A KNIGHT OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY, Edward Payson Roe [top young adult novels TXT] 📗
- Author: Edward Payson Roe
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Unknown. Then He Could Reverse Present Experience By Scorning Those Who
Had Scorned him. He Recalled all That He Had Ever Read About Genius
Toiling In its Attic Until The World Was Compelled to Recognize And Do
Homage To The Regal Mind. He Would Remain In seclusion Also; He Would
Burn Midnight Oil Until He Should Come To Be Known As Haldane The
Brilliant Writer Instead Of Haldane The Gambler, Drunkard, And Thief.
All On Fire With His New Project, He Sallied forth To The Nearest
News-Stand, And Selected two Or Three Papers And Magazines, Whose
Previous Interest To Him And Known Popularity Suggested that They Were
The Best Mediums In which He Could Rise Upon The Public As A Literary
Star, All The More Attractive Because Unnamed and Unknown.
His Next Proceeding Indicated a Commendable Amount Of Shrewdness, And
Proved that His Roseate Visions Resulted more From Ignorance And
Inexperience Than From Innate Foolishness. He Carefully Read The
Periodicals He Had Bought, In the Hope Of Obtaining Hints And
Suggestions From Their Contents Which Would Aid Him In producing
Acceptable Manuscripts. Some Of The Sketches And Stories Appeared very
Simple, The Style Flowing along As Smoothly And Limpidly As A Summer
Brook Through The Meadows. He Did Not See Why He Could Not Write In a
Similar Vein, Perhaps More Excitingly And Interestingly. In his Partial
And Neglected course Of Study He Had Not Given Much Attention To
_Belles-Lettres_, And Was Not Aware That The Simplicity And Lucid
Purity Of Thought Which Made Certain Pages So Easily Read Were Produced
By The Best Trained and Most Cultured talent Existing among The Regular
Contributors.
He Spent The Evening and The Greater Part Of A Sleepless Night In
Constructing a Crude Plot Of A Story, And, Having Procured writing
Materials, Hastened through An Early Breakfast, The Following Morning,
In His Eagerness To Enter On What Now Seemed a Shining Path To Fame.
He Sat Down And Dipped his Pen In ink. The Blank, White Page Was Before
Him, Awaiting His Brilliant And Burning Thoughts; But For Some Reason
They Did Not And Would Not Come. This Puzzled him. He Could Dash Off A
Letter, And Write With Ease A Plain Business Statement. Why Could He Not
Commence And Go On With His Story?
"How Do Those Other Fellows Commence?" He Mentally Queried, And He Again
Carefully Read And Examined the Opening Paragraphs Of Two Or Three Tales
That Had Pleased him. They Seemed to Commence And Go Forward Very Easily
And Naturally. Why Could Not He Do The Same?
To His Dismay He Found That He Could Not. He Might As Well Have Sat Down
And Hoped to Have Deftly And Skilfully Constructed a Watch As To Have
Imitated the Style Of The Stories That Most Interested him, For He Had
Never Formed even The Power, Much Less The Habit, Of Composition.
After A Few Labored and Inconsequential Sentences, Which Seemed like
Crude Ore Instead Of The Molten, Burning Metal Of Thought Left To Cool
In Graceful Molds, He Threw Aside His Pen In despair.
After Staring Despondently For A Time At The Blank Page, Which Now
Promised to Remain As Blank As The Future Then Seemed, The Fact Suddenly
Occurred to Him That Even Genius Often Spurred its Flagging Or Dormant
Powers By Stimulants. Surely, Then, He, In his Pressing Emergency, Had A
Right To Avail Himself Of This Aid. A Little Brandy Might Awaken His
Imagination, Which Would Then Kindle With His Theme.
At Any Rate, He Had No Objection To The Brandy, And With This
Inspiration He Again Resumed his Pen. He Was Soon Astonished and
Delighted with The Result, For He Found Himself Writing With Ease And
Fluency. His Thoughts Seemed to Become Vivid And Powerful, And His Story
Grew Rapidly. As Body And Mind Flagged, The Potent Genii In the Black
Bottle Again Lifted and Soared on With Him Until The Marvellous Tale Was
Completed.
He Decided to Correct The Manuscript On The Following Day, And Was So
Complacent And Hopeful Over His Performance That He Scarcely Noted that
He Was Beginning To Feel Wretchedly From The Inevitable Reaction. The
Next Day, With Dull And Aching Head He Tried to Read What He Had
Written, But Found It Dreary And Disappointing Work. His Sentences And
Paragraphs Appeared like Clouds From Which The Light Had Faded; But He
Explained this Fact To Himself On The Ground Of His Depressed physical
State, And He Went Through His Task With Dogged persistence.
He Felt Better On The Following Day, And With The Aid Of The Bottle He
Resolved to Give His Inventive Genius Another Flight. On This Occasion
He Would Attempt A Longer Story--One That Would Occupy Him Several
Days--And He Again Stimulated himself Up To A Condition In which He
Found At Least No Lack Of Words. When He Attained what He Supposed was
His Best Mood, He Read Over Again The Work Of The Preceding Day, And Was
Delighted to Find That It Now Glowed with Prismatic Hues. In his
Complacence He At Once Despatched it To The Paper For Which It Was
Designed.
Three Or Four Days Of Alternate Work And Brooding Passed, And If Various
And Peculiar Moods Prove The Possession Of Genius, Haldane Certainly
Might Claim It. Between His Sense Of Misfortune And Disgrace, And The
Fact That His Funds Were Becoming Low, On One Hand, And His Towering
Hopes And Shivering Fears Concerning His Literary Ventures, On The
Other, He Was Emphatically In what Is Termed "A State Of Mind"
Continuously. These Causes Alone Were Sufficient To Make Mental Serenity
Impossible; But The After-Effects Of The Decoction From Which He
Obtained his Inspiration Were Even Worse, And After A Week'S Work The
Thought Occurred to Him More Than Once That If He Pursued a Literary
Life, Either His Genius Or That Which He Imbibed as Its Spur Would
Consume Him Utterly.
By The Time The First Two Stories Were Finished he Found That It Would
Be Necessary To Supplement The Labors Of His Pen. He Would Have To Wait
At Least A Few Days Before He Could Hope For Any Returns, Even Though He
Had Urged in his Accompanying Notes Prompt Acceptance And Remittance For
Their Value.
He Went To The Office Of The "Evening Spy," The Paper Which Had Shown
Some Lenience Toward Him, And Offered his Services As Writer, Or
Reporter; And, Although Taught By Harsh Experience Not To Hope For Very
Much, He Was A Little Surprised at The Peremptory Manner In which His
Services Were Declined. His Face Seemed to Ask An Explanation, And The
Editor Said Briefly:
"We Did Not Bear Down Very Hard On You--It'S Not Our Custom; But Both
Inclination And Necessity Lead Us To Require That Every One And
Everything Connected with This Paper Should Be Eminently Respectable And
Deserving Of Respect. Good-Morning, Sir."
Haldane'S Pre-Eminence Consisted only In his Lack Of Respectability; And
After The Brave Visions Of The Past Week, Based on His Literary Toil,
This Cool, Sharp-Cut Statement Of Society'S Opinion Quenched about All
Hope Of Ever Rising By First Gaining Recognition And Employment Among
Those Whose Position Was Similar To What His Own Had Been. As He Plodded
His Way Back To The Miserable Little Foreign Restaurant, His Mind Began
To Dwell On This Question:
"Is There Any Place In the World For One Who Has Committed a Crime, Save
A Prison?"
Chapter XX (Maiden And Wood-Sawyer)
Before Utterly Abandoning all Hope Of Finding Employment That Should In
Some Small Degree Preserve An Air Of Respectability, Haldane Resolved to
Give Up One More Day To The Search, And On The Following Morning He
Started out And Walked until Nightfall. He Even Offered to Take The
Humblest Positions That Would Insure Him A Support And Some Recognition;
But The Record Of His Action While In mr. Arnot'S Employ Followed him
Everywhere, Creating Sufficient Prejudice In every Case To Lead To A
Refusal Of His Application. Some Said "No" Reluctantly And Hesitatingly,
As If Kindly Feelings Within Took The Young Man'S Part; But They Said
It, Nevertheless.
For The Patient Resolution With Which He Continued to Apply To All Kinds
Of People And Places, Hour After Hour, In spite Of Such Disheartening
Treatment, He Deserved much Praise; But He Did Not Receive Any; And At
Last, Weary And Despondent, He Returned to His Miserable Lodgings. He
Was So Desperately Depressed in body And Mind That The Contents Of The
Black Bottle Seemed his Only Resource.
Such A Small Sum Now Remained that He Felt That Something Must Be Done
Instantly. He Concluded that His Only Course Now Was To Go Out And Pick
Up Any Odd Bits Of Work That He Could Find. He Hoped that By Working
Half The Time He Might Make Enough To Pay For His Board At His Present
Cheap Lodging-Place. This Would Leave Him Time To Continue His Writing,
And In the Course Of A Week More He Would Certainly Hear From The
Manuscripts Already Forwarded. On These He Now Built Nearly All His
Hope. If They Were Well Received and Paid For, He Considered his
Fortunes Substantially Restored, And Fame Almost A Certainty In the
Future. If He Could Only Produce A Few More Manuscripts, And Bridge Over
The Intervening Time Until He Could Hear From Them, He Felt That His
Chief Difficulties Would Be Past.
Having Decided to Do A Laborer'S Work, He At Once Resolved to Exchange
His Elegant Broadcloth For A Laborer'S Suit, And He Managed this
Transfer So Shrewdly That He Obtained quite A Little Sum Of Money In
Addition.
It Was Well That He Did Replenish His Finances Somewhat, For His
Apparently Phlegmatic Landlord Was As Wary As A Veteran Mouser In
Looking after His Small Interests. He Had Just Obtained an Inkling as To
Haldane'S Identity, And, While He Was Not At All Chary Concerning The
Social And Moral Standing Of His Few Uncertain Lodgers, He Proposed
Henceforth That All Transactions With The Suspicious Stranger Should Be
On A Strictly Cash Basis.
It Was The Busy Spring-Time, And Labor Was In great Demand. Haldane
Wandered off To The Suburbs, And, As An Ordinary Laborer, Offered his
Services In cleaning Up Yards, Cutting Wood, Or Forking Over A Space Of
Garden Ground. His Stalwart Form And Prepossessing appearance Generally
Secured him A Favorable Answer, But Before He Was Through With His Task
He Often Received a Sound Scolding For His Unskilful And Bungling Style
Of Work. But He In part Made Up By Main Strength What He Lacked in
Skill, And After Two Or Three Days He Acquired considerable Deftness In
His Unwonted labors, And Felt The Better For Them. They Counteracted the
Effects Of His Literary Efforts, Or, More Correctly, His Means Of
Inspiration In them.
Thus Another Week Passed, Of Which He Gave Three Days To The Production
Of Two Or Three More Brief Manuscripts, And During The Following Week He
Felt Sure That He Would Hear From Those First Sent.
He Wrote Throughout The Hours Of Daylight On Sunday, Scarcely Leaving
His Chair, And Drank More Deeply Than Usual. In consequence, He Felt
Wretchedly On Monday, And, Therefore, Strolled off To Look For Some
Employment That Would Not Tax His Aching Head. Hitherto He Had Avoided
All Localities Where He Would Be Apt To Meet Those Who Knew Him; And By
Reason Of His Brief Residence In town There Were Comparatively Few Who
Were Familiar With His Features. He Now Recalled the Fact That He Had
Often Seen From His Window, While An Inmate Of Mrs. Arnot'S Home, Quite
A Collection Of Cottages Across A Small Ravine That Ran A Little Back Of
That Lady'S Residence. He Might Find Some Work Among Them, And He
Yielded to The Impulse To Look Again Upon The Place Where Such Rich And
Abundant Happiness Had Once Seemed within His Grasp.
For Several Days He Had Been Conscious Of A Growing Desire To Hear From
His Mother And Mrs. Arnot, And Often Found Himself Wondering How They
Regarded his Mysterious Disappearance, Or Whether Reports Of His Vain
Inquiry For Work Had Reached them.
With A Pride And Resolution That Grew Obstinate With Time And Failure,
He Resolved that He Would Not
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