Home Again Part 22

"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 att.i.tude 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 ill.u.s.trate 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 n.o.body 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.

"Why, that girl, of course!"

"But I never said anything!"

"Twenty times a day!"

"What then made you doubt her worth?"

"That you cared less for your father."

"I am a brute, Molly! Did he feel it very much?"

"He always spoke to G.o.d about it, not to me. He never finds it easy to talk to his fellow-man; but I always know when he is talking to G.o.d! May I tell your father what you have just told me Walter? But of course not!

You will tell him yourself!"

"No, Molly! I would rather you should tell him. I want him to know, and would tell him myself, if you were not handy. Then, if he chooses, we can have a talk about it! But now, Molly, what am I to do?"

"You still feel as if you had a call to literature, Walter?"

"I have no pleasure in any other kind of work."

"Might not that be because you have not tried anything else?"

"I don't know. I am drawn to nothing else."

"Well, it seems to me that a man who would like to make a saddle, must first have some pig-skin to make it of! Have you any pig-skin, Walter?"

"I see well enough what you mean!"

"A man must want long leisure for thought before he can have any material for his literary faculty to work with.

"You could write a history, but could you write one _now_? Even for a biography, you would have to read and study for months--perhaps years.

As to the social questions you have been treating, men generally change their opinions about such things when they know a little more; and who would utter his opinions, knowing he most by and by wish he had not uttered them!"

"No one; but unhappily every one is c.o.c.k-sure of his opinion till he changes it--and then he is as sure as before till he changes it again!"

"Opinion is not sight, your father says," answered Molly; and again a little pause followed.

"Well, but, Molly," resumed Walter, "how is that precious thing, leisure for thought, to be come by? Write reviews I will not! Write a history, I can not. Write a poem I might, but they wouldn't buy copies enough of it to pay for the paper and printing. Write a novel I might, if I had time; but how to live, not to say how to think, while I was writing it?

Perhaps I ought to be a tutor, or a school-master!"

"Do you feel drawn to that, Walter?"

"I do not."

"And you do feel drawn to write?"

"I dare not say I have thoughts which demand expression; and yet somehow I want to write."

"And you say that some begin by writing what is of no value, but come to write things that are precious?"

"It is true."

"Then perhaps you have served your apprenticeship in worthless things, and the inclination to write comes now of precious things on their way, which you do not yet see or suspect, not to say know!"