Probably no man ever wrote and published a book, a magazine story, or a
bit of verse without an instant decision to repeat the experiment. The
inclination once indulged becomes insatiable. It is not altogether the
gratified vanity of seeing one's self in print, for, before printing
was, the composers and reciters of romances and songs were driven
along the same path of unrest and anxiety, when once they had the least
recognition of their individual distinction. The impulse is more subtle
than the desire for wealth or the craving for political place. In some
cases it is in simple obedience to the longing to create; in others it
is a lower ambition for notoriety, for praise.
In any case the experiment of authorship, in however humble, a way, has
an analogy to that other tempting occupation of making “investments” in
the stock-market: the first trial is certain to lead to another. If the
author succeeds in any degree, his spirit rises to another attempt in
the hope of a wider recognition. If he fails, that is a reason why
he should convince his fellows that the failure was not inherent in
himself, but in ill-luck or a misdirection of his powers. And the
experiment has another analogy to the noble occupation of levying
toll upon the change of values--a first brilliant success is often a
misfortune, inducing an overestimate of capacity, while a very moderate
success, recognized indeed only as a trial, steadies a man, and sets him
upon that serious diligence upon which alone, either in art or business,
any solid fortune is built.
Philip was fortunate in that his first novel won him a few friends and
a little recognition, but no popularity. It excited neither envy nor
hostility. In the perfunctory and somewhat commercial good words it
received, he recognized the good-nature of the world. In the few short
reviews that dealt seriously with his work, he was able, when the
excitement of seeing himself discussed had subsided, to read between
the lines why The Puritan Nun had failed to make a larger appeal. It was
idyllic and poetic, but it lacked virility; it lacked also simplicity
in dealing with the simple and profound facts of life. He had been too
solicitous to express himself, to write beautifully, instead of letting
the human emotions with which he had to deal show themselves. One notice
had said that it was too “literary”; by which, of course, the critic
meant that he did not follow the solid traditions, the essential
elements in all the great masterpieces of literature that have been
created. And yet he had shown a quality, a facility, a promise, that
had gained him a foothold and a support in the world of books and of the
making of books. And though he had declined Mr. Ault's tempting offer to
illuminate his transcontinental road with a literary torch, he none the
less was pleased with this recognition of his capacity and the value of
his name.
To say that Philip lived on hope during this summer of heat,
suspensions, and business derangement would be to allow him a too
substantial subsistence. Evelyn, indeed, seemed, at the distance of
Newport, more unattainable than ever, and the scant news he had of the
drama enacted there was a perpetual notice to him of the social gulf
that lay between them. And yet his dream was sustained by occasional
assurances from Miss McDonald of her confidence in Evelyn's belief in
him, nay, of her trust, and she even went so far as to say affection.
So he went on building castles in the air, which melted and were renewed
day after day, like the transient but unfailing splendor of the sunset.
There was a certain exaltation in this indulgence of his passion that
stimulated his creative faculties, and, while his daily tasks kept
him from being morbid, his imagination was free to play with the
construction of a new story, to which his recent experience would give a
certain solidity and a knowledge of the human struggle as it is.
He found himself observing character more closely than before, looking
for it not so much in books as in the people he met. There was Murad
Ault, for instance. How he would like to put him into a book! Of
course it would not do to copy a model, raw, like' that, but he fell to
studying his traits, trying to see the common humanity exhibited in him.
Was he a type or was he a freak? This was, however, too dangerous ground
until he knew more of life.
The week's vacation allowed him by his house was passed in Rivervale.
There, in the calmness of country life, and in the domestic atmosphere
of affection which believed in him, he was far enough removed from
the scene of the spectres of his imagination to see them in proper
perspective, and there the lines of his new venture were laid down, to
be worked out later on, he well knew, in the anxiety and the toil which
should endue the skeleton with life. Rivervale, to be sure, was haunted
by the remembrance of Evelyn; very often the familiar scenes filled him
with an intolerable longing to see again the eyes that had inspired
him, to hear the voice that was like no other in the world, to take the
little hand that had often been so frankly placed in his, and to draw to
him the form in which was embodied all the grace and tender witchery
of womanhood. But the knowledge of what she expected of him was an
inspiration, always present in his visions of her.
Something of his hopes and fears Alice divined, and he felt her
sympathy, although she did not intrude upon his reticence by any
questions. They talked about Evelyn, but it was Evelyn in Rivervale, not
in Newport. In fact, the sensible girl could regard her cousin's passion
as nothing more than a romance in a young author's life, and to her it
was a sign of his security that he had projected a new story.
With instinctive perception of his need, she was ever turning his
thoughts upon his literary career. Of course she and all the household
seemed in a conspiracy to flatter and encourage the vanity of
authorship. Was not all the village talking about the reputation he had
conferred on it? Was it not proud of him? Indeed, it did imagine that
the world outside of Rivervale was very much interested in him, and
that he was already an author of distinction. The county Gazette had
announced, as an important piece of news, that the author of The Puritan
Nun was on a visit to his relatives, the Maitlands. This paragraph
seemed to stand out in the paper as an almost immodest exposure of
family life, read furtively at first, and not talked of, and yet
every member of the family was conscious of an increase in the family
importance. Aunt Patience discovered, from her outlook on the road, that
summer visitors had a habit of driving or walking past the house and
then turning back to look at it again.
So Philip was not only distinguished, but he had the power of conferring
distinction. No one can envy a young author this first taste of fame,
this home recognition. Whatever he may do hereafter, how much more
substantial rewards he may attain, this first sweetness of incense to
his ambition will never come to him again.
When Philip returned to town, the city was still a social desert, and
he plunged into the work piled up on his desk, the never-ceasing
accumulation of manuscripts, most of them shells which the workers
have dredged up from the mud of the literary ocean, in which the eager
publisher is always expecting to find pearls. Even Celia was still in
the country, and Philip's hours spared from drudgery were given to the
new story. His days, therefore, passed without incident, but not without
pleasure. For whatever annoyances the great city may have usually, it
is in the dull season--that is, the season of its summer out-of-doors
animation--a most attractive and, even stimulating place for the man who
has an absorbing pursuit, say a work in creative fiction. Undisturbed by
social claims or public interests, the very noise and whirl of the
gay metropolis seem to hem him in and protect the world of his own
imagination.
The first disturbing event in this serenity was the report of the Mavick
ball, already referred to, and the interpretation put upon it by the
newspapers. In this light his plans seemed the merest moonshine. What
became of his fallacious hope of waiting when events were driving on at
this rate? What chance had he in such a social current? Would Evelyn be
strong enough to stem it and to wait also? And to wait for what? For the
indefinite and improbable event of a poor author, hardly yet recognized
as an author, coming into position, into an income (for that was the
weak point in his aspirations) that would not be laughed at by the
millionaire. When he coolly considered it, was it reasonable to expect
that Mr. and Mrs. Mavick would ever permit Evelyn to throw away the
brilliant opportunity for their daughter which was to be the crowning
end of their social ambition? The mere statement of the proposition was
enough to overwhelm him.
That this would be the opinion of the world he could not doubt. He
felt very much alone. It was not, however, in any resolve to make a
confidante of Celia, but in an absolute need of companionship, that he
went to see if she had returned. That he had any personal interest in
this ball he did not intend to let Celia know, but talk with somebody he
must. Of his deep affection for this friend of his boyhood, there was no
doubt, nor of his knowledge of her devotion to his interests. Why, then,
was he reserved with her upon the absorbing interest of his life?
Celia had returned, before the opening of the medical college, full of a
new idea. This was nothing new in her restless nature; but if Philip
had not been blinded by the common selfishness of his sex, he might
have seen in the gladness of her welcome of him something more than mere
sisterly affection.
“Are you real glad to see me, Phil? I thought you might be lonesome by
this time in the deserted city.”
“I was, horribly.” He was still holding her hand. “Without a chance to
talk with you or Alice, I am quite an orphan.”
“Ah! You or Alice!” A shade of disappointment came over her face as she
dropped his hand. But she rallied in a moment.
“Poor boy! You ought to have a guardian. What heroine of romance are you
running after now?”
“In my new story?”
“Of course.”
“She isn't very well defined in my mind yet. But a lovely girl, without
anything peculiar, no education to speak of, or career, fascinating in
her womanhood, such as might walk out of the Bible. Don't you think that
would be a novelty? But it is the most difficult to do.”
“Negative. That sort has gone out. Philip, why don't you take the
heroine of the Mavick ball? There is a theme.” She was watching him
shrewdly, and saw the flush in his face as he hurriedly asked,
“Did you ever see her?”
“Only at a distance. But you must know her well enough for a literary
purpose. The reports of the ball give you the setting of the drama.”
“Did you read them?”
“I should say I did. Most amusing.”
“Celia, don't you think it would be an ungentlemanly thing to take a
social event like that?”
“Why, you must take life as it is. Of course you would change the
details. You could lay the scene in Philadelphia. Nobody would suspect
you then.”
Philip shook his head. The conversation was not taking the turn that was
congenial to him. The ball seemed to him a kind of maelstrom in which
all his hopes were likely to be wrecked. And here was his old friend,
the keenest-sighted woman he knew, looking upon it simply as literary
material--a ridiculous social event. He had better change the subject.
“So the college is not open yet?”
“No, I came back because I had a new idea, and wanted time to look
around. We haven't got quite the right idea in our city missions. They
have another side. We need country missions.”
“Aren't they that now?”
“No, I mean for the country. I've been about a good deal all this
vacation, and my ideas are confirmed. The country towns and villages
are full of young hoodlums and toughs, and all sorts of wickedness.
They could be improved by sending city boys up there--yes, and girls of
tender age. I don't mean the worst ones, not altogether. The young of a
certain low class growing up in the country are even worse than the same
class in the city, and they lack a civility of manner which is pretty
sure to exist in a city-bred person.”
“If the country is so bad, why send any more unregenerates into it?”
“How do you know that anybody is always to be unregenerate? But I
wouldn't send thieves and imbeciles. I would select children of some
capacity, whose circumstances are against them where they are, and I
am sure they would make better material than a good deal of the young
generation in country villages now. This is what I mean by a mission for
the country. We have been bending all our efforts to the reformation of
the cities. What we need to go at now is the reforming of the country.”
“You have taken a big contract,” said Philip, smiling at her enthusiasm.
“Don't you intend to go on with medicine?”
“Certainly. At least far enough to be of some use in breaking up
people's ignorance about their own bodies. Half the physical as well as
moral misery comes from ignorance. Didn't I always tell you that I want
to know? A good many of my associates pretend to be agnostics, neither
believe or disbelieve in anything. The further I go the more I am
convinced that there is a positive basis for things. They talk about the
religion of humanity. I tell you, Philip, that humanity is pretty poor
stuff to build a religion on.”
The talk was wandering far away from what was in Philip's mind, and
presently Celia perceived his want of interest.
“There, that is enough about myself. I want to know all about you, your
visit to Rivervale, how the publishing house suits you, how the story is
growing.”
And Philip talked about himself, and the rumors in Wall Street, and Mr.
Ault and his offer, and at last about the Mavicks--he could not help
that--until he felt that Celia was what she had always been to him, and
when he went away he held her hand and said what a dear, sweet friend
she was.
And when he had gone, Celia sat a long time by the window, not seeing
much of the hot street into which she looked, until there were tears in
her eyes.