She felt that she loved him a little more than
before. Her voice was very soft when she spoke.
“Are you afraid of me, dear?” she asked.
The blood came to George’s face. It was the first time she had ever used
an endearing expression in speaking to him.
“Not since you have said that,” he answered, opening the sheets.
He read the first chapter, and she did not interrupt him. Occasionally
he glanced at her face. It was very grave and thoughtful, and he could
not guess what was passing in her mind.
“That is the end of the first chapter,” he said at last. “Do you like
it?”
“Go on!” she exclaimed quickly without heeding his question.
George did as he was bidden and read on to the end of what he had
brought. Whatever Constance might think of the work, she was evidently
anxious to hear it, and this fact at least gave him a little courage.
When he had finished, he folded up the sheets quickly and returned them
to his pocket, without looking at his companion’s face. He did not dare
ask her again for her opinion and he waited for her to speak. But she
said nothing and leaned back in her seat, apparently contemplating the
trees.
“Would you like to walk a little?” George asked in an unsteady voice. He
now took it for granted that she was not pleased.
“Do you want to know what I think of your three chapters?”
“Yes, please,” he answered nervously.
“They are very, very good. They are as much better than anything you
have ever done before, as champagne is better than soda-water.”
“Not really!” George exclaimed in genuine and overwhelming surprise.
“You are not in earnest?”
“Indeed I am,” Constance answered, with some impatience. “Do you think I
would say such a thing if I were not sure of it? Do you not feel it
yourself? Did you not know it when you were writing?”
“No—I thought, because it was written so fast it could not be worth
much. Indeed, I think so still—I am afraid that you are——”
“Mistaken?”
“Perhaps—carried away because you like me, or because you think I ought
to write well.”
“Nonsense. Promise me that you will not show this book to any one until
it is quite finished. I want you to take my word for it, to believe in
my judgment, because I know I am right. Will you?”
“Of course I will. To whom should I show it? I think I should be
ashamed.”
“You need not be ashamed if you go on in that way. When will you have
written more?”
“Give me three days—that will give you three chapters at least and take
you well into the story. You are not going out of town yet.”
“I shall not go until it is finished,” said Constance with great
determination. She had made up her mind that George would write better
if he wrote very fast, and she meant to urge him to do his utmost.
“But that may take a long time,” he objected.
“No it will not,” she answered. “You would not keep me in New York when
it is too hot, would you?”
“I will do my best,” said George.
He kept his word and three weeks later he sat in his room, in the small
hours of the morning, writing the last page of his first novel. He was
in a state of indescribable excitement, though he seemed to be no longer
thinking at all. The pen seemed to do the work of itself and he followed
the words that appeared so quickly with a feverish interest. He had not
the least idea how it would all look when it was done, but something
told him that it was being done in the right way. His hand flew from
side to side of the paper, and then stopped suddenly, why, he could not
tell. It was not possible that there should be nothing more to say, no
more to add, not one word to make the completion more complete. He
collected his thoughts and read the page over carefully to the end.
No—there was nothing wanting, and one word more would spoil the
conclusion.
“I do not understand why, I am sure,” he said to himself. “But that is
the end, and there is no doubt about it. So here it goes!
George—Winton—Wood—May 29th.”
He pushed the sheet away from him. Rather theatrical, he thought, to
sign his name to it, as though it were a real book, and as though the
manuscript were worth keeping. He had done it all to please Constance,
and Constance was pleased. In twenty-four days he had concocted a
novel—and he had never in his life enjoyed twenty-four days so much.
That was because he had seen Constance so often and because this
wretched scroll had amused her. Would she like the last three chapters?
Of course she would. He would take her the whole manuscript and make her
a present of it. That was all it could be good for. To publish such
stuff would be folly, even if any publisher could be found to abet such
madness. On the whole, he would prefer to throw the whole into the fire.
Nobody could tell. He might be famous some day in the far future, and
then when he was dead and gone and could not interfere any longer, some
abominable literary executor would get hold of this thing and print it,
and show the world what an egregious ass the celebrated George Winton
Wood had been when he was a very young man. But Constance could have it
if she liked, on condition that it was never shown to anybody.
Thereupon George tumbled into bed and slept soundly until ten o’clock on
the following morning, when he gathered up his manuscript, tied it up
into a neat bundle and went to meet Constance at their accustomed
trysting-place in the Park.
There were some very striking passages towards the conclusion of the
book, and George read them as well as he could. Indeed as many of the
best speeches were put into the mouth of the hero and were supposed to
be addressed to the lady of his affections, George found it very natural
to speak them to Constance and to give them a very tender emphasis. It
was clear, too, that Constance understood the real intention of the
love-making and, to all appearance, appreciated it, for the colour came
and went softly in her face, and there was sometimes a little moisture
in her eyes and sometimes a light that is not caused by mere interest in
an everyday novel. George wrote better than he talked, as many men do
who are born writers. There was music in his phrases, but it was the
music of pure nature and not the rhythm of a studied prose. That was
what most struck the attention of the young girl who sat beside him,
drinking in the words which she knew were meant for her, and which she
felt were more beautiful than anything she had heard before.
To tell the truth, though she had spoken her admiration very frankly and
forcibly, she was beginning to doubt her own ability to judge of the
work. If George’s talent were really as great as it now seemed to her,
how had it remained concealed so long? There had been nothing to compare
with this in his numerous short writings. Was this because they had not
been addressed to herself, or was it for this very reason that his novel
was so much more fascinating? Or was it really because he had at last
found out his strength and was beginning to use it like a giant? She
could not tell. She confessed to herself that she had assumed much in
setting up her judgment as a standard for him in the matter. The more he
had read, the more she had been amazed at his knowledge of things and
men, at his easy versatility and at the power he displayed in the more
dramatic parts of the book. Of one thing she felt sure. The book would
be read and would be liked by the class of people with whom she
associated. What the critics might think or say about it was another
matter.
She had been prepared for something well done at the last, but she had
not anticipated the ending—that ending which had so much surprised the
writer himself in his inexperience of his own powers. His voice trembled
as he read the last page, and he was not even conscious of being ashamed
of showing so much feeling about the creatures of his imagination. He
was aware, as in a dream that Constance’s small hand was tightly clasped
in his while he was reading, and then, as his voice ceased, he felt her
head resting against his shoulder.
She was looking down and he could only see that there was colour in her
face, but as he gazed at the tiny fair curls that were just visible to
him, he saw a crystal tear fall upon his rough sleeve and glisten in the
May sunlight.
“You have dropped one of your diamonds,” he said, softly. “Is it for
me—or for the man in the book?”
She looked up into his face with a happy smile.
“You should know best,” she answered.
Her face was very near to his, and though his came nearer, she did not
draw hers away. George forgot the nurses and the children in the
distance. If all his assembled acquaintances had been drawn up in ranks
before him, he would have forgotten their presence too. His lips touched
her cheek, not timidly, nor roughly either, though he felt for one
moment that his blood was on fire. Then she drew back quickly and took
her hand from his.
“It is very wrong of me,” she said. “Perhaps I shall never love you
enough for that.”
“How can you say so? Was it for the man in the book, then, after all?”
“I do not know—forget it. It may come some day——”
“Is it nearer than it was? Is it any nearer?” George asked, very
tenderly.
“I do not know. I am very foolish. Your book moved me I suppose—it is so
grand, that last part, where he tells her the truth, and she sees how
noble he has been all through.”
“I am glad you have liked it so much. It was written to amuse you, and
it has done that, at all events. So here it is. Do you care to keep it?”
Constance looked at him in surprise, not understanding what he meant.
“Of course I want it,” she answered. “After it is printed give it back
to me.”
“Printed!” exclaimed George, contemptuously. “Do you think anybody would
publish it? Do you really think I would offer it to anybody?”
“You are not serious,” said the young girl, staring at him.
“Indeed I am in earnest. Do you believe a novel can be dashed off in
that way, in three or four weeks and be good for anything? Why, it needs
six months at least to write a book!”
“What do you call this?” Constance asked, growing suddenly cold and
taking the manuscript from his hands.
“Not a book, certainly. It is a scrawl of some sort, a little better
than a dime novel, a little poorer than the last thrilling tale in a
cheap weekly. Whatever it is, it is not a publishable story.”
Constance could not believe her ears. She did not know whether to be
angry at his persistent contempt of her opinion, or to be frightened at
the possibility of his being right.
“We cannot both be right,” she said at last, with sudden energy. “One of
us two must be an idiot—an absolute idiot—and—well, I would rather not
think that I am the one, you know.”
George laughed and tried to take the manuscript back, but she held it
behind her and faced him.
“What are you going to do with it?” he asked, when he saw that she was
determined to keep it.
“I will not tell you. Did you not say you had written it for me?”
“Yes, but for you alone.”
“Not at all. It is my property, and I will make any use of it I like.”
“Please do not show it to any one,” he said very earnestly.
“I promise nothing. It is mine to dispose of as I see fit.”
“Let me look over it at least—I am sure it is full of bad English, and
there are lots of words left out, and the punctuation is erratic. Give
me that chance.”
“No. I will not. You can do it on the proof. You are always telling me
of what you do on the proofs of things.”
“Constance! For Heaven’s sake give it back to me and think no more about
it.”
“Do you love me?”
“You know I do——”
“And do you want me to love you?—I may, you know.”
“I want nothing else—but, Constance, I beg of you——”
“Then apply your gigantic intellect to the contemplation of what
concerns you. To be short, mind your own business, and go home.”
“Please——”
“If you are not gone before I count five, I shall hate you. I am
beginning—one—two——”
“Well, there is one satisfaction,” said George, abandoning the contest,
“if you send it to a publisher to read, you will never see it again, nor
hear of it.”
“I will stand over him while he reads it,” said Constance, laughing. “If
you are good you can take me to the carriage—if not, go away.”
George walked by her side and helped her into the brougham that waited
for her a short distance from the place where they had sat. He was
utterly overcome by the novelty of the situation and did not even
attempt to speak.
“It is a great book,” said Constance, speaking through the open window
after he had shut the door. “Tell him to go home.”
“I do not care a straw what it is, so long as it has pleased you. Home,
John!”
“Yes sir.”
And away the carriage rolled. Constance had not determined what she
should do with her prize, but she was not long in making up her mind.
George had often spoken of his friend Johnson, and had shown her
articles written by him. It struck her that he would be the very person
to whom she might apply for help. George would never suspect her of
having gone to him and, from all accounts, he was an extremely reticent
and judicious personage. She told the coachman to drive her to the
office of the newspaper to which Johnson belonged and to beguile the
time she began to read the manuscript over again from the beginning.
When the carriage stopped she did not know that she had been driving for
more than an hour since she had left George standing in the road in the
Park.