AUTHORSHIP—WHETHER? AND HOW?
FROM MISS GRAHAM TO MAGGIE.
Tuesday. September 15.
DEAR MISS ROMILLY,—I am sorry that I could not write sooner about
your MS., but work has been pressing.
I think I warned you in my last letter that if you would have an
opinion from me as to your powers, it must be an honest opinion. That
does not at all mean that what I say must finally settle the question
for you. I may take a different view of the matter from somebody
else; and I may be mistaken. But what I think I must say. It would be
no kindness to lure you on with false promises, contrary to my real
expectation.
You have sent me a good deal more than the few pages for which
I asked. I have waited till I could look carefully through the whole:
though twenty pages would have been enough.
The first question is respecting this particular MS., and I can
unhesitatingly advise you not to offer it to any publisher: for no
publisher will undertake to bring it out. There is a want of plot, a
want of style, a want of care and finish, a want of force and interest,
from beginning to end, which must tell fatally against it.
It is astonishing how few young people—or people of any age—have
any clear idea of what is required in writing for the press. They
have a vague impression that the best writers can "dash off" a thing
effectively in a hurry, when required; therefore, they suppose, all
that a young and unpractised hand has to do is to sit down when the
fancy seizes him or her, scribble recklessly whatever comes into his
or her head, and be sublimely sure that "anything will do" for a
much-enduring public.
I do not deny that many experienced writers can "dash off" a thing
well, or that the most rapid writing is often the best. But the rush
of sudden power is generally the outcome of hard thinking, often of
hard struggling up to it. I am not certain whether you will understand
what I mean; and if not, further words will scarcely make my meaning
clear. Of course there have been instances of hasty and brilliant hits
from unpractised hands. These, however, are so rare that ordinary
mortals—perhaps I should say ordinary would-be authors—have no business
to count on any such possibility. In ninety-nine cases out of a
hundred, to say the least, success presupposes hard work.
I have noted in pencil on your MS. a few of the more egregious errors
in style and grammar. Some of them might be corrected by careful
re-writing, if the story were worth further attention: which it is not!
Now we come to the second question,—as to your future. Is it, or is
it not, worth while for you to set the vocation of literature before
your mind as a distinct aim?
I am more reluctant here to give a decisive opinion. You are young
still. You may have certain latent powers which might be worth
developing. Carelessly as your MS. is scribbled, I detect a certain
ease of expression, rather beyond that of the ordinary run of girls.
The plot is no plot: and the characters are feeble: but about the
little boy there is an occasional touch of reality, which deserves
commendation.
You will not count this too encouraging, yet it is all I can honestly
say: There are no such signs of marked talent, still less of any spark
of genius, that I may venture to say, "Go on, and prosper."
It is for you to decide whether you will give up literary efforts,
and be content to live a simple womanly life,—that may be busy and
beautiful enough, if you will,—or whether you will prepare to enter the
lists.
If you decide on the last,—mark my words!—it will not mean ease, or
laziness, or self-indulgence. A successful literary career is no idle
career. And the sooner you begin—not to publish, but to prepare for
future publishing,—the better.
Though you cannot write yet for the press, you must write and
re-write, for practice. You must read much and steadily. You must study
life and human nature. You must go through the best authors, with
careful noting of the style of each. You must bind yourself to habits
of regular work, and not allow your plans to be lightly broken.
Authorship is business, not play: and it must be treated as business.
It may be that your literary bent is strong enough not to be checked
by all this: that you have in your heart a conviction of future success,
which will nerve you to meet toil and failure undaunted until you do
succeed: that you feel or believe yourself so distinctly called of God
to this career, as to render it a duty for you to go straight forward.
If so, I would not deter you. Strive your utmost: and in time you
will learn whether or no you really are called to it; whether or no,
any measure of the gift is really yours.
But if you merely think it would be nice to write because a great
many people write in these days; or because you want to make a little
money, and authorship seems the easiest fashion of doing so,—then you
had better give up the notion at once. That does not mean success.
One word more. You need not suppose, from what I have said, that a
life of authorship is all toil or all difficulties. There are grand
delights in it. I can say this from my own experience. I would not
willingly exchange it for any other life. But there cannot be heights
without valleys: and whether you know anything of the heights must
depend upon whether it is the life that God has willed for you.
If you decide to pursue your efforts, send me a short MS. a year
or two hence, and I will tell you how you are getting on.—Believe me,
yours truly—
LETITIA GRAHAM.
FROM MAGGIE TO NELLIE.
Friday. September 18.
DARLING NELLIE,—I promised to send you the letter from Miss Graham
whenever it should come; so I suppose I must; but you won't like it any
more than I do. I think it's an awfully stupid letter, and I am sure
she can't be at all a nice sort of person. I wonder if writing books
always makes people get so disagreeable when they are middle-aged. That
is two of them, and I dare say Gladys will be just the same by-and-bye,
which would be three.
I am sure Gladys hasn't done nearly all that,—reading and studying
and writing everything over and over again for years and years. Why,
she just began straight off to print books the moment she wanted to.
I don't mean that she hadn't done any stories before, but not in the
way Miss Graham says; and I have written two stories. I don't see why
I shouldn't begin to have books printed, when I like, just as Gladys
has. I certainly shan't wait a whole year. And I don't mean to write
to Miss Graham any more.
Miss Con seems getting on all right, only the doctor won't let her
move, except just to be put on the sofa. I wish she would make haste
and get well: and then Lady Denham could go back to the Farm and leave
us in peace. She is so unkind to poor dear Millie, and seems to think
it is all Millie's fault and mine that Miss Con fell down Gurglepool
path. And that is so unfair: for of course we couldn't guess that Miss
Con would choose to tumble in such a place. Millie says it was very
stupid of her,—and so I think. And Millie is sure Miss Con likes being
an invalid, and having a fuss made. But you mustn't let Mother see
this, because she is fond of Miss Con.
I'm so very glad to hear such good accounts of darling Mother. It does
seem almost as if the being downright ill had made her better. What
does Father mean by saying that perhaps you will all come home soon? Is
there really any chance of that?
Lady Denham means to have an excursion one day soon, now Miss Con is
well enough to be left. There's a big cave, miles away, which we are to
see. She and Sir Keith are going, and she wants to take the twins and
Thyrza and me. I do think she might squeeze poor Millie in too, but she
won't. I've half a mind to stay at home, if Millie does: only I want to
see the cave.—Believe me, darling, ever your loving sister—
MAGGIE.
FROM THYRZA TO NELLIE.
PRIVATE September 19.
MY DEAR NELLIE,—I have written very short letters lately, but nursing
has taken up a great deal of time. And besides—I did not want to say
too much at first. I wanted to leave Maggie to tell for herself how
things have really been. I think Lady Denham felt the same, from
something she said one day.
But now all these weeks have gone, and I can see quite clearly from
your letters that Maggie has not told,—at least that she hasn't said
much. I believe Lady Denham asked her yesterday how much she had
explained things to you or Father: for I heard her make a shirking sort
of answer. She has learnt that from Millie. It wasn't Maggie's way—once.
She is writing to-day, but I don't suppose she will say much: and I
think it is time for me to speak out. You at least ought to understand,
for Miss Con's sake: and you may say just as much or as little as you
like to anybody else.
Isn't it good of Lady Denham to spend all these weeks in the house,
and to look after everything? You should see the calm way in which she
rides over Millie's fads and tantrums. I am afraid I do enjoy that.
I never liked her or Sir Keith half so well as I do now.
But about Gurglepool, and the accident,—it really was the fault of
Millie and the girls,—Millie's most, because she twists Maggie round
her little finger, and Maggie manages the rest. Only that doesn't set
Maggie free from blame.
They were all very much put out, because Miss Con insisted on going
with them to Gurglepool the first time. She thought it safer. And they
agreed among themselves to leave her as much as possible alone, while
they were there, as a punishment.
Then somebody proposed—I can't find out who, which makes me sure it
was Millie,—that they should slip off, and leave her to walk home alone.
Such a horrid unladylike trick! Nona was to hide, and they would have
a hunt, and Miss Con was to be frightened and left to watch: and then
they would all slip away, and Nona would join them outside the valley.
It was done too: and that was how Miss Con was so hurt. She found
Nona's scarf on the Gurglepool path, and fancied she saw some one lying
below: and in going down, she slipped and fell. I don't think the scarf
was left there on purpose.
I was at home with Elfie, and Lady Denham and Sir Keith came in,—quite
unexpectedly. They had only travelled from York that day: and they
seemed very much disappointed to find Captain Lenox gone.
Well—Millie and the rest came rushing in, all heated, as if from
a race. Millie grew demure in a moment, when she saw who was there.
Of course, we asked after Miss Con: and Millie said, "Oh, she's just
behind!" which was not true, though perhaps Millie tried to think it
was. And Maggie grew so red, I felt certain something was wrong.
Sir Keith took the matter up at once, and insisted on knowing all: and
there was no getting out of his questions.
Maggie owned at last that it was—"only fun, but they had started
first—just for fun—and of course Miss Con would find it out directly,
and get home soon."
I never knew till then how severe Sir Keith can look. One likes him
the better for it: because it wasn't displeasure for himself, but for
somebody else. I detest people to be always and for ever defending
themselves: but defending others is quite a different thing.
I know I shouldn't like him to look at me as he looked at Maggie. Lady
Denham said outright, in her quiet way, "I am ashamed of you, Maggie!"
And Sir Keith just turned away from her, with almost a kind of contempt
and I heard him say to Denham—"You—a gentleman!—To leave a lady
unprotected in such a place after dusk!"
Then Sir Keith said somebody must go at once to meet Miss Con.
Millie, who was tilting up her chin in her offended fashion, declared
she couldn't, she was so tired: and Maggie only looked doleful and said
nothing. But Denham offered at once,—I think he was so ashamed, he was
glad to do anything,—and Nona and I said we would go too. And then we
found that Sir Keith meant to be with us.
We went a long way, first by the road, and then over a hill: but of
course there were no signs of Miss Con. And by-and-by Denham was
puzzled about the right path, when it grew dark. Sir Keith didn't know
the short-cut to Gurglepool, as he had never been that way. Nona tried
to guide us, but she failed too: and Sir Keith said we must turn back
at once, or we should get lost ourselves, and not be able to help Miss
Con.
To make matters worse, tremendous rain came on. We were like drowned
rats by the time we reached home. Maggie did look miserable then, and
no wonder. Millie kept talking, talking perpetually about its being
nobody's fault. The one thing in life that she does care for, is to
shield her precious self from blame. I suppose I ought not to write so
of her, but I cannot like Millie. She is so untrue.
I can't think what we should have done without Sir Keith. He ordered
out the waggonette, sent for Mr. Stockmoor, and arranged for two men to
go over the hills with lanterns, while he and Mr. Stockmoor and I drove
round by the road. It was very good of Lady Denham to let me go. She
made me change my wet things, and then actually kissed me, and said,
"Don't be frightened, my dear. Miss Conway has probably found shelter
in a cottage." Of course that did seem likely, only one could not be
sure.
When we reached the valley, the two men joined us. They had seen
nothing of Miss Con, and I began to be almost in despair, for Mr.
Stockmoor seemed to think she must have wandered away and been lost
on these wild hills.
We thought it would be best to go first to the cottage, and on our
way we passed close to Gurglepool. One of the men went close with his
lantern, and then I heard a shout,—for he had found Miss Con's cloak.
I can't tell you the sort of horror that came over me. I thought she
must have fallen into that deep water,—and I thought I should never see
my dear Miss Con again. It was very dreadful.
I wasn't allowed to go down the path, and Sir Keith insisted on being
the first. Do you know, Nellie, he turned so pale when her cloak was
found, and seemed so unhappy all through, that really I began to think
he must care very much indeed for her! I don't understand a great deal
about such things, and I should hate to have my head always full of
love and marriage affairs like many girls, and to be fancying that
everything must mean something,—but still I could not help noticing his
look that day.
You have heard about the actual fall, and about how Miss Con was
found, lying half in water. They say that if the heavy rain had lasted
a while longer, she must have been drowned.
Miss Con hardly spoke at all,—except just a whisper about being
"so sorry" for Maggie. She gave me one little smile, and then kept
quite still,—and all through the drive home she hardly moaned once,
though one could see what frightful pain she was in.
Well,—now it is all out at last, and you will understand the state of
affairs. Maggie would think me very cruel, of course, to say so much;
but I must, for Miss Con's sake. I am writing in confidence: and if you
tell anything to anybody, I trust you not to get me into mischief with
the rest.
Millie has never vouchsafed one word of sorrow, for what was really
and truly her doing: and she never asks to go into Miss Con's room.
Miss Con has sent her a kind message once or twice,—or rather a good many
times,—but not of the sort that would look like blame. You would never
guess from Miss Con's manner that she has anything to forgive. And I
can't describe what her patience and sweetness have been all through
her illness.
Maggie did seem unhappy for a few days, but she has recovered her
spirits wonderfully fast; and she and Millie fraternise as absurdly as
ever. Millie is doing Maggie no good,—I can tell you that! But I don't
know whether I ought to say it.
If ever I am worth anything in life, and if I don't turn out a stupid
grumpish disagreeable being, I can only say that it will be all Miss
Con. I mean—well, you know what I mean. Of course it wouldn't be only
and all her doing, but somehow nobody else ever really helped me as she
does. She helps me by what she says, and a great great deal more by
what she is. But Maggie can't appreciate her in the least; and as for
Millie, all one can say is, that she has treated Miss Con abominably!
I would not have borne it from her in Miss Con's place; and I don't
believe things can go on so much longer.
There! I have said enough. No use to work myself to the boiling
pitch. I wish you were back.—Ever your affectionate sister—
THYRZA.