One day there came to G. G., in convalescence--it was after his mother
had gone back to New York--a great, thick package containing photographs
and a letter. I think the letter contained rouge--because it made G.
G.'s cheeks so red.
Cynthia had collected all the pictures she could find of herself in her
father's house and sent them to G. G. There were pictures of her in the
longest baby clothes and in the shortest. There were pictures posed for
occasions, pictures in fancy clothes, and a quart of kodaks. He had her
there on his knees--riding, driving, diving, skating, walking, sitting
on steps, playing with dogs, laughing, looking sad, talking, dimpling,
smiling. There were pictures that looked right at G. G., no matter at
what angle he held them. There were pictures so delicious of her that
he laughed aloud for delight.
All the stages of her life passed before his eyes--over and over--all
day long; and, instead of growing more and more tired, he grew more and
more refreshed. He made up his spotless mind to be worthy of her and to
make, for her to bear, a name of which nobody should be able to say
anything unkind.
If G. G. had had very little education he had made great friends with
some of the friendliest and most valuable books that had ever been
written. And he made up his mind, lying at full length--the livelong
day--in the bright, cold air--his mittened hands plunged into deep
pockets full of photographs--that, for her sake and to hasten that time
when they might always be together, he would learn to write books,
taking infinite pains. And he determined that these books should be as
sweet and clean and honorable as he could make them. You see, G. G. had
been under the weather so much and had suffered so much all alone by
himself, with nobody to talk to, that his head was already full of
stories about make-believe places and people that were just dying to get
themselves written. So many things that are dead to most people had
always been alive to him--leaves, flowers, fairies. He had always been a
busy maker of verses, which was because melody, rhythm, and harmony had
always been delicious to his ear. And he had had, as a little boy, a
soprano voice that was as true as truth and almost as agile as a canary
bird's.
He decided, then, very deliberately--lying upon his back and healing
that traitor lung of his--to be a writer. He didn't so decide entirely
because that was what he had always wanted to be, but for many reasons.
First place, he could say things to her through prose and verse that
could not be expressed in sculpture, music, painting, groceries, or
dry-goods. Second place, where she was, there his heart was sure to be;
and where the heart is, there the best work is done. And, third place,
he knew that the chances were against his ever living in dusty cities or
in the places of business thereof.
"I am so young," he wrote to her, "that I can begin at the beginning and
learn to be anything--in time to be it! And so every morning now you
shall think of G. G. out with his butterfly net, running after winged
words. That's nonsense. I've a little pad and a big pencil, and a hot
potato in my pocket for to warm the numb fingers at. And father's got an
old typewriter in his office that's to be put in order for me; and
nights I shall drum upon it and print off what was written down in the
morning, and study to see why it's all wrong. I think I'll never write
anything but tales about people who love each other. 'Cause a fellow
wants to stick to what he knows about...."
Though G. G. was not to see Cynthia again for a whole year he didn't
find any trouble in loving her a little more every day. To his mind's
eye she was almost as vivid as if she had been standing right there in
front of him. And as for her voice, that dwelt ever in his ear, like
those lovely airs which, once heard, are only put aside with death. You
may have heard your grandmother lilting to herself, over her mending,
some song of men and maidens and violets that she had listened to in her
girlhood and could never forget.
And then, of course, everything that G. G. did was a reminder of
Cynthia. With the help of one of Doctor Trudeau's assistants, who came
every day to see how he was getting on, he succeeded in understanding
very well what was the matter with him and under just what conditions a
consumptive lung heals and becomes whole. To live according to the
letter and spirit of the doctor's advice became almost a religion with
him.
For six hours of every day he sat on the porch of the house where he had
rooms, writing on his little pad and making friends with the keen,
clean, healing air. Every night the windows of his bedroom stood wide
open, so that in the morning the water in his pitcher was a solid block.
And he ate just the things he was told to--and willed himself to like
milk and sugar, and snow and cold, and short days!
In his writing he began to see progress. He was like a musical person
beginning to learn an instrument; for, just as surely as there are
scales to be run upon the piano before your virtuoso can weave music,
binding the gallery gods with delicious meshes of sound, so in
prose-writing there must be scales run, fingerings worked out, and
harmonies mastered. For in a page of _lo bello stile_ you will find
trills and arpeggios, turns, grace notes, a main theme, a sub theme,
thorough-bass, counterpoint, and form.
Music is an easier art than prose, however. It comes to men as a more
direct and concrete gift of those gods who delight in sound and the
co-ordination of parts. The harmonies are more quickly grasped by the
well-tuned ear. We can imagine the boy Mozart discoursing lovely music
at the age of five; but we cannot imagine any one of such tender years
compiling even a fifth-rate paragraph of prose.
Those men who have mastered _lo bello stile_ in music can tell us pretty
clearly how the thing is done. There be rules. But your prose masters
either cannot formulate what they have learned--or will not.
G. G. was very patient; and there were times when the putting together
of words was fascinating, like the putting together of those picture
puzzles which were such a fad the other day. And such reading as he did
was all in one book--the dictionary. For hours, guided by his nice ear
for sound, he applied himself to learning the derivatives and exact
meanings of new words--or he looked up old words and found that they
were new.
As for his actual compositions, he had only the ambition to make them as
workmanlike as he could. He made little landscapes; he drew little
interiors. He tried to get people up and down stairs in the fewest words
that would make the picture. And when he thought that he had scored a
little success he would count the number of words he had used and
determine to achieve the same effect with the use of only half that
number.
Well, G. G.'s lung healed again; and this time he was very careful not
to overdo. He had gained nine pounds, he wrote to Cynthia--"saved them"
was the way he put it; and he was determined that this new tissue, worth
more than its weight in gold, should go to bank and earn interest for
him--and compound interest.
"Shall I get well?" he asked that great dreamer who dreamed that there
was hope for people who had never hoped before--and who has lived to see
his dream come true; and the great dreamer smiled and said:
"G. G., if growing boys are good boys and do what they are told, and
have any luck at all--they always get well!"
Then G. G. blushed.
"And when I am well can I live where I please--and--and get
married--and all that sort of thing?"
"You can live where you please, marry and have children; and if you
aren't a good husband and a good father I dare say you'll live to be
hanged at ninety. But if I were you, G. G., I'd stick by the Adirondacks
until you're old enough to--know better."
And G. G. went back to his rooms in great glee and typewrote a story
that he had finished as well as he could, and sent it to a magazine. And
six days later it came back to him, with a little note from the editor,
who said:
"There's nothing wrong with your story except youth. If you say so we'll
print it. We like it. But, personally, and believing that I have your
best interests at heart, I advise you to wait, to throw this story into
your scrap basket, and to study and to labor until your mind and your
talent are mature. For the rest, I think you are going to do some fine
things. This present story isn't that--it's not fine. At the same time,
it is so very good in some ways that we are willing to leave its
publication or its destruction to your discretion."
G. G. threw his story into the scrap basket and went to bed with a
brand-new notion of editors.
"Why," said he to the cold darkness--and his voice was full of awe and
astonishment--"they're--alive!"