Jimmy Kane took the hint, or obeyed the open request, in Susan's letter
and went down to New York for the week-end; and on the following Monday
Miss Goucher wrote her first considerable letter to me. It was a long
letter, for her, written--recopied, I fancy--in precise script, though
it would have been a mere note for Susan.
_My dear Mr. Hunt:_ I promised to let you know
from time to time the exact truth about our
experiment. It is already a success financially.
Susan is now earning from sixty to seventy dollars
a week, with every prospect of earning
substantially more in the near future. Her
satirical paragraphs and verses in "Whim" are
quoted and copied everywhere. They do not seem to
me quite the Susan I love, but then, I am not a
clever person; and it is undeniable that "Who is
Dax?" is being asked now on every hand. If this
interest continues, I am assured it can only mean
fame and fortune. I am very proud of Susan, as you
must be.
But, Mr. Hunt, there is another side to my
picture. In alluding to it I feel a sense of guilt
toward Susan; I know she would not wish me to do
so. Yet I feel that I must. If I may say so to
you, Susan has quickened in me many starved
affections, and they all center in her. In this,
may I not feel without offense that we are of one
mind?
If I had Susan's pen I could tell you more clearly
why I am troubled. I lack her gift, which is also
yours, of expressing what I feel is going on
secretly in another's mind. Mr. Phar and a Mr.
Young, a writer, have been giving Susan some cause
for annoyance lately; but that is not it. Mr.
Hunt, she is deeply unhappy. She would deny it,
even to you or me; but it is true.
My mind is too commonplace for this task. If my
attempt to explain sounds crude, please forgive it
and supply what is beyond me.
I can only say now that when I once told you Susan
could stand alone, I was mistaken. In a sense she
can. If her health does not give way, life will
never beat her down. But--there are the needs of
women, older than art. They tear at us, Mr. Hunt;
at least while we are young. I could not say this
to you, but I must manage somehow to write it. I
do not refer to passion, taken by itself. I am old
enough to be shocked, Mr. Hunt, to find that many
brilliant women to-day have advanced beyond
certain boundaries so long established. You will
understand.
A woman's need is greater than passion, greater
even than motherhood. It is so hard for me to
express it. But she can only find rest when these
things are not lived separately; when, with many
other elements, they build up a living whole--what
we call a _home_. How badly I put it; for I feel
so much more than the conventional sentiments.
Will you understand me at all if I say that Susan
is homesick--for a home she has never known and
may never be privileged to know? With all her
insight I think she doesn't realize this yet; but
I once suffered acutely in this way, and it
perhaps gives me the right to speak. Of course I
may be quite wrong. I am more often wrong than
right.
I venture to inclose a copy of some lines, rescued
last week from our scrap-basket. I'm not a critic,
but am I wrong in thinking it would have been a
pity to burn them? As they are not in free verse,
which I do not appreciate as I should, they
affected me very much; and I feel they will tell
you, far more than my letter, why I am a little
worried about Susan.
Young Mr. Kane informed me, when he was here on
Sunday, that you and Professor Farmer are well. He
seems a nice boy, though still a little crude
perhaps; nothing offensive. I am confined to the
room to-day by a slight cold of no consequence; I
hope I may not pass it on to Susan. Kindly give my
love to Sonia, if you should see her, and to
little Ivan. I trust the new housekeeper I
obtained for you is reasonably efficient, and that
Tumps is not proving too great a burden. I am,
Respectfully yours,
MALVINA GOUCHER.
The inclosed "copy of some lines" affected me quite as much as they had
Miss Goucher, and it was inconceivable to me that Susan, having written
them, could have tossed them away. As a matter of fact she had not. Like
Calais in the queen's heart, they were engraven in her own. They were
too deeply hers; she had meant merely to hide them from the world; and
it is even now with a curious reluctance that I give them to you here.
The lines bore no title, but I have ventured, with Susan's consent, to
call them
_MENDICANTS_
_We who are poets beg the gods
Shamelessly for immortal bliss,
While the derisive years with rods
Flay us; nor silvery Artemis
Hearkens, nor Cypris bends, nor she,_
_The grave Athena with gray eyes.
Were they not heartless would they be
Deaf to the hunger of our cries?_
_We are the starving ones of clay,
Famished for deathless love, no less._
_Oh, but the gods are far and fey,
Shut in their azure palaces!_
_Oh, but the gods are far and fey,
Blind to the rags of our distress!_
_We pine on crumbs they flick away;
Brief beauty, and much weariness._
And the night I read these lines a telegram came to me from New York,
signed "Lucette Arthur," announcing that Gertrude was suddenly dead....