By Constance Fenimore Woolson.
(_Lippincott's Magazine, May,_ 1880.)
"A conceited fool" is a not uncommon expression. Now, I know that I am
not a fool, but I also know that I am conceited. But, candidly, can it
be helped if one happens to be young, well and strong, passably
good-looking, with some money that one has inherited and more that one
has earned--in all, enough to make life comfortable--and if upon this
foundation rests also the pleasant superstructure of a literary
success? The success is deserved, I think: certainly it was not
lightly-gained. Yet even with this I fully appreciate its rarity. Thus,
I find myself very well entertained in life: I have all I wish in the
way of society, and a deep, though of course carefully concealed,
satisfaction in my own little fame; which fame I foster by a gentle
system of non-interference. I know that I am spoken of as "that quiet
young fellow who writes those delightful little studies of society, you
know;" and I live up to that definition.
A year ago I was in Rome, and enjoying life particularly. I had a large
number of my acquaintances there, both American and English, and no day
passed without its invitation. Of course I understood it: it is seldom
that you find a literary man who is good-tempered, well-dressed,
sufficiently provided with money, and amiably obedient to all the rules
and requirements of "society." "When found, make a note of it;" and the
note was generally an invitation.
One evening, upon returning to my lodgings, my man Simpson informed me
that a person had called in the afternoon, and upon learning that I was
absent had left not a card, but her name--"Miss Grief." The title
lingered--Miss Grief! "Grief has not so far visited me here," I said to
myself, dismissing Simpson and seeking my little balcony for a final
smoke, "and she shall not now. I shall take care to be 'not at home' to
her if she continues to call." And then I fell to thinking of Isabel
Abercrombie, in whose society I had spent that and many evenings: they
were golden thoughts.
The next day there was an excursion; it was late when I reached my
rooms, and again Simpson informed me that Miss Grief had called.
"Is she coming continuously?" I said, half to myself.
"Yes, sir: she mentioned that she should call again."
"How does she look?"
"Well, sir, a lady, but not so prosperous as she was, I should say,"
answered Simpson, discreetly.
"Young?"
"No, sir."
"Alone?"
"A maid with her, sir."
But once outside in my little high-up balcony with my cigar, I again
forgot Miss Grief and whatever she might represent. Who would not
forget in that moonlight, with Isabel Abercrombie's face to remember?
The stranger came a third time, and I was absent; then she let two days
pass, and began again. It grew to be a regular dialogue between Simpson
and myself when I came in at night: "Grief to-day?"
"Yes, sir."
"What time?"
"Four, sir."
"Happy the man," I thought, "who can keep her confined to a particular
hour!"
But I should not have treated my visitor so cavalierly if I had not
felt sure that she was eccentric and unconventional--qualities
extremely tiresome in a woman no longer young or attractive. If she
were not eccentric she would not have persisted in coming to my door
day after day in this silent way, without stating her errand, leaving a
note, or presenting her credentials in any shape. I made up my mind
that she had something to sell--a bit of carving or some intaglio
supposed to be antique. It was known that I had a fancy for oddities. I
said to myself, "She has read or heard of my 'Old Gold' story, or else
'The Buried God,' and she thinks me an idealizing ignoramus upon whom
she can impose. Her sepulchral name is at least not Italian; probably
she is a sharp countrywoman of mine, turning, by means of the present
aesthetic craze, an honest penny when she can."
She had called seven times during a period of two weeks without seeing
me, when one day I happened to be at home in the afternoon, owing to a
pouring rain and a fit of doubt concerning Miss Abercrombie. For I had
constructed a careful theory of that young lady's characteristics in my
own mind, and she had lived up to it delightfully until the previous
evening, when with one word she had blown it to atoms and taken flight,
leaving me standing, as it were, on a desolate shore, with nothing but
a handful of mistaken inductions wherewith to console myself. I do not
know a more exasperating frame of mind, at least for a constructor of
theories. I could not write, and so I took up a French novel (I model
myself a little on Balzac). I had been turning over its pages but a few
moments when Simpson knocked, and, entering softly, said, with just a
shadow of a smile on his well-trained face, "Miss Grief." I briefly
consigned Miss Grief to all the Furies, and then, as he still
lingered--perhaps not knowing where they resided--I asked where the
visitor was.
"Outside, sir--in the hall. I told her I would see if you were at
home."
"She must be unpleasantly wet if she had no carriage."
"No carriage, sir: they always come on foot. I think she _is_ a little
damp, sir."
"Well, let her in; but I don't want the maid. I may as well see her
now, I suppose, and end the affair."
"Yes, sir."
I did not put down my book. My visitor should have a hearing, but not
much more: she had sacrificed her womanly claims by her persistent
attacks upon my door. Presently Simpson ushered her in. "Miss Grief,"
he said, and then went out, closing the curtain behind him.
A woman--yes, a lady--but shabby, unattractive, and more than
middle-aged.
I rose, bowed slightly, and then dropped into my chair again, still
keeping the book in my hand. "Miss Grief?" I said interrogatively as I
indicated a seat with my eyebrows.
"Not Grief," she answered--"Crief: my name is Crief."
She sat down, and I saw that she held a small flat box.
"Not carving, then," I thought--"probably old lace, something that
belonged to Tullia or Lucrezia Borgia." But as she did not speak I
found myself obliged to begin: "You have been here, I think, once or
twice before?"
"Seven times; this is the eighth."
A silence.
"I am often out; indeed, I may say that I am never in," I remarked
carelessly.
"Yes; you have many friends."
"--Who will perhaps buy old lace," I mentally added. But this time I
too remained silent; why should I trouble myself to draw her out? She
had sought me; let her advance her idea, whatever it was, now that
entrance was gained.
But Miss Grief (I preferred to call her so) did not look as though she
could advance anything; her black gown, damp with rain, seemed to
retreat fearfully to her thin self, while her thin self retreated as
far as possible from me, from the chair, from everything. Her eyes were
cast down; an old-fashioned lace veil with a heavy border shaded her
face. She looked at the floor, and I looked at her.
I grew a little impatient, but I made up my mind that I would continue
silent and see how long a time she would consider necessary to give due
effect to her little pantomime. Comedy? Or was it tragedy? I suppose
full five minutes passed thus in our double silence; and that is a long
time when two persons are sitting opposite each other alone in a small
still room.
At last my visitor, without raising her eyes, said slowly, "You are
very happy, are you not, with youth, health, friends, riches, fame?"
It was a singular beginning. Her voice was clear, low, and very sweet
as she thus enumerated my advantages one by one in a list. I was
attracted by it, but repelled by her words, which seemed to me flattery
both dull and bold.
"Thanks," I said, "for your kindness, but I fear it is undeserved. I
seldom discuss myself even when with my friends."
"I am your friend," replied Miss Grief. Then, after a moment, she added
slowly, "I have read every word you have written."
I curled the edges of my book indifferently; I am not a fop, I hope,
but--others have said the same.
"What is more, I know much of it by heart," continued my visitor.
"Wait: I will show you;" and then, without pause, she began to repeat
something of mine word for word, just as I had written it. On she went,
and I--listened. I intended interrupting her after a moment, but I did
not, because she was reciting so well, and also because I felt a desire
gaining upon me to see what she would make of a certain conversation
which I knew was coming--a conversation between two of my characters
which was, to say the least, sphinx-like, and somewhat incandescent as
well. What won me a little, too, was the fact that the scene she was
reciting (it was hardly more than that, though called a story) was
secretly my favorite among all the sketches from my pen which a
gracious public has received with favor. I never said so, but it was;
and I had always felt a wondering annoyance that the aforesaid public,
while kindly praising beyond their worth other attempts of mine, had
never noticed the higher purpose of this little shaft, aimed not at the
balconies and lighted windows of society, but straight up toward the
distant stars. So she went on, and presently reached the conversation:
my two people began to talk. She had raised her eyes now, and was
looking at me soberly as she gave the words of the woman, quiet,
gentle, cold, and the replies of the man, bitter, hot, and scathing.
Her very voice changed, and took, though always sweetly, the different
tones required, while no point of meaning, however small, no breath of
delicate emphasis which I had meant, but which the dull types could not
give, escaped an appreciative and full, almost overfull, recognition
which startled me. For she had understood me--understood me almost
better than I had understood myself. It seemed to me that while I had
labored to interpret, partially, a psychological riddle, she, coming
after, had comprehended its bearings better than I had, though
confining herself strictly to my own words and emphasis. The scene
ended (and it ended rather suddenly), she dropped her eyes, and moved
her hand nervously to and fro over the box she held; her gloves were
old and shabby, her hands small.
I was secretly much surprised by what I had heard, but my ill-humor was
deep-seated that day, and I still felt sure, besides, that the box
contained something which I was expected to buy.
"You recite remarkably well," I said carelessly, "and I am much
flattered also by your appreciation of my attempt. But it is not, I
presume, to that alone that I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
"Yes," she answered, still looking down, "it is, for if you had not
written that scene I should not have sought you. Your other sketches
are interiors--exquisitely painted and delicately finished, but of
small scope. _This_ is a sketch in a few bold, masterly lines--work of
entirely different spirit and purpose."
I was nettled by her insight. "You have bestowed so much of your kind
attention upon me that I feel your debtor," I said, conventionally. "It
may be that there is something I can do for you--connected, possibly,
with that little box?"