In this stunning letter the stenographer's error seemed the crowning
insult. _Bandwomen!_ Charles, for once in his life, blew up.
The proceedings ensuing came as a complete surprise to the secretary,
exciting in their way: he had really never thought that Charles had it
in him. That commonly sedentary and controlled young man had abruptly
become dynamic and vocal. Some of his remarks eluded the listener, as,
for instance, the menacing cry: "I'll rent the Academy of Music some day
to tell about this!" But on the whole Judge Blenso, who himself, in his
prime, had been counted an accomplished commentator on the world's
devilish ways, gladly gave tribute to Charles for verbal ingenuity and
somewhat arresting vividness of metaphor.
But it was clear now to the secretary that this was no pleasant
happening after all. When the storm began to abate, he spoke in
mollifying tones:--
"Now, my dear fellow,--this unfortunate occurrence. Unfortunate! But as
to that plan of mine--we might consider it now, Charles? What do you
think?"
"What plan?" Charles said, in a let-down voice.
"I regret this, about Entry 2," said the Judge, with his brilliant black
gaze. "'Bandwomen' is a fine novel, my dear fellow,--fine! But as to
that little plan of mine--giving our undivided time and abilities
henceforth to some more remunerative kind of work? Gad,
Charles!--wouldn't it be wise?"
And then Charles, after staring blankly at his relative's odd handsome
figure, suddenly burst out laughing....
But later he stood at his window, staring silently down into the lamplit
street. A rare depression had suddenly closed over him. Oddly enough, it
seemed to have little to do with his great repulse as a writer. After
all, "Bondwomen," good though he felt it to be, did not represent his
best thought now; moreover, that the next publisher would jump at it
still seemed to him as certain as Judgment Day. The young man's deep
dissatisfactions were with all the terms and conditions of his writer's
life.
Long ago he had said to a friend once, "I can't afford to give my time
to making money," and the remark, being repeated, had gained him the
reputation of a fool's wit, none recognizing that he had practically
bagged it outright from a fellow of the name of Agassiz. And there (he
was thinking) was the measure of the degree to which he had withdrawn
from the accepted ways of men, from all the currents of stimulating
life. Making money, after all, was the "battle of life," and he--he had
thought it often before now--had placed himself with the noncombatants.
All day, downtown there, vigorous beings met and fought, crossed wills,
locked minds, pitted strength against strength; while he, Charles, spent
his days with women and children and his nights alone in this room,
palely pondering over ethical subtleties. He remembered something Mary
Wing had said to him one day last winter: "You're a great deal more like
a woman than a man; don't you know it?" On the whole, Mary had meant
that as a compliment, but the word had stuck in him like a knife.
He had bent his life to be a writer--and for what? Merely that those who
knew him best might view him, tolerantly, as a member of the Third Sex.
"A writer ought to go out once a month and do something cruel," he
thought moodily. "Assault and battery.... Blood in rivers...."
He was disgusted with tutoring and writing, with Woman and all womanish
ways.
Nevertheless, the instant supper was over, he was found seated at his
writing-table, "Notes on Women" open before him. In fact, the bee had
stung this young man deep, whether he liked it or not. In sum, the
unimagined rebuff to his principal _opus_ did not diminish, but
intensified the literary passion. Now he embarked upon his first attempt
to plot out a definite scenario for his new novel, "Bondwomen's" subtle
and superior successor. And it must have been that the novel thoughts
generated at the Redmantle Club had rapidly crystallized through the
days succeeding. For now it seemed to be quite clear in the author's
mind that he would take, as the central figure in his greater work, an
extreme specimen of lawless Egoette, against whom he would set, in
subtle but most telling contrast, the best type of Home-Maker.