facile humour. In
harmony with the broad shoulders, she had a strong neck; as she
bore the lamp into the room a slight turn of her head showed
splendid muscles from the ear downward. It was a magnificently
clear-cut bust; one thought, in looking at her, of the
newly-finished head which some honest sculptor has wrought with his
own hand from the marble block; there was a suggestion of 'planes'
and of the chisel. The atmosphere was cold; ruddiness would have
been quite out of place on her cheeks, and a flush must have been
the rarest thing there.
Her age was not quite two-and-twenty; she had been wedded nearly
two years, and had a child ten months old.
As for her dress, it was unpretending in fashion and colour, but
of admirable fit. Every detail of her appearance denoted scrupulous
personal refinement. She walked well; you saw that the foot,
however gently, was firmly planted. When she seated herself her
posture was instantly graceful, and that of one who is indifferent
about support for the back.
'What is the matter?' she began. 'Why can't you get on with the
story?'
It was the tone of friendly remonstrance, not exactly of
affection, not at all of tender solicitude.
Reardon had risen and wished to approach her, but could not do
so directly. He moved to another part of the room, then came round
to the back of her chair, and bent his face upon her shoulder.
'Amy—'
'Well.'
'I think it's all over with me. I don't think I shall write any
more.'
'Don't be so foolish, dear. What is to prevent your
writing?'
'Perhaps I am only out of sorts. But I begin to be horribly
afraid. My will seems to be fatally weakened. I can't see my way to
the end of anything; if I get hold of an idea which seems good, all
the sap has gone out of it before I have got it into working shape.
In these last few months, I must have begun a dozen different
books; I have been ashamed to tell you of each new beginning. I
write twenty pages, perhaps, and then my courage fails. I am
disgusted with the thing, and can't go on with it—can't! My fingers
refuse to hold the pen. In mere writing, I have done enough to make
much more than three volumes; but it's all destroyed.'
'Because of your morbid conscientiousness. There was no need to
destroy what you had written. It was all good enough for the
market.'
'Don't use that word, Amy. I hate it!'
'You can't afford to hate it,' was her rejoinder, in very
practical tones. 'However it was before, you must write for the
market now. You have admitted that yourself.'
He kept silence.
'Where are you?' she went on to ask. 'What have you actually
done?'
'Two short chapters of a story I can't go on with. The three
volumes lie before me like an interminable desert. Impossible to
get through them. The idea is stupidly artificial, and I haven't a
living character in it.'
'The public don't care whether the characters are living or
not.—Don't stand behind me, like that; it's such an awkward way of
talking. Come and sit down.'
He drew away, and came to a position whence he could see her
face, but kept at a distance.
'Yes,' he said, in a different way, 'that's the worst of
it.'
'What is?'
'That you—well, it's no use.'
'That I—what?'
She did not look at him; her lips, after she had spoken, drew in
a little.
'That your disposition towards me is being affected by this
miserable failure. You keep saying to yourself that I am not what
you thought me. Perhaps you even feel that I have been guilty of a
sort of deception. I don't blame you; it's natural enough.'
'I'll tell you quite honestly what I do think,' she replied,
after a short silence. 'You are much weaker than I imagined.
Difficulties crush you, instead of rousing you to struggle.'
'True. It has always been my fault.'
'But don't you feel it's rather unmanly, this state of things?
You say you love me, and I try to believe it. But whilst you are
saying so, you let me get nearer and nearer to miserable, hateful
poverty. What is to become of me—of us?
harmony with the broad shoulders, she had a strong neck; as she
bore the lamp into the room a slight turn of her head showed
splendid muscles from the ear downward. It was a magnificently
clear-cut bust; one thought, in looking at her, of the
newly-finished head which some honest sculptor has wrought with his
own hand from the marble block; there was a suggestion of 'planes'
and of the chisel. The atmosphere was cold; ruddiness would have
been quite out of place on her cheeks, and a flush must have been
the rarest thing there.
Her age was not quite two-and-twenty; she had been wedded nearly
two years, and had a child ten months old.
As for her dress, it was unpretending in fashion and colour, but
of admirable fit. Every detail of her appearance denoted scrupulous
personal refinement. She walked well; you saw that the foot,
however gently, was firmly planted. When she seated herself her
posture was instantly graceful, and that of one who is indifferent
about support for the back.
'What is the matter?' she began. 'Why can't you get on with the
story?'
It was the tone of friendly remonstrance, not exactly of
affection, not at all of tender solicitude.
Reardon had risen and wished to approach her, but could not do
so directly. He moved to another part of the room, then came round
to the back of her chair, and bent his face upon her shoulder.
'Amy—'
'Well.'
'I think it's all over with me. I don't think I shall write any
more.'
'Don't be so foolish, dear. What is to prevent your
writing?'
'Perhaps I am only out of sorts. But I begin to be horribly
afraid. My will seems to be fatally weakened. I can't see my way to
the end of anything; if I get hold of an idea which seems good, all
the sap has gone out of it before I have got it into working shape.
In these last few months, I must have begun a dozen different
books; I have been ashamed to tell you of each new beginning. I
write twenty pages, perhaps, and then my courage fails. I am
disgusted with the thing, and can't go on with it—can't! My fingers
refuse to hold the pen. In mere writing, I have done enough to make
much more than three volumes; but it's all destroyed.'
'Because of your morbid conscientiousness. There was no need to
destroy what you had written. It was all good enough for the
market.'
'Don't use that word, Amy. I hate it!'
'You can't afford to hate it,' was her rejoinder, in very
practical tones. 'However it was before, you must write for the
market now. You have admitted that yourself.'
He kept silence.
'Where are you?' she went on to ask. 'What have you actually
done?'
'Two short chapters of a story I can't go on with. The three
volumes lie before me like an interminable desert. Impossible to
get through them. The idea is stupidly artificial, and I haven't a
living character in it.'
'The public don't care whether the characters are living or
not.—Don't stand behind me, like that; it's such an awkward way of
talking. Come and sit down.'
He drew away, and came to a position whence he could see her
face, but kept at a distance.
'Yes,' he said, in a different way, 'that's the worst of
it.'
'What is?'
'That you—well, it's no use.'
'That I—what?'
She did not look at him; her lips, after she had spoken, drew in
a little.
'That your disposition towards me is being affected by this
miserable failure. You keep saying to yourself that I am not what
you thought me. Perhaps you even feel that I have been guilty of a
sort of deception. I don't blame you; it's natural enough.'
'I'll tell you quite honestly what I do think,' she replied,
after a short silence. 'You are much weaker than I imagined.
Difficulties crush you, instead of rousing you to struggle.'
'True. It has always been my fault.'
'But don't you feel it's rather unmanly, this state of things?
You say you love me, and I try to believe it. But whilst you are
saying so, you let me get nearer and nearer to miserable, hateful
poverty. What is to become of me—of us?
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