Miss Grief and Other Stories (22 page)

Simpson opened the door, and I caught a glimpse of the maid, who was waiting in the anteroom. She was an old woman, shorter than her mistress, equally thin, and dressed like her in rusty black. As the door opened she turned toward it a pair of small, dim blue eyes with a look of furtive suspense. Simpson dropped the curtain, shutting me into the inner room; he had no intention of allowing me to accompany my visitor further. But I had the curiosity to go to a bay-window in an angle from whence I could command the street-door, and presently I saw them issue forth in the rain and walk away side by side, the mistress, being the taller, holding the umbrella: probably there was not much difference in rank between persons so poor and forlorn as these.

It grew dark. I was invited out for the evening, and I knew that if I should go I should meet Miss Abercrombie. I said to myself that I would not go. I got out my paper for writing, I made my preparations for a quiet evening at home with myself; but it was of no use. It all ended slavishly in my going. At the last allowable moment I presented myself, and—as a punishment for my vacillation, I suppose—I never passed a more disagreeable evening. I drove homeward in a murky temper; it was foggy without, and very foggy within. What Isabel really was, now that she had broken through my elaborately-built theories, I was not able to decide. There was, to tell the truth, a certain young Englishman—But that is apart from this story.

I reached home, went up to my rooms, and had a supper. It was to console myself; I am obliged to console myself scientifically once in a while. I was walking up and down afterward, smoking and feeling somewhat better, when my eye fell upon
the pasteboard box. I took it up; on the cover was written an address which showed that my visitor must have walked a long distance in order to see me: “A. Crief.”—“A Grief,” I thought; “and so she is. I positively believe she has brought all this trouble upon me: she has the evil eye.” I took out the manuscript and looked at it. It was in the form of a little volume, and clearly written; on the cover was the word “Armor” in German text, and, underneath, a pen-and-ink sketch of a helmet, breastplate, and shield.

“Grief certainly needs armor,” I said to myself, sitting down by the table and turning over the pages. “I may as well look over the thing now; I could not be in a worse mood.” And then I began to read.

Early the next morning Simpson took a note from me to the given address, returning with the following reply: “No; I prefer to come to you; at four; A. C
RIEF
.” These words, with their three semicolons, were written in pencil upon a piece of coarse printing-paper, but the handwriting was as clear and delicate as that of the manuscript in ink.

“What sort of a place was it, Simpson?”

“Very poor, sir, but I did not go all the way up. The elder person came down, sir, took the note, and requested me to wait where I was.”

“You had no chance, then, to make inquiries?” I said, knowing full well that he had emptied the entire neighborhood of any information it might possess concerning these two lodgers.

“Well, sir, you know how these foreigners will talk, whether one wants to hear or not. But it seems that these two persons
have been there but a few weeks; they live alone, and are uncommonly silent and reserved. The people round there call them something that signifies ‘the Madames American, thin and dumb.'”

At four the “Madames American” arrived; it was raining again, and they came on foot under their old umbrella. The maid waited in the anteroom, and Miss Grief was ushered into my bachelor's parlor. I had thought that I should meet her with great deference; but she looked so forlorn that my deference changed to pity. It was the woman that impressed me then, more than the writer—the fragile, nerveless body more than the inspired mind. For it was inspired: I had sat up half the night over her drama, and had felt thrilled through and through more than once by its earnestness, passion, and power.

No one could have been more surprised than I was to find myself thus enthusiastic. I thought I had outgrown that sort of thing. And one would have supposed, too (I myself should have supposed so the day before), that the faults of the drama, which were many and prominent, would have chilled any liking I might have felt, I being a writer myself, and therefore critical; for writers are as apt to make much of the “how,” rather than the “what,” as painters, who, it is well known, prefer an exquisitely rendered representation of a commonplace theme to an imperfectly executed picture of even the most striking subject. But in this case, on the contrary, the scattered rays of splendor in Miss Grief's drama had made me forget the dark spots, which were numerous and disfiguring; or, rather, the splendor had made me anxious to have the spots
removed. And this also was a philanthropic state very unusual with me. Regarding unsuccessful writers, my motto had been “Væ victis!”

My visitor took a seat and folded her hands; I could see, in spite of her quiet manner, that she was in breathless suspense. It seemed so pitiful that she should be trembling there before me—a woman so much older than I was, a woman who possessed the divine spark of genius, which I was by no means sure (in spite of my success) had been granted to me—that I felt as if I ought to go down on my knees before her, and entreat her to take her proper place of supremacy at once. But there! one does not go down on one's knees, combustively, as it were, before a woman over fifty, plain in feature, thin, dejected, and ill-dressed. I contented myself with taking her hands (in their miserable old gloves) in mine, while I said cordially, “Miss Crief, your drama seems to me full of original power. It has roused my enthusiasm: I sat up half the night reading it.”

The hands I held shook, but something (perhaps a shame for having evaded the knees business) made me tighten my hold and bestow upon her also a reassuring smile. She looked at me for a moment, and then, suddenly and noiselessly, tears rose and rolled down her cheeks. I dropped her hands and retreated. I had not thought her tearful: on the contrary, her voice and face had seemed rigidly controlled. But now here she was bending herself over the side of the chair with her head resting on her arms, not sobbing aloud, but her whole frame shaken by the strength of her emotion. I rushed for a glass of wine; I pressed her to take it. I did not quite know what to do,
but, putting myself in her place, I decided to praise the drama; and praise it I did. I do not know when I have used so many adjectives. She raised her head and began to wipe her eyes.

“Do take the wine,” I said, interrupting myself in my cataract of language.

“I dare not,” she answered; then added humbly, “that is, unless you have a biscuit here or a bit of bread.”

I found some biscuit; she ate two, and then slowly drank the wine, while I resumed my verbal Niagara. Under its influence—and that of 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 you trust me to go over the drama and correct it at my pleasure?” This was a vast deal for me to offer; I was surprised at myself.

“No,” she answered softly, still smiling. “There shall not be so much as a comma altered.” Then she sat down and fell into a reverie as though she were alone.

“Have you written anything else?” I said after a while, when I had become tired of the silence.

“Yes.”

“Can I see it? Or is it
them?
”

“It is
them
. Yes, you can see all.”

“I will call upon you for the purpose.”

“No, you must not,” she said, coming back to the present nervously. “I prefer to come to you.”

At this moment Simpson entered to light the room, and busied himself rather longer than was necessary over the task. When he finally went out I saw that my visitor's manner had sunk into its former depression: the presence of the servant seemed to have chilled her.

“When did you say I might come?” I repeated, ignoring her refusal.

“I did not say it. It would be impossible.”

“Well, then, when will you come here?” There was, I fear, a trace of fatigue in my tone.

“At your good pleasure, sir,” she answered humbly.

My chivalry was touched by this: after all, she was a
woman. “Come to-morrow,” I said. “By the way, come and dine with me then; why not?” I was curious to see what she would reply.

“Why not, indeed? Yes, I will come. I am forty-three: I might have been your mother.”

This was not quite true, as I am over thirty: but I look young, while she—Well, I had thought her over fifty. “I can hardly call you ‘mother,' but we might compromise upon ‘aunt,'” I said, laughing. “Aunt what?”

“My name is Aaronna,” she gravely answered. “My father was much disappointed that I was not a boy, and gave me as nearly as possible the name he had prepared—Aaron.”

“Then come and dine with me to-morrow, and bring with you the other manuscripts, Aaronna,” I said, amused at the quaint sound of the name. On the whole, I did not like “aunt.”

“I will come,” she answered.

It was twilight and still raining, but she refused all offers of escort or carriage, departing with her maid, as she had come, under the brown umbrella. The next day we had the dinner. Simpson was astonished—and more than astonished, grieved—when I told him that he was to dine with the maid; but he could not complain in words, since my own guest, the mistress, was hardly more attractive. When our preparations were complete I could not help laughing: the two prim little tables, one in the parlor and one in the anteroom, and Simpson disapprovingly going back and forth between them, were irresistible.