Stories by American Authors | Page 6

the wine too, perhaps--she began to show new life. It was not that she looked radiant--she could not--but simply that she looked warm. I now perceived what had been the principal discomfort of her appearance heretofore: it was that she had looked all the time as if suffering from cold.
At last I could think of nothing more to say, and stopped. I really admired the drama, but I thought I had exerted myself sufficiently as an anti-hysteric, and that adjectives enough, for the present at least, had been administered. She had put down her empty wine-glass, and was resting her hands on the broad cushioned arms of her chair with, for a thin person, a sort of expanded content.
"You must pardon my tears," she said, smiling; "it was the revulsion of feeling. My life was at a low ebb: if your sentence had been against me it would have been my end."
"Your end?"
"Yes, the end of my life; I should have destroyed myself."
"Then you would have been a weak as well as wicked woman," I said in a tone of disgust. I do hate sensationalism.
"Oh no, you know nothing about it. I should have destroyed only this poor worn tenement of clay. But I can well understand how you would look upon it. Regarding the desirableness of life the prince and the beggar may have different opinions.--We will say no more of it, but talk of the drama instead." As she spoke the word "drama" a triumphant brightness came into her eyes.
I took the manuscript from a drawer and sat down beside her. "I suppose you know that there are faults," I said, expecting ready acquiescence.
"I was not aware that there were any," was her gentle reply.
Here was a beginning! After all my interest in her--and, I may say under the circumstances, my kindness--she received me in this way! However, my belief in her genius was too sincere to be altered by her whimsies; so I persevered. "Let us go over it together," I said. "Shall I read it to you, or will you read it to me?"
"I will not read it, but recite it."
"That will never do; you will recite it so well that we shall see only the good points, and what we have to concern ourselves with now is the bad ones."
"I will recite it," she repeated.
"Now, Miss Crief," I said bluntly, "for what purpose did you come to me? Certainly not merely to recite: I am no stage-manager. In plain English, was it not your idea that I might help you in obtaining a publisher?"
"Yes, yes," she answered, looking at me apprehensively, all her old manner returning.
I followed up my advantage, opened the little paper volume and began. I first took the drama line by line, and spoke of the faults of expression and structure; then I turned back and touched upon two or three glaring impossibilities in the plot. "Your absorbed interest in the motive of the whole no doubt made you forget these blemishes," I said apologetically.
But, to my surprise, I found that she did not see the blemishes--that she appreciated nothing I had said, comprehended nothing. Such unaccountable obtuseness puzzled me. I began again, going over the whole with even greater minuteness and care. I worked hard: the perspiration stood in beads upon my forehead as I struggled with her--what shall I call it--obstinacy? But it was not exactly obstinacy. She simply could not see the faults of her own work, any more than a blind man can see the smoke that dims a patch of blue sky. When I had finished my task the second time she still remained as gently impassive as before. I leaned back in my chair exhausted, and looked at her.
Even then she did not seem to comprehend (whether she agreed with it or not) what I must be thinking. "It is such a heaven to me that you like it!" she murmured dreamily, breaking the silence. Then, with more animation, "And now you will let me recite it?"
I was too weary to oppose her; she threw aside her shawl and bonnet, and, standing in the centre of the room, began.
And she carried me along with her: all the strong passages were doubly strong when spoken, and the faults, which seemed nothing to her, were made by her earnestness to seem nothing to me, at least for that moment. When it was ended she stood looking at me with a triumphant smile.
"Yes," I said, "I like it, and you see that I do. But I like it because my taste is peculiar. To me originality and force are everything--perhaps because I have them not to any marked degree myself--but the world at large will not overlook as I do your absolutely barbarous shortcomings on account of them. Will