Part 4 (2/2)
Mr. Gouger started from his chair.
”You don't mean that!” he exclaimed.
”But I do. She asked me, and I'm going. I understand that it's a rather bold tale, and I can conceive nothing more entertaining than to hear that kind of thing from the red lips of such a pretty piece of flesh and blood as has just left here.”
There was an uneasy expression on the face of the critic as he heard these words. He liked Weil, although they were as different in their natures as two men could well be. He wanted to please him, but the aspect of this affair was not agreeable.
”Look here, Archie,” he said, earnestly, ”there are some things that I can't permit, you know. My office must not be made a starting-place for one of your lawless adventures. You met Miss Fern here. Now, I protest against your going to her house, pretending that you are interested in that novel, when your real purpose is of a much more questionable kind.”
Mr. Weil put on the air of one whose feelings are lacerated by an unjust suspicion.
”My dear Lawrence--” he began.
”That's all right,” growled the critic. ”I may or may not be your 'dear Lawrence,' but I know you like--like a book,” he added, hitting by accident on a very excusable simile. ”You are an old dog that is not likely to learn new tricks. I shall send this MSS. back to Miss Fern, myself, enclosing a letter warning her to have nothing to do with you.”
A laugh escaped the lips of Archie Weil at this proposition.
”If you knew the feminine mind half as well as you do modern literature,” he answered, ”you would see how little that would avail. I have met Miss Fern and made a distinctly favorable impression. Her address is in my pocket, and I have received a pressing invitation to call. If you choose to send the MSS. by another messenger you will relieve me of the task of carrying a bundle, but you will accomplish nothing more.”
Mr. Gouger's mouth opened in astonishment at the evident advantage which his friend had gained in so short a time.
”You must have convinced her that your literary opinions are of value,”
he said, presently. ”If I write that you are a charletan and entirely unworthy of attention, what will happen then?”
The smiling gentleman opposite crossed his hands over his left knee, and did not delay his answer.
”I will tell you,” he said. ”In the same mail she will receive a letter from me, warning her that a certain party, who has given an adverse judgment on her writings, may attempt to influence her against others more likely to decide in her favor. She will be told that, having rejected a book, this certain party does not wish any one else to print it. Send the severest note you can construct, Lawrence. I have few talents, but I know how to write letters.”
The critic could hardly believe that fate had thrown so many cords around his neck in the brief s.p.a.ce of one hour, but the more he thought the more he became convinced that his best course was to shut his eyes.
”Well, gang your gait,” he said, after a long pause, during which the look of triumph deepened on his companion's face. ”You will have to answer for your own sins. But I'll tell you one thing, that may save your time. Women who write racy novels are almost without exception remarkably correct in their own lives.”
Mr. Weil inquired if his friend was certain of this, and there was a suspicion of disappointment in his tone.
”Absolutely,” said Mr. Gouger, refres.h.i.+ng his memory. ”I can think of a dozen instances to prove the point. There is Lelia Dante, for instance, who writes like a--like a--well, you know how she writes. She sticks to her mother's ap.r.o.n strings like a four-year-old child. They never are seen apart, I am told. Then there is Mrs. Helen Walker Wilbur, the poetess. We have a volume of her verse that is positively combustible from its own heat. The sheets had to be run off the press soaked in water to keep them from igniting. The room was full of steam all the time the work was going on. Warm! I should say so! Now, that woman is vain, and she dresses foolishly, and she does odd things for the sake of being talked about--but n.o.body questions her loyalty to her husband. You would think by some of her poems that an East Indian regiment would not suffice for her, and yet she is the straightest wife on Manhattan Island. Oh, I know so many cases. You remember that girl who wrote, 'Love's Extremities,' a work as pa.s.sionate as Sappho. She is a little Quaker-like maiden,[A] who dresses and talks like a sister of one of the Episcopal guilds. These women are on fire at the brain only. They would repel a physical advance with more indignation than those endowed with less esthetic perceptions. So, see Miss Fern as much as you like. Should you attempt anything improper you will prove the truth of my a.s.sertions.”
[Footnote A: Now dead, alas!--A. R.]
Mr. Weil changed the knee he had been nursing, but the quiet smile did not leave his countenance.
”What an inconsistent fellow you are, Lawrence,” he said. ”I could convict you of a hundred errors of logic. Do you remember telling Mr.
Roseleaf that a man should have a pa.s.sion before he attempts to depict one.”
”And I say so still,” retorted Gouger. ”_You_ don't call the ravings of these poetesses and female novelists real life, do you? _You_ know the actual lover isn't content with kissing the hair and the feet of his divinity! There is more about women's _feet_ in these poems and novels than all the rest of their anatomy put together. And what is a woman's foot? Did you ever see one that was pretty--that you wanted to put to your lips?”
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