Our architect arrived on Friday afternoon, or rather, his assistant.
I felt from the first I was going to like him. He is shy, and that, of course, makes him appear awkward. But, as I explained to Robina, it is the shy young men who, generally speaking, turn out best: few men could have been more painfully shy up to twenty-five than myself.
Robina said that was different: in the case of an author it did not matter. Robina's attitude towards the literary profession would not annoy me so much were it not typical. To be a literary man is, in Robina's opinion, to be a licensed idiot. It was only a week or two ago that I overheard from my study window a conversation between Veronica and Robina upon this very point. Veronica's eye had caught something lying on the grass. I could not myself see what it was, in consequence of an intervening laurel bush. Veronica stooped down and examined it with care. The next instant, uttering a piercing whoop, she leapt into the air; then, clapping her hands, began to dance.
Her face was radiant with a holy joy. Robina, passing near, stopped and demanded explanation.
"Pa's tennis racket!" shouted Veronica--Veronica never sees the use of talking in an ordinary tone of voice when shouting will do just as well. She continued clapping her hands and taking little bounds into the air.
"Well, what are you going on like that for?" asked Robina. "It hasn't bit you, has it?"
"It's been out all night in the wet," shouted Veronica. "He forgot to bring it in."
"You wicked child!" said Robina severely. "It's nothing to be pleased about."
"Yes, it is," explained Veronica. "I thought at first it was mine.
Oh, wouldn't there have been a talk about it, if it had been! Oh my! wouldn't there have been a row!" She settled down to a steady rhythmic dance, suggestive of a Greek chorus expressing satisfaction with the gods.
Robina seized her by the shoulders and shook her back into herself.
"If it had been yours," said Robina, "you would deserve to have been sent to bed."
"Well, then, why don't he go to bed?" argued Veronica.
Robina took her by the arm and walked her up and down just underneath my window. I listened, because the conversation interested me.
"Pa, as I am always explaining to you," said Robina, "is a literary man. He cannot help forgetting things."
"Well, I can't help forgetting things," insisted Veronica.
"You find it hard," explained Robina kindly; "but if you keep on trying you will succeed. You will get more thoughtful. I used to be forgetful and do foolish things once, when I was a little girl."
"Good thing for us if we was all literary," suggested Veronica.
"If we 'were' all literary," Robina corrected her. "But you see we are not. You and I and Dick, we are just ordinary mortals. We must try and think, and be sensible. In the same way, when Pa gets excited and raves--I mean, seems to rave--it's the literary temperament. He can't help it."
"Can't you help doing anything when you are literary?" asked Veronica.
"There's a good deal you can't help," answered Robina. "It isn't fair to judge them by the ordinary standard."
They drifted towards the kitchen garden--it was the time of strawberries--and the remainder of the talk I lost. I noticed that for some days afterwards Veronica displayed a tendency to shutting herself up in the schoolroom with a copybook, and that lead pencils had a way of disappearing from my desk. One in particular that had suited me I determined if possible to recover. A subtle instinct guided me to Veronica's sanctum. I found her thoughtfully sucking it. She explained to me that she was writing a little play.
"You get things from your father, don't you?" she enquired of me.
"You do," I admitted; "but you ought not to take them without asking.
I am always telling you of it. That pencil is the only one I can write with."
"I didn't mean the pencil," explained Veronica. "I was wondering if I had got your literary temper."
It is puzzling, when you come to think of it, this estimate accorded by the general public to the litterateur. It stands to reason that the man who writes books, explaining everything and putting everybody right, must be himself an exceptionally clever man; else how could he do it! The thing is pure logic. Yet to listen to Robina and her like you might think we had not sense enough to run ourselves, as the saying is--let alone running the universe. If I would let her, Robina would sit and give me information by the hour.
"The ordinary girl . . . " Robina will begin, with the air of a University Extension Lecturer.
It is so exasperating. As if I did not know all there is to be known about girls! Why, it is my business. I point this out to Robina.
"Yes, I know," Robina will answer sweetly. "But I was meaning the real girl."
It would make not the slightest difference were I even quite a high-class literary man--Robina thinks I am: she is a dear child. Were I Shakespeare himself, and could I in consequence say to her:
"Methinks, child, the creator of Ophelia and Juliet, and Rosamund and Beatrice, must surely know something about girls," Robina would still make answer:
"Of course, Pa dear. Everybody knows how clever you are. But I was thinking for the moment of real girls."
I wonder to myself sometimes, Is literature to the general reader ever anything more than a fairy-tale? We write with our heart's blood, as we put it. We ask our conscience, Is it right thus to lay bare the secrets of our souls? The general reader does not grasp that we are writing with our heart's blood: to him it is just ink.
