It seemed strange, too, to find himself at liberty to devote as much space as he pleased to the elaboration of details that attracted his attention, and to feel that he was not limited in space as he had hitherto been in all he wrote. Of course, when he stopped to think of what he was to do next, he was as much convinced as ever that nothing could come of his attempt beyond this first chapter. The whole affair was like a sort of trial gallop over the paper, and doubtless when he read over what he had written he would be convinced of its worthlessness. He remembered his first fiery article upon the critics, and the wholesale cutting and pruning it had required before he could even submit it to Johnson. Then, however, he had written under the influence of anger; now, he was conscious of a new pleasure in every sentence, his ideas came smoothly to the surface and his own language had a freshness which he did not recognise. In old times he had studied the manner of great writers in the attempt to improve his own, and his style had been subject to violent attacks of Carlyle and to lucid intervals of Macaulay, he had worshipped at Ruskin’s exquisite shrine and had offered incense in Landor’s classic temple, he had eaten of Thackeray’s salt and had drunk long draughts from Dickens’s loving-cup. Perhaps each had produced its effect, but now he was no longer conscious of receiving influence from any of them. For the first time in his life he was himself, for better, for worse, to fail or to succeed. His soul and his consciousness expanded together in a new and intoxicating life, as he struck those first reckless strokes in the delicious waters of the unknown.
He forgot everything, dress, breakfast, his father, the time of day and the time of year, and when he rose from his seat he had written the first chapter of his novel. For some occult reason he had stopped suddenly and dropped his pen. He knew instinctively that he had reached his first halting-place, and he paused for breath, left the table and went to the window. To his astonishment the sun was already casting shadows in the little brick yard, and he knew that it must be past noon. He looked at himself and saw that he was not dressed, then he looked at his watch and found that it was one o’clock. He rubbed his eyes, for it had all been like a dream, like a vision of fairyland, like a night spent at the play. On the table lay many pages of closely-written matter, numbered and neatly put together by sheer force of habit. He hardly knew what they contained, and he was quite unable to recall the words that opened the first paragraph. But he knew the last sentence by heart, for it was still ringing in his brain, and strange to say, he knew what was to come next, though he seemed not to have known it so long as he held his pen. While he dressed himself the whole book, confused in its details but clear in its general outline, presented itself to his contemplation, and he knew that he should write it as he saw it. It would assuredly not be a good novel, it would never be published, and he was wasting his time, but it would be a book, and he should keep his promise to Constance. He went downstairs and found his father at luncheon, with a newspaper beside him.
“Well, George,” said the old gentleman, “I thought you were never going to get up.”
“I am not quite sure that I have been to bed,” answered the young man. “But I know that I have been writing since it was daylight and have had no breakfast.”
“That is a bad way of beginning the day,” said Jonah Wood, shaking his head. “You will derange your digestion by these habits. It is idle to try such experiments on the human frame.”
“It was quite an unwilling experiment. I forgot all about eating. I had some work that had to be done and so I put it through.”
“More articles?” inquired his father with kindly interest.
“I believe I am writing a book,” said George. “It is a new sensation and very exhilarating, but I cannot tell you anything about it till I have got on with it further.”
“A book, eh? Well, I wish you success, George. I hope you are well prepared and that you will do nothing hasty or ill considered.”
“No, indeed!” exclaimed George with a laugh.
Hasty and ill considered! Could any two epithets better describe the way in which he had gone to work? What rubbish it would be when it was finished, he thought, as he attacked the cold meat and pickles. He realised that he was desperately hungry, and unaccountably gay considering that he anticipated a total failure, and it was surprising that while he believed that he had been producing trash he should be in such a hurry to finish his meal in order to produce more. Nothing, however, seemed to be of the slightest importance, except to write as fast as he could in order to have plenty of manuscript to read to Constance at the first opportunity.
That night before going to bed he sat down in a comfortable chair, lit a pipe and read over what he had written. It must be very poor stuff, of course, he considered, because he had turned it out so quickly; but he experienced one of the great pleasures of his life in reading it over. The phrases sent thrills of satisfaction through him and his hand trembled as he took up one sheet after another. It was strange that he should be able to take such delight in what must manifestly be so bad. But, bad or not, the thing was alive, and the characters were his companions, whispering in his ear the words that they were to speak, and bringing with them their individual atmospheres, while a sort of secondary and almost unconscious imagination performed the scene-shifting in a smooth and masterly fashion.
Three days later, he sat beside Constance Fearing upon a wooden bench in a retired nook in Central Park. The weather was gloriously beautiful, and the whole world smelt of violets and sunshine. Everything was fresh and peaceful, and the stillness was broken only by the voices of laughing children who played together a hundred yards away from where the pair were sitting.
“And now, begin,” said Constance eagerly, as George produced his folded manuscript.
“It is horrible stuff,” he said. “I had really much rather not read it.”
“Shall I go away?”
“No.”
“Then read!”
A great wave of timidity came over the young man in that moment. He could not account for it, for he had often read to Constance the manuscript of his short articles. But this seemed very different. He let the folded sheets rest on his knee, and gazed into the distance, seeing nothing and wishing that he might sink through the earth into his own room. To judge from the sensation in his throat, he would not be able to read at all. Then all at once, he grew cold. He had undertaken to do this thing and he must carry it through, come what might. Constance would not laugh at him, and she would be just. He wished that she were Johnson, for it would be easier.
“I am waiting,” she said with a gentle smile. George laughed.
“I never was so frightened in my life,” he said. “I know what stage fright is, now.”
Constance looked at him, and she liked his timidity more than she had often liked his boldness. She felt that she loved him a little more than before. Her voice was very soft when she spoke.
“Are you afraid of me, dear?” she asked.
The blood came to George’s face. It was the first time she had ever used an endearing expression in speaking to him.
“Not since you have said that,” he answered, opening the sheets.
He read the first chapter, and she did not interrupt him. Occasionally he glanced at her face. It was very grave and thoughtful, and he could not guess what was passing in her mind.
“That is the end of the first chapter,” he said at last. “Do you like it?”
“Go on!” she exclaimed quickly without heeding his question.
George did as he was bidden and read on to the end of what he had brought. Whatever Constance might think of the work, she was evidently anxious to hear it, and this fact at least gave him a little courage. When he had finished, he folded up the sheets quickly and returned them to his pocket, without looking at his companion’s face. He did not dare ask her again for her opinion and he waited for her to speak. But she said nothing and leaned back in her seat, apparently contemplating the trees.
“Would you like to walk a li
ttle?” George asked in an unsteady voice. He now took it for granted that she was not pleased.
“Do you want to know what I think of your three chapters?”
“Yes, please,” he answered nervously.
“They are very, very good. They are as much better than anything you have ever done before, as champagne is better than soda-water.”
“Not really!” George exclaimed in genuine and overwhelming surprise. “You are not in earnest?”
“Indeed I am,” Constance answered, with some impatience. “Do you think I would say such a thing if I were not sure of it? Do you not feel it yourself? Did you not know it when you were writing?”
“No — I thought, because it was written so fast it could not be worth much. Indeed, I think so still — I am afraid that you are — —”
“Mistaken?”
“Perhaps — carried away because you like me, or because you think I ought to write well.”
“Nonsense. Promise me that you will not show this book to any one until it is quite finished. I want you to take my word for it, to believe in my judgment, because I know I am right. Will you?”
“Of course I will. To whom should I show it? I think I should be ashamed.”
“You need not be ashamed if you go on in that way. When will you have written more?”
“Give me three days — that will give you three chapters at least and take you well into the story. You are not going out of town yet.”
“I shall not go until it is finished,” said Constance with great determination. She had made up her mind that George would write better if he wrote very fast, and she meant to urge him to do his utmost.
“But that may take a long time,” he objected.
“No it will not,” she answered. “You would not keep me in New York when it is too hot, would you?”
“I will do my best,” said George.
He kept his word and three weeks later he sat in his room, in the small hours of the morning, writing the last page of his first novel. He was in a state of indescribable excitement, though he seemed to be no longer thinking at all. The pen seemed to do the work of itself and he followed the words that appeared so quickly with a feverish interest. He had not the least idea how it would all look when it was done, but something told him that it was being done in the right way. His hand flew from side to side of the paper, and then stopped suddenly, why, he could not tell. It was not possible that there should be nothing more to say, no more to add, not one word to make the completion more complete. He collected his thoughts and read the page over carefully to the end. No — there was nothing wanting, and one word more would spoil the conclusion.
“I do not understand why, I am sure,” he said to himself. “But that is the end, and there is no doubt about it. So here it goes! George — Winton — Wood — May 29th.”
He pushed the sheet away from him. Rather theatrical, he thought, to sign his name to it, as though it were a real book, and as though the manuscript were worth keeping. He had done it all to please Constance, and Constance was pleased. In twenty-four days he had concocted a novel — and he had never in his life enjoyed twenty-four days so much. That was because he had seen Constance so often and because this wretched scroll had amused her. Would she like the last three chapters? Of course she would. He would take her the whole manuscript and make her a present of it. That was all it could be good for. To publish such stuff would be folly, even if any publisher could be found to abet such madness. On the whole, he would prefer to throw the whole into the fire. Nobody could tell. He might be famous some day in the far future, and then when he was dead and gone and could not interfere any longer, some abominable literary executor would get hold of this thing and print it, and show the world what an egregious ass the celebrated George Winton Wood had been when he was a very young man. But Constance could have it if she liked, on condition that it was never shown to anybody.
Thereupon George tumbled into bed and slept soundly until ten o’clock on the following morning, when he gathered up his manuscript, tied it up into a neat bundle and went to meet Constance at their accustomed trysting-place in the Park.
There were some very striking passages towards the conclusion of the book, and George read them as well as he could. Indeed as many of the best speeches were put into the mouth of the hero and were supposed to be addressed to the lady of his affections, George found it very natural to speak them to Constance and to give them a very tender emphasis. It was clear, too, that Constance understood the real intention of the love-making and, to all appearance, appreciated it, for the colour came and went softly in her face, and there was sometimes a little moisture in her eyes and sometimes a light that is not caused by mere interest in an everyday novel. George wrote better than he talked, as many men do who are born writers. There was music in his phrases, but it was the music of pure nature and not the rhythm of a studied prose. That was what most struck the attention of the young girl who sat beside him, drinking in the words which she knew were meant for her, and which she felt were more beautiful than anything she had heard before.
To tell the truth, though she had spoken her admiration very frankly and forcibly, she was beginning to doubt her own ability to judge of the work. If George’s talent were really as great as it now seemed to her, how had it remained concealed so long? There had been nothing to compare with this in his numerous short writings. Was this because they had not been addressed to herself, or was it for this very reason that his novel was so much more fascinating? Or was it really because he had at last found out his strength and was beginning to use it like a giant? She could not tell. She confessed to herself that she had assumed much in setting up her judgment as a standard for him in the matter. The more he had read, the more she had been amazed at his knowledge of things and men, at his easy versatility and at the power he displayed in the more dramatic parts of the book. Of one thing she felt sure. The book would be read and would be liked by the class of people with whom she associated. What the critics might think or say about it was another matter.
She had been prepared for something well done at the last, but she had not anticipated the ending — that ending which had so much surprised the writer himself in his inexperience of his own powers. His voice trembled as he read the last page, and he was not even conscious of being ashamed of showing so much feeling about the creatures of his imagination. He was aware, as in a dream that Constance’s small hand was tightly clasped in his while he was reading, and then, as his voice ceased, he felt her head resting against his shoulder.
She was looking down and he could only see that there was colour in her face, but as he gazed at the tiny fair curls that were just visible to him, he saw a crystal tear fall upon his rough sleeve and glisten in the May sunlight.
“You have dropped one of your diamonds,” he said, softly. “Is it for me — or for the man in the book?”
She looked up into his face with a happy smile.
“You should know best,” she answered.
Her face was very near to his, and though his came nearer, she did not draw hers away. George forgot the nurses and the children in the distance. If all his assembled acquaintances had been drawn up in ranks before him, he would have forgotten their presence too. His lips touched her cheek, not timidly, nor roughly either, though he felt for one moment that his blood was on fire. Then she drew back quickly and took her hand from his.
“It is very wrong of me,” she said. “Perhaps I shall never love you enough for that.”
“How can you say so? Was it for the man in the book, then, after all?”
“I do not know — forget it. It may come some day — —”
“Is it nearer than it was? Is it any nearer?” George asked, very tenderly.
“I do not know. I am very foolish. Your book moved me I suppose — it is so grand, that last part, where he tells her the truth, and she sees how noble he has been all through.”
“I am glad you have liked it so much. It was writt
en to amuse you, and it has done that, at all events. So here it is. Do you care to keep it?”
Constance looked at him in surprise, not understanding what he meant.
“Of course I want it,” she answered. “After it is printed give it back to me.”
“Printed!” exclaimed George, contemptuously. “Do you think anybody would publish it? Do you really think I would offer it to anybody?”
“You are not serious,” said the young girl, staring at him.
“Indeed I am in earnest. Do you believe a novel can be dashed off in that way, in three or four weeks and be good for anything? Why, it needs six months at least to write a book!”
“What do you call this?” Constance asked, growing suddenly cold and taking the manuscript from his hands.
“Not a book, certainly. It is a scrawl of some sort, a little better than a dime novel, a little poorer than the last thrilling tale in a cheap weekly. Whatever it is, it is not a publishable story.”
Constance could not believe her ears. She did not know whether to be angry at his persistent contempt of her opinion, or to be frightened at the possibility of his being right.
“We cannot both be right,” she said at last, with sudden energy. “One of us two must be an idiot — an absolute idiot — and — well, I would rather not think that I am the one, you know.”
George laughed and tried to take the manuscript back, but she held it behind her and faced him.
“What are you going to do with it?” he asked, when he saw that she was determined to keep it.
“I will not tell you. Did you not say you had written it for me?”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 502
