"That, however, doesn't indicate any want of appreciation on my part.
You have changed the former commonplace rut of criticism to something
that people read with interest, and if they laugh and swear alternately,
so much the better. You have a knack of telling the truth with a light
touch that is quite refreshing. How would you like to edit the
agricultural page in the weekly?"
I gazed at him in bewilderment; ready to laugh if he meant to be
jocular, incredulous of his serious intention. "The agricultural page!"
I exclaimed.
"Rather sudden, eh? Well, I'll tell you how the matter stands. Old
Rollings is out of it, and I've got to fill his place at once. Now it
strikes me that farmers don't hanker after instruction in their
newspaper--they want to be entertained, and I think you might make the
thing go. The salary will be higher and you can take your own time for
the work."
"But I don't know much about agriculture," I protested.
"That isn't of any consequence. There are the exchanges, the Farmer's
Cyclopædia and the scissors, and you'll learn not to waste space by
advising farmers to plant corn in hills three feet apart or to feed
potato bugs on paris green. The main thing is to make the department
entertaining, so let yourself go and be as funny as you like, provided
there's a grain of horse-sense at the bottom. For instance, you might
have an article on how to make the farm pay, taking as a text--um, let
me see--ah--you might advocate----"
"The planting of summer boarders in rows three feet apart?" I ventured.
The editor leaned back in his chair and laughed. "Go ahead, Carton," he
said warmly. "You mightn't be able to draw a better looking pig in a
prize competition than the rest of us, but I'd bank on you making a
pretty turn to his tail."
The die was cast, and yet, for a few days at least, I felt as one might,
who, accustomed to prate of the certain bliss of a heavenly home, is
suddenly presented with a pass to the delectable land. A kaleidoscopic
vision dazzled me of a picturesque country house, an orchard, a cow, a
horse, real hens for Paul, our own fruit and vegetables, but beyond I
could not see clearly, for I was unnerved by the sudden transition from
the fine arts to agriculture. I had gained a superficial insight into
rural life from the stand-point of the summer boarder, but I was well
aware that I didn't know as much about farming as about art and
literature. However, the editor's confidence in my ability to do the
work and Marion's glowing enthusiasm caused me to keep my misgivings to
myself. Indeed, though I never boast, I find it difficult to detract
from another person's estimate of my knowledge or attainments; it seems
less egotistical to smile and look modest than to enlarge upon one's own
affairs. There was just one thing that caused me a pang. Marion, in
pointing out the advantage it would be to me to have a free hand in
writing, casually acknowledged that for a long time she had felt that
criticism was not my forte and that I would write better when I had more
scope for my imagination. My pained surprise at this confession moved
her to merriment, and she laughingly declared that a woman's vanity was
all on the surface, but a man's was unfathomable. Did I answer back? No,
I didn't, for when I am truly grieved I merely smile faintly with
patient, loving forgiveness; besides, I didn't know what to say.
Afterward--for I didn't realize it at the time--I saw that I felt hurt,
not because she had underrated my previous work, but because she had
heretofore simulated a proper appreciation of it. I cannot bear to
think that my wife is capable of stooping to any kind of pretence,
and I am quite single-minded in this, for I like her to be more
perfect--infinitely more perfect--than I am. One would suppose this
statement to be unquestionable. It isn't; she immediately asks _why_,
and in the silence which follows when I am trying to think she repeats
the query with such challenging meaningful emphasis that, alas!--I
cannot say.