She was a New
York girl.
Well (as the narrative style permits us to say infrequently),
Pettit went to pieces. All those pains, those lover's doubts, those
heart-burnings and tremors of which he had written so unconvincingly
were his. Talk about Shylock's pound of flesh! Twenty-five pounds
Cupid got from Pettit. Which is the usurer?
One night Pettit came to my room exalted. Pale and haggard but
exalted. She had given him a jonquil.
"Old Hoss," said he, with a new smile flickering around his mouth, "I
believe I could write that story to-night--the one, you know, that is
to win out. I can feel it. I don't know whether it will come out or
not, but I can feel it."
I pushed him out of my door. "Go to your room and write it," I
ordered. "Else I can see your finish. I told you this must come
first. Write it to-night and put it under my door when it is done.
Put it under my door to-night when it is finished--don't keep it
until to-morrow."
I was reading my bully old pal Montaigne at two o'clock when I heard
the sheets rustle under my door. I gathered them up and read the
story.
The hissing of geese, the languishing cooing of doves, the braying
of donkeys, the chatter of irresponsible sparrows--these were in my
mind's ear as I read. "Suffering Sappho!" I exclaimed to myself. "Is
this the divine fire that is supposed to ignite genius and make it
practical and wage-earning?"
The story was sentimental drivel, full of whimpering soft-heartedness
and gushing egoism.
Pages:
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102