Constance Fenimore Woolson

by Constance Fenimore Woolson

  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.

  I greeted my guest hilariously when she arrived, and, fortunately, her manner was not quite so depressed as usual: I could never have accorded myself with a tearful mood. I had thought that perhaps she would make, for the occasion, some change in her attire; I have never known a woman who had not some scrap of finery, however small, in reserve for that unexpected occasion of which she is ever dreaming. But no: Miss Grief wore the same black gown, unadorned and unaltered. I was glad that there was no rain that day, so that the skirt did not at least look so damp and rheumatic.

  She ate quietly, almost furtively, yet with a good appetite, and she did not refuse the wine. Then, when the meal was over and Simpson had removed the dishes, I asked for the new manuscripts. She gave me an old green copybook filled with short poems, and a prose sketch by itself; I lit a cigar and sat down at my desk to look them over.

  “Perhaps you will try a cigarette?” I suggested, more for amusement than anything else, for there was not a shade of Bohemianism about her; her whole appearance was puritanical.

  “I have not yet succeeded in learning to smoke.”

  “You have tried?” I said, turning round.

  “Yes: Serena and I tried, but we did not succeed.”

  “Serena is your maid?”

  “She lives with me.”

  I was seized with inward laughter, and began hastily to look over her manuscripts with my back toward her, so that she might not see it. A vision had risen before me of those two forlorn women, alone in their room with locked doors, patiently trying to acquire the smoker’s art.

  But my attention was soon absorbed by the papers before me. Such a fantastic collection of words, lines, and epithets I had never before seen, or even in dreams imagined. In truth, they were like the work of dreams: they were Kubla Khan, only more so. Here and there was radiance like the flash of a diamond, but each poem, almost each verse and line, was marred by some fault or lack which seemed wilful perversity, like the work of an evil sprite. It was like a case of jeweller’s wares set before you, with each ring unfinished, each bracelet too large or too small for its purpose, each breastpin without its fastening, each necklace purposely broken. I turned the pages, marvelling. When about half an hour had passed, and I was leaning back for a moment to light another cigar, I glanced toward my visitor. She was behind me, in an easy-chair before my small fire, and she was—fast asleep! In the relaxation of her unconsciousness I was struck anew by the poverty her appearance expressed; her feet were visible, and I saw the miserable worn old shoes which hitherto she had kept concealed.

  After looking at her for a moment I returned to my task and took up the prose story; in prose she must be more reasonable. She was less fantastic perhaps, but hardly more reasonable. The story was that of a profligate and commonplace man forced by two of his friends, in order not to break the heart of a dying girl who loves him, to live up to a high imaginary ideal of himself which her pure but mistaken mind has formed. He has a handsome face and sweet voice, and repeats what they tell him. Her long, slow decline and happy death, and his own inward ennui and profound weariness of the rôle he has to play, made the vivid points of the story. So far, well enough, but here was the trouble: through the whole narrative moved another character, a physician of tender heart and exquisite mercy, who pr
actised murder as a fine art, and was regarded (by the author) as a second Messiah! This was monstrous. I read it through twice, and threw it down; then, fatigued, I turned round and leaned back, waiting for her to wake. I could see her profile against the dark hue of the easy-chair.

  Presently she seemed to feel my gaze, for she stirred, then opened her eyes. “I have been asleep,” she said, rising hurriedly.

  “No harm in that, Aaronna.”

  But she was deeply embarrassed and troubled, much more so than the occasion required; so much so, indeed, that I turned the conversation back upon the manuscripts as a diversion. “I cannot stand that doctor of yours,” I said, indicating the prose story; “no one would. You must cut him out.”

  Her self-possession returned as if by magic. “Certainly not,” she answered haughtily.

  “Oh, if you do not care— I had labored under the impression that you were anxious these things should find a purchaser.”

  “I am, I am,” she said, her manner changing to deep humility with wonderful rapidity. With such alternations of feeling as this sweeping over her like great waves, no wonder she was old before her time.

  “Then you must take out that doctor.”

  “I am willing, but do not know how,” she answered, pressing her hands together helplessly. “In my mind he belongs to the story so closely that he cannot be separated from it.”

  Here Simpson entered, bringing a note for me: it was a line from Mrs. Abercrombie inviting me for that evening—an unexpected gathering, and therefore likely to be all the more agreeable. My heart bounded in spite of me; I forgot Miss Grief and her manuscripts for the moment as completely as though they had never existed. But, bodily, being still in the same room with her, her speech brought me back to the present.

  “You have had good news?” she said.

  “Oh no, nothing especial—merely an invitation.”

  “But good news also,” she repeated. “And now, as for me, I must go.”

  Not supposing that she would stay much later in any case, I had that morning ordered a carriage to come for her at about that hour. I told her this. She made no reply beyond putting on her bonnet and shawl.

  “You will hear from me soon,” I said; “I shall do all I can for you.”

  She had reached the door, but before opening it she stopped, turned and extended her hand. “You are good,” she said: “I give you thanks. Do not think me ungrateful or envious. It is only that you are young, and I am so—so old.” Then she opened the door and passed through the anteroom without pause, her maid accompanying her and Simpson with gladness lighting the way. They were gone. I dressed hastily and went out—to continue my studies in psychology.

  Time passed; I was busy, amused and perhaps a little excited (sometimes psychology is exciting). But, though much occupied with my own affairs, I did not altogether neglect my self-imposed task regarding Miss Grief. I began by sending her prose story to a friend, the editor of a monthly magazine, with a letter making a strong plea for its admittance. It should have a chance first on its own merits. Then I forwarded the drama to a publisher, also an acquaintance, a man with a taste for phantasms and a soul above mere common popularity, as his own coffers knew to their cost. This done, I waited with conscience clear.

  Four weeks passed. During this waiting period I heard nothing from Miss Grief. At last one morning came a letter from my editor. “The story has force, but I cannot stand that doctor,” he wrote. “Let her cut him out, and I might print it.” Just what I myself had said. The package lay there on my table, travel-worn and grimed; a returned manuscript is, I think, the most melancholy object on earth. I decided to wait, before writing to Aaronna, until the second letter was received. A week later it came. “Armor” was declined. The publisher had been “impressed” by the power displayed in certain passages, but the “impossibilities of the plot” rendered it “unavailable for publication”—in fact, would “bury it in ridicule” if brought before the public, a public “lamentably” fond of amusement, “seeking it, undaunted, even in the cannon’s mouth.” I doubt if he knew himself what he meant. But one thing, at any rate, was clear: “Armor” was declined.

  Now, I am, as I have remarked before, a little obstinate. I was determined that Miss Grief’s work should be received. I would alter and improve it myself, without letting her know: the end justified the means. Surely the sieve of my own good taste, whose mesh had been pronounced so fine and delicate, would serve for two. I began; and utterly failed.

  I set to work first upon “Armor.” I amended, altered, left out, put in, pieced, condensed, lengthened; I did my best, and all to no avail. I could not succeed in completing anything that satisfied me, or that approached, in truth, Miss Grief’s own work just as it stood. I suppose I went over that manuscript twenty times: I covered sheets of paper with my copies. But the obstinate drama refused to be corrected; as it was it must stand or fall.

  Wearied and annoyed, I threw it aside and took up the prose story: that would be easier. But, to my surprise, I found that that apparently gentle “doctor” would not out: he was so closely interwoven with every part of the tale that to take him out was like taking out one especial figure in a carpet: that is, impossible, unless you unravel the whole. At last I did unravel the whole, and then the story was no longer good, or Aaronna’s: it was weak, and mine. All this took time, for of course I had much to do in connection with my own life and tasks. But, though slowly and at my leisure, I really did try my best as regarded Miss Grief, and without success. I was forced at last to make up my mind that either my own powers were not equal to the task, or else that her perversities were as essential a part of her work as her inspirations, and not to be separated from it. Once during this period I showed two of the short poems to Isabel, withholding of course the writer’s name. “They were written by a woman,” I explained.

  “Her mind must have been disordered, poor thing!” Isabel said in her gentle way when she returned them—“at least, judging by these. They are hopelessly mixed and vague.”

  Now, they were not vague so much as vast. But I knew that I could not make Isabel comprehend it, and (so complex a creature is man) I do not know that I wanted her to comprehend it. These were the only ones in the whole collection that I would have shown her, and I was rather glad that she did not like even these. Not that poor Aaronna’s poems were evil: they were simply unrestrained, large, vast, like the skies or the wind. Isabel was bounded on all sides, like a violet in a garden-bed. And I liked her so.

  One afternoon, about the time when I was beginning to see that I could not “improve” Miss Grief, I came upon the maid. I was driving, and she had stopped on the crossing to let the carriage pass. I recognized her at a glance (by her general forlornness), and called to the driver to stop: “How is Miss Grief?” I said. “I have been intending to write to her for some time.”

  “And your note, when it comes,” answered the old woman on the crosswalk fiercely, “she shall not see.”

  “What?”

  “I say she shall not see it. Your patronizing face shows that you have no good news, and you shall not rack and stab her any more on this earth, please God, while I have authority.”

  “Who has racked or stabbed her, Serena?”

  “Serena, indeed! Rubbish! I’m no Serena: I’m her aunt. And as to who has racked and stabbed her, I say you, you—YOU literary men!” She had put her old head inside my carriage, and flung out these words at me in a shrill, menacing tone. “But she shall die in peace in spite of you,” she continued. “Vampires! you take her ideas and fatten on them, and leave her to starve. You know you do—you who have had her poor manuscripts these months and months!”

  “Is she ill?” I asked in real concern, gathering that much at least from the incoherent tirade.

  “She is dying,” answered the desolate old creature, her voice softening and her dim eyes filling with tears.

&n
bsp; “Oh, I trust not. Perhaps something can be done. Can I help you in any way?”

  “In all ways if you would,” she said, breaking down and beginning to sob weakly, with her head resting on the sill of the carriage-window. “Oh, what have we not been through together, we two! Piece by piece I have sold all.”

  I am good-hearted enough, but I do not like to have old women weeping across my carriage-door. I suggested, therefore, that she should come inside and let me take her home. Her shabby old skirt was soon beside me, and, following her directions, the driver turned toward one of the most wretched quarters of the city, the abode of poverty, crowded and unclean. Here, in a large bare chamber up many flights of stairs, I found Miss Grief.

  As I entered I was startled: I thought she was dead. There seemed no life present until she opened her eyes, and even then they rested upon us vaguely, as though she did not know who we were. But as I approached a light came into them: she recognized me, and this sudden revivification, this return of the soul to the almost deserted bod, was the most wonderful thing I ever saw. “You have good news of the drama?” she whispered as I bent over her: “tell me. I know you have good news.”

  What was I to answer? Pray, what would you have answered, puritan?

  “Yes, I have good news, Aaronna,” I said. “The drama will appear.” (And who knows? Perhaps it will in some other world.)

  She smiled, and her now brilliant eyes did not leave my face.

  “He knows I’m your aunt: I told him,” said the old woman, coming to the bedside.

  “Did you?” whispered Miss Grief, still gazing at me with a smile. “Then please, dear Aunt Martha, give me something to eat.”

  Aunt Martha hurried across the room, and I followed her. “It’s the first time she’s asked for food in weeks,” she said in a husky tone.

  She opened a cupboard-door vaguely, but I could see nothing within. “What have you for her?” I asked with some impatience, though in a low voice.

  “Please God, nothing!” answered the poor old woman, hiding her reply and her tears behind the broad cupboard-door. “I was going out to get a little something when I met you.”