Home Again

CHAPTER XXXI. THIS PICTURE AND THIS

After awhile, as he did not appear, Molly went up to find him: she was anxious he should know how heartily she valued his real opinion.

“I have got a little poem here—if you can call it a poem—a few lines I wrote last Christmas: would you mind looking at it, and telling me if it is anything?”

“So, my bird of paradise, you sing too?” said Walter.

“Very little. A friend to whom I sent it, took it, without asking me, to one of the magazines for children, but they wouldn’t have it. Tell me if it is worth printing. Not that I want it printed—not a bit!”

“I begin to think, Molly, that anything you write must be worth printing! But I wonder you should ask one who has proved himself so incompetent to give a true opinion, that even what he has given he is unable to defend!”

“I shall always trust your opinion, Walter—only it must be an opinion: you gave a judgment then without having formed an opinion. Shall I read?”

“Yes, please, Molly. I never used to like having poetry read to me, but you can read poetry!”

“This is easy to read!” said Molly.

“See the countless angels hover!
See the mother bending over!

See the shepherds, kings and cow!
What is baby thinking now?

Oh, to think what baby thinks
Would be worth all holy inks!

But he smiles such lovingness,
That I will not fear to guess!—

‘Father called; you would not come!
Here I am to take you home!

‘For the father feels the dearth
Of his children round his hearth—

‘Wants them round and on his knee—
That’s his throne for you and me!’

Something lovely like to this
Surely lights that look of bliss!

Or if something else be there,
Then ‘tis something yet more fair;

For within the father’s breast
Lies the whole world in its nest,”

She ceased.

Walter said nothing. His heart was full. What verses were these beside Lufa’s fire-works!

“You don’t care for them!” said Molly, sadly, but with the sweetest smile. “It’s not that I care so much about the poetry; but I do love what I thought the baby might be thinking: it seems so true! so fit to be true!”

“The poetry is lovely, anyhow!” said Walter. “And one thing I am sure of—the father will not take me on his knee, if I go on as I have been doing! You must let me see everything you write, or have written, Molly! Should you mind?”

“Surely not, Walter! We used to read everything we thought might be yours!”

“Oh, don’t!” cried Walter. “I can’t bear to think of the beastly business!—I beg your pardon, Molly; but I am ashamed of the thing. There was not one stroke of good in the whole affair!”

“I admit,” said Molly, “the kind of thing is not real work, though it may well be hard enough! But all writing about books and authors is not of that kind. A good book, like a true man, is well worth writing about by any one who understands it. That is very different from making it one’s business to sit in judgment on the work of others. The mental condition itself of habitual judgment is a false one. Such an attitude toward any book requiring thought, and worthy of thought, renders it impossible for the would-be judge to know what is in the book. If, on the other hand, the book is worth little or nothing, it is not worth writing about, and yet has a perfect claim to fair play. If we feel differently at different times about a book we know, how am I to know the right mood for doing justice to a new book?”

“I am afraid the object is to write, not to judge righteous judgment!”

“One whose object is to write, and with whom judgment is the mere pretext for writing, is a parasite, and very pitiful, because, being a man, he lives as a flea lives. You see, Walter, by becoming a critic, you have made us critical—your father and me! We have talked about these things ever since you took to the profession!”

“Trade, Molly!” said Walter, gruffly.

“A profession, at least, that is greater than its performance! But it has been to me an education. We got as many as we were able of the books you took pains with, and sometimes could not help doubting whether you had seen the object of the writer. In one you dwelt scornfully on the unscientific allusions, where the design of the book was perfectly served by those allusions, which were merely to illustrate what the author meant. Your social papers, too, were but criticism in another direction. We could not help fearing that your criticism would prove a quicksand, swallowing your faculty for original, individual work. Then there was one horrid book you reviewed!”

“Well, I did no harm there! I made it out horrid enough, surely!”

“I think you did harm. I, for one, should never have heard of the book, and nobody down here would, I believe, if you had not written about it! You advertised it! Let bad books lie as much unheard of as may be. There is no injustice in leaving them alone.”

Walter was silent.

“I have no doubt,” he said at length, “that you are out and out right, Molly! Where my work has not been useless, it has been bad!”

“I do not believe it has been always useless,” returned Molly. “Do you know, for instance, what a difference there was between your notices of the first and second books of one author—a lady with an odd name—I forget it? I have not seen the books, but I have the reviews. You must have helped her to improve!”

Walter gave a groan.

“My sins are indeed finding me out!” he said. Then, after a pause—“Molly,” he resumed, “you can’t help yourself—you’ve got to be my confessor! I am going to tell you an ugly fact—an absolute dishonesty!”

From beginning to end he told her the story of his relations with Lufa and her books; how he had got the better of his conscience, persuading himself that he thought that which he did not think, and that a book was largely worthy, where at best it was worthy but in a low degree; how he had suffered and been punished; how he had loved her, and how his love came to a miserable and contemptible end. That it had indeed come to an end, Molly drew from the quiet way in which he spoke of it; and his account of the letter he had written to Lufa, confirmed her conclusion.

How delighted she was to be so thoroughly trusted by him!

“I’m so glad, Walter!” she said.

“What are you glad of, Molly?”

“That you know one sort of girl, and are not so likely to take the next upon trust.”

“We must take some things on trust, Molly, else we should never have anything!”

“That is true, Walter; but we needn’t without a question empty our pockets to the first beggar that comes! When you were at home last, I wondered whether the girl could be worthy of your love.”

“What girl?” asked Walter, surprised.