A WONDERFUL OFFER
Late one afternoon Peter set off to walk to the market-town. He
was expecting a letter from his publishers. He had given them the
market-town post-office as his permanent address. It was a glorious
day, and the sunlight lay warmly on the fields.
During the day he had been writing, but his work had not gone well.
That which in brain-imagery had seemed original and lifelike, in
articulation appeared to him commonplace and dull. Who would care to
read the drivel he was committing to paper? His thoughts, his fancies,
of what interest would they be to the multitude? Of what value even to
two or three?
Peter was in a mood dangerous for his own creation. His first book
had come directly from his inner being, written for the pure love of
inscribing in lucid words the thoughts which filled his brain. The
same reason had urged him to write again. Then suddenly before him like
a menace rose up an image--the Public. His work would go out to it, had
already gone out to it. How would it be received? And if with smiles
the first moment, who could tell whether the smiles might not the next
be changed to frowns?
He felt like a man whose chance witticism has won him the post of
Jester. What anxiety must precede each lightly spoken word that
follows; the knowledge that the wings of spontaneity had been clipped,
though the knowledge perchance was his alone; the inward wince at a
rebuff, the joy at applause! Jester to the many-faced public! Was this
to be his rôle? Truly, if a little knowledge be a dangerous thing, a
little success appeared quite as dangerous. Had he the strength to
forget his audience; to speak only as and when Inspiration bade him;
to keep silence when her voice was still? If indeed he had to play the
part of Jester, could he be a daring one, heedless alike of frowns and
smiles? Could he risk the cap and bells being taken from him? Could he
bear hooting and derision?
"I will," cried Peter to his soul. "I will jest how and as I please.
Servant will I be to Inspiration alone, and slave to none. Away with
cowardice, Peter, my son, and dismiss the many-headed public from your
mind."
It was therefore in an extremely healthy frame of mind that Peter
approached the market-town.
The letter he had expected was awaiting him. He put it in his pocket
unopened, for he knew it to be merely a business communication of no
particular importance, and set off once more for home.
It was not till after his supper that he again thought of it, and he
pulled it carelessly from his pocket. Within the envelope was the
typewritten communication he had expected, and also a letter. It was
addressed to Robin Adair, Esq., care of the publishers.
Peter turned the letter over curiously. The post-mark was London, the
writing educated, delicately firm. He broke the seal and drew the
letter from the envelope. Here is what he read:
"LONDON,
"_May 16th_.
"This letter can have no formal beginning, inasmuch as it is not
written to a man, but to a personality--the personality that breathes
through the book signed by Robin Adair. Nor, in spite of appearances,
is it a letter from a woman, but from a personality as impersonal--if
the contradiction may pass--as that to which it is addressed.
"And in the first place I am trusting that you--for impersonal as
one may wish to be, one cannot dispense with pronouns--that you are
possessed of sufficient intuition to discover that I am neither
an autograph-hunter nor one desirous of snatching a sensation by
stolen intercourse with a celebrity. I am not greatly flattering
your intuitive powers therein; for nowhere is true personality
so intimately revealed as in an intimate letter. Art can almost
invariably be detected, and there is no fleshly mask to dazzle the
perceptions and obscure the soul. An intelligent abstraction from a
letter would probably give the truest image of the subjective side of
any nature, which after all is the side with which as an individual
one is concerned. If, therefore, after reading thus far, you are
disposed to regard this letter as an impertinence, then it is one
which is entirely without excuse, and I should desire you to tear it
up forthwith.
"If, on the other hand, you have preserved an open mind so far, then
I shall not attempt excuse, but furnish you with reasons. In fancy or
in reality I have detected in your book, running through its sweetness
and underlying all its strength, a great heart-cry for sympathy, the
cry of a lonely soul. What it is that has wounded you I cannot tell,
but I feel in every fibre that the wound is there.
"Now, I make you an offer--one of intimate comradeship with one of
another sex, under conditions of such stringency as Plato's self might
have approved. I am a woman whom you have never seen, whom you will
never see, of gentle birth, with a share at least of education and
refinement, and, moreover, one who has been so profoundly moved and
influenced by your writing that she feels with an extraordinary degree
of confidence the existence of a mind-_rapport_ between herself and
you.
"For the moment that is enough. Should you wish to accept my offer,
write to me at an address I shall subjoin, whence the letter will
be forwarded to me. On your side the compact must be marked by one
condition: you must pledge me your word never to make any attempt to
discover my identity.
"As I dislike pseudonyms, I leave this letter unsigned."
Peter laid the letter upon the table and stared at it.
"Amazing!" he ejaculated. Then he took it up again. It was written on
bluish paper, and held the faintest--just the very faintest--hint of
perfume, lavender delicately fragrant.
"And a woman," said Peter, "has written this letter to me--to me!" His
brain whirled slightly. There is no other description for its state
at that moment. Gradually it steadied itself. He began to realize the
reality of what had happened. He was not dreaming: the letter was
actually in his hand, the words traced in a clear and fine writing.
Impersonal, indeed! She--this unknown woman--might call it so if she
pleased. To Peter it breathed personality, a personality vivid and
rare. Its intimate aloofness--again a contradiction--was full of charm.
An autograph-hunter! Bah! had the merest suspicion of such a thought
crossed his mind he would indeed have been unworthy so much as to lay
a finger upon the epistle.
To say that Peter was touched would be a poor way of expressing
the emotions that filled him. For years, remember, he had lived in
mind-isolation from his fellow-men, and here out of the Invisible came
the offer of a soul-intimacy, delicately, graciously made, and made by
a woman.
That she was _grande dame_ and beautiful his every instinct told him.
There was an undernote of assurance about the letter that made the fact
convincing. It needed not her statement that she was of gentle birth.
Very assuredly she was one accustomed to deference and homage. And she
had written thus to him. Wonderful!
Peter got up from his chair, his eyes alight with pleasure. He went to
a cupboard and took out a bottle of port and a wine glass. These--like
the pyjamas--constituted part of the hall-mark of civilization.
He had bought the wine with the intention of drinking to the health of
his published book, but the inclination had passed. There is something
unsatisfactory about toasts drunk in solitude.
But now Peter knocked the red seal from the cork and drew it from the
bottle. He reseated himself at the table and poured the wine into the
glass. He lifted it in his right hand, holding the letter in his left.
He approached the glass to the letter, then raised it to his lips.
"To my Unknown Lady!" he said.
Ten minutes later Peter pulled pen, ink, and paper towards him. Oh, the
joy of answering this letter, the luxury of it!
And then he began to write, very simply and directly, attempting no
well-turned thought or phrase, but writing as he would have spoken,
from his heart.
"_May 18th._
"Can you, I wonder, have the smallest conception of what your letter
means to me? If you have, then perhaps you will realize that my 'thank
you' holds in the fullest sense all that those two words can express.
Yet please believe that the cry you have detected in my writing
escaped from me unawares. Consciously to have made such a plaint would
to my mind have savoured of cowardice. May the gods guard me from it!
"Does not Emerson say, 'It is vain to attempt to keep a secret from
one who has a right to know it; it will tell itself'? Dare I believe
that you possess that right, that the same spiritual law which has
made you conscious of a mind-_rapport_ between us has given you the
key to it? I accept your offer from my heart. The condition shall be
strictly observed.
"Truly you do not greatly flatter my power of intuition when you
imagine me possessed of sufficient intelligence to discover that you
are neither an autograph-hunter nor anything akin to it. I should be a
base dullard had such a thought crossed my mind.
"That my book pleases you affords me intense pleasure. Fresh life will
be instilled into my future work by the hope that one day you will
read it.
"My pen is halting. I write as I should speak, and my tongue is
unaccustomed to speech with a woman of gentle birth. Fate has
made of me a recluse--a hermit. I do not revile her. She gives me
compensations of which your letter and offer are not the least. Will
you write again?
"ROBIN ADAIR.
"P.S.--I am sorry you dislike pseudonyms. This is one."
Peter re-read the letter carefully. He put it in an envelope which
he addressed "To my Unknown Critic." He enclosed this in a second
envelope, on which he wrote the address he had been given. This again
he enclosed with a brief letter to his publishers, asking them to
post the enclosure in London. The next day he would take it in to the
market-town.
Peter leant back in his chair. Then he poured himself out a second
glass of wine, which he drank slowly.
This was a gala night.
Finally he set down his glass and spoke aloud.
"Though the expense is entirely unjustifiable, I shall buy a dress
suit."