XLIVTHE SLATE AND THE SPONGE
PIDGE was choosing a serial forThe Public Square. The choice lay now between two manuscripts on the desk before her eyes. One was by a maker of the “new” American literature, named Carver, who had dared to perform the work in one sustained, slow movement, bound to ward off excessive popularity, a thing of drabs and tans and grays, but earnest, even in its hopelessness. It consistently portrayed a cross section of life, a fine piece of human observation, but altogether unlit with intuition.
The other book was a novel of New York, by a woman whose name was entirely unheard of. This manuscript had been refused several times as a serial in the past year, and several times as a book prospect. The letters of refusal from the different editors were also on Pidge Musser’s desk. One said, “This book is too much of a gamble for an unknown name.” The united opinion of all professional readers was that this story was unquestionably an augur for the future of the novelist, rather than a compelling announcement of her arrival.
In her own heart, Pidge believed that the woman’s story would interest more readers than Carver’s. Also,The Public Squarewould be saved considerable money in taking the woman’s story, for Carver stood out for rather a high price for his first American serial rights.
“It isn’t the freedom of ignorance,” she said at last, about the lower-priced book, “but it isn’t the freedom of knowledge, either. ‘A man is crippled while he’s learning technic.’... No, I can’t take the chance!”
So the novel by the unknown woman went back to Harrow Street with its refusals, and found a resting place in the drawer under the mirror that waved; and only Miss Claes and the author, herself, knew who was hurt.
Mr. Adolph Musser, in New York with his daughter, began to have callers. The two small upper rooms in Harrow Street were not adapted for callers, even in the adaptable Village. Especially this was so because an adopted male child of one year was rooted and ramifying in the place. One of the ramifications was a female lodger and one-time nurse who looked after the child while Pidge was away at the office. Mr. Musser, during his first week in New York, before he found an apartment in the Sixties, had pronounced this woman too heavy-footed to live with.
Though Pidge had received an important increase of salary, dating from the first of this year of 1919, she did not find herself in a greatly improved condition when the additional expenses of nurse and her father’s separate maintenance were considered. However, something happened which she had not foreseen. Mr.Adolph Musser became rapidly self-supporting. According to his predictions, New York proved to be suffering from a “biological hunger and thirst” for his very sort of metaphysic. Los Angeles had been sated. One had merely to move from temple to temple in Los Angeles. Cultists of all colors were there; light-bringers from all lands. Mr. Musser, according to predictions, found New York a virgin oil field and he was not long in getting his derricks up.
Late in May there was a letter from Richard Cobden, mailed at Bombay in early April. Though it was written to Pidge personally she saw in it Dicky’s first real work, his first actual grasp and retention of essentials, to her idea. It opened to her, also, the lineaments of the Big Story they had talked so much about. She read the letter through twice on the day it arrived, and that night took it home to read to Miss Claes, who came to the upper room in the latter part of the evening, as she had come to hearThe Lance of the Rivernais, over five years ago. Their faces were close together, and Pidge read low and rapidly:
I have been with Gandhi several times in the past three days, and early to-morrow I start north for Amritsar to join Nagar. I hadn’t thought of writing this until just now, on my way to bed, and the subject of the Little Man suddenly filled me. I feel an unadulterated American to-night, and there may be an advantage, at least an angle, in a study of Gandhi from that point.... He is very ill, can scarcely stand, but more than ever full of his kind of light and power.In the last three days with him, I have come to understandyouas never before—and America and the American soldier. I have found out, Pidge, what you mean by stating and living the fact, that it isn’t how much one knows that counts, but how much one does. Gandhi is a doer. I used to hear in church something about the Spirit being made flesh, and now I’ve got an inkling of what that means. Gandhi’s genius doesn’t dream.It does.The sun shines on all India, but Gandhi has become a lens. The rays focalize through him. The ground burns under his feet.... He is called a bigot, a fanatic, a living Blue Law, and it is all true, Pidge. He is drawn in black and white. He has no half-tones, no twilights, no afterglows. He is devoid of atmosphere as the moon. His lines of light and shadow are never blent or diffused. He is vivid noon where his light strikes, densest night where light ends.... It is not that he loathes the West, but that he knows the East. He has become a specialist, as Nagar says repeatedly. He has withdrawn his attention from the world to India, Herself. He has brought in his eyes from the future, to the Now. He sees the next step which India must take, and leaves to the dreamers of the world to point out the glories and the penalties. He stands in the road in front of India to-day, like a man before a runaway horse——
I have been with Gandhi several times in the past three days, and early to-morrow I start north for Amritsar to join Nagar. I hadn’t thought of writing this until just now, on my way to bed, and the subject of the Little Man suddenly filled me. I feel an unadulterated American to-night, and there may be an advantage, at least an angle, in a study of Gandhi from that point.... He is very ill, can scarcely stand, but more than ever full of his kind of light and power.In the last three days with him, I have come to understandyouas never before—and America and the American soldier. I have found out, Pidge, what you mean by stating and living the fact, that it isn’t how much one knows that counts, but how much one does. Gandhi is a doer. I used to hear in church something about the Spirit being made flesh, and now I’ve got an inkling of what that means. Gandhi’s genius doesn’t dream.It does.The sun shines on all India, but Gandhi has become a lens. The rays focalize through him. The ground burns under his feet.... He is called a bigot, a fanatic, a living Blue Law, and it is all true, Pidge. He is drawn in black and white. He has no half-tones, no twilights, no afterglows. He is devoid of atmosphere as the moon. His lines of light and shadow are never blent or diffused. He is vivid noon where his light strikes, densest night where light ends.... It is not that he loathes the West, but that he knows the East. He has become a specialist, as Nagar says repeatedly. He has withdrawn his attention from the world to India, Herself. He has brought in his eyes from the future, to the Now. He sees the next step which India must take, and leaves to the dreamers of the world to point out the glories and the penalties. He stands in the road in front of India to-day, like a man before a runaway horse——
Dicky had ended the letter suddenly, saying he was sleepy, but had more to say later. The two women talked low, because ofanotherin the room. This other was not to be disturbed. They stood over him now. He would not have approved at all of their gayety andknow-it-all manner, had he been awake. His lids were down, however; the black curving lashes reposed in their hollows; the world, which was the big horse he must some time ride, was away minding its own business.
“I’m glad to hear this much before I go——” Miss Claes stopped and took both of Pidge’s hands.
“Before you go—where?”
“This little slate of Harrow Street is all written over. It is to be rubbed out now, Pidge. My part is finished here—I don’t know how well, but it’s finished. I am leaving New York.”
“Why, that—that seems—insupportable!... Why, I thought anything could happen but that—to my New York!”
“Only you are to know, dear,” Miss Claes said moments afterward. “Yes, it is India——”
“To Nagar—you are to be with him—the Hills!”
“Don’t, Pidge. It isn’t for words——”
“Forgive me——”
“These are terrible days for India. It means work—work—tests for every one’s courage. Little Harrow Street is still and steady, compared.... But this is dear to me—the thought that I go ahead to make ready for you another place to come——”
“My upper room,” said Pidge softly. “My upper room.”