April Showers

by Edith Wharton

　　"BUT Guy's heart slept under the violets on Muriel's grave."It was a beautiful ending; Theodora had seen girls cry over lastchapters that weren't half as pathetic. She laid her pen aside andread the words over, letting her voice linger on the fall of thesentence; then, drawing a deep breath, she wrote across the foot ofthe page the name by which she had decided to become known inliterature -- Gladys Glyn.Down-stairs the library clock struck two. Its muffled thumpsounded like an admonitory knock against her bedroom floor. Twoo'clock! and she had promised her mother to be up early enough tosee that the buttons were sewn on Johnny's reefer, and that Katehad her cod-liver oil before starting for school!Lingeringly, tenderly she gathered up the pages of her novel, --there were five hundred of them, -- and tied them with the bluesatin ribbon that her Aunt Julia had given her. She had meant towear the ribbon with her new dotted muslin on Sundays, but thiswas putting it to a nobler use. She bound it round her manuscript,tying the ends in a pretty bow. Theodora was clever at makingbows, and could have trimmed hats beautifully, had not all herspare moments been given to literature. Then, with a last look atthe precious pages, she sealed and addressed the package. Shemeant to send it off next morning to the Home Circle. She knew itwould be hard to obtain access to a paper which numbered somany popular authors among its contributors, but she had beenencouraged to make the venture by something her Uncle Jameshad said the last time he had come down from Boston.He had been telling his brother, Doctor Dace, about his new houseout at Brookline. Uncle James was prosperous, and was alwaysmoving into new houses with more "modern improvements."Hygiene was his passion, and he migrated in the wake of sanitaryplumbing."The bath-rooms alone are worth the money," he was saying,cheerfully, "although it is a big rent. But then, when a man's gotno children to save up for -- " he glanced compassionately roundDoctor Dace's crowded table -- "and it is something to be in aneighborhood where the drainage is A 1. That's what I was tellingour neighbor. Who do you suppose she is, by the way?" He smiledat Theodora. "I rather think that young lady knows all about her.Ever hear of Kathleen Kyd?"Kathleen Kyd! The famous "society novelist," the creator of more"favorite heroines" than all her predecessors put together had everturned out; the author of "Fashion and Passion," "An AmericanDuchess," "Rhona's Revolt." Was there any intelligent girl fromMaine to California whose heart would not have beat faster at themention of that name?"Why, yes," Uncle James was saying, "Kathleen Kyd lives nextdoor. Frances G. Wollop is her real name, and her husband's adentist. She's a very pleasant, sociable kind of woman; you'd neverthink she was a writer. Ever hear how she began to write? She toldme the whole story. It seems she was saleswoman in a store,working on starvation wages, with a mother and a consumptivesister to support. Well, she wrote a story one day, just for fun, andsent it to the Home Circle. They'd never heard of her, of course,and she never expected to hear from them. She did, though. Theytook the story and passed their plate for more. She became aregular contributor and eventually was known all over the country.Now she tells me her books bring her in about ten thousand a year.Rather more than you and I can boast of, eh, John? Well, I hopethis household doesn't contribute to her support." He glancedsharply at Theodora. "I don't believe in feeding youngsters onsentimental trash; it's like sewer-gas -- doesn't smell bad, andinfects the system without your knowing it."Theodora listened breathlessly. Kathleen Kyd's first story had beenaccepted by the Home Circle, and they had asked for more! Whyshould Gladys Glyn be less fortunate? Theodora had done a greatdeal of novel-reading, -- far more than her parents were aware of,-- and felt herself competent to pronounce upon the quality of herown work. She was almost sure that "April Showers" was aremarkable book. If it lacked Kathleen Kyd's lightness of touch, ithad an emotional intensity never achieved by that brilliant writer.Theodora did not care to amuse her readers; she left that to morefrivolous talents. Her aim was to stir the depths of human nature,and she felt she had succeeded. It was a great thing for a girl to beable to feel that about her first novel. Theodora was onlyseventeen; and she remembered, with a touch of retrospectivecompassion, that George Eliot had not become famous till she wasnearly forty.No, there was no doubt about the merit of "April Showers." Butwould not an inferior work have had a better chance of success?Theodora recalled the early struggles of famous authors, thenotorious antagonism of publishers and editors to any new writerof exceptional promise. Would it not be wiser to write the bookdown to the average reader's level, reserving for some later workthe great "effects" into which she had thrown all the fervor of herimagination? The thought was sacrilege! Never would she layhands on the sacred structure she had reared; never would sheresort to the inartistic expedient of modifying her work to suit thepopular taste. Better obscure failure than a vulgar triumph. Thegreat authors never stooped to such concessions, and Theodora feltherself included in their ranks by the firmness with which sherejected all thought of conciliating an unappreciative public. Themanuscript should be sent as it was.She woke with a start and a heavy sense of apprehension. TheHome Circle had refused "April Showers!" No, that couldn't be it;there lay the precious manuscript, waiting to be posted. What wasit, then? Ah, that ominous thump below stairs -- nine o'clockstriking! It was Johnny's buttons!She sprang out of bed in dismay. She had been so determined notto disappoint her mother about Johnny's buttons! Mrs. Dace,helpless from chronic rheumatism, had to entrust the care of thehousehold to her eldest daughter; and Theodora honestly meant tosee that Johnny had his full complement of buttons, and that Kateand Bertha went to school tidy. Unfortunately, the writing of agreat novel leaves little time or memory for the lesser obligationsof life, and Theodora usually found that her good intentionsmatured too late for practical results.Her contrition was softened by the thought that literary successwould enable her to make up for all the little negligences of whichshe was guilty. She meant to spend all her money on her family;and already she had visions of a wheeled chair for her mother, afresh wallpaper for the doctor's shabby office, bicycles for thegirls, and Johnny's establishment at a boarding-school wheresewing on his buttons would be included in the curriculum. If herparents could have guessed her intentions, they would not havefound fault with her as they did: and Doctor Dace, on thisparticular morning, would not have looked up to say, with hisfagged, ironical air:"I suppose you didn't get home from the ball till morning."Theodora's sense of being in the right enabled her to take the thrustwith a dignity that would have awed the unfeeling parent offiction."I'm sorry to be late, father," she said.Doctor Dace, who could never be counted on to behave like afather in a book, shrugged his shoulders impatiently."Your sentiments do you credit, but they haven't kept your mother'sbreakfast warm.""Hasn't mother's tray gone up yet?""Who was to take it, I should like to know? The girls came downso late that I had to hustle them off before they'd finishedbreakfast, and Johnny's hands were so dirty that I sent him back tohis room to make himself decent. It's a pretty thing for the doctor'schildren to be the dirtiest little savages in Norton!"Theodora had hastily prepared her mother's tray, leaving her ownbreakfast untouched. As she entered the room up-stairs, Mrs.Dace's patient face turned to her with a smile much harder to bearthan her father's reproaches."Mother, I'm so sorry -- ""No matter, dear. I suppose Johnny's buttons kept you. I can't thinkwhat that boy does to his clothes!"Theodora set the tray down without speaking. It was impossible toown to having forgotten Johnny's buttons without revealing thecause of her forgetfulness. For a few weeks longer she must bear tobe misunderstood; then -- ah, then if her novel were accepted, howgladly would she forget and forgive! But what if it were refused?She turned aside to hide the dismay that flushed her face. Well,then she would admit the truth -- she would ask her parents'pardon, and settle down without a murmur to an obscure existenceof mending and combing.She had said to herself that after the manuscript had been sent, shewould have time to look after the children and catch up with themending; but she had reckoned without the postman. He camethree times a day; and for an hour before each ring she was tooexcited to do anything but wonder if he would bring an answer thistime, and for an hour afterward she moved about in a leaden stuporof disappointment. The children had never been so trying. Theyseemed to be always coming to pieces, like cheap furniture; Page26one would have supposed they had been put together with badglue. Mrs. Dace worried herself ill over Johnny's tatters, Bertha'sbad marks at school, and Kate's open abstention from cod-liver oil;and Doctor Dace, coming back late from a long round of visits to afireless office with a smoky lamp, called out furiously to know ifTheodora would kindly come down and remove the "East, West,home's best" that hung above the empty grate.In the midst of it all, Miss Sophy Brill called. It was very kind ofher to come, for she was the busiest woman in Norton. She made ither duty to look after other people's affairs, and there was not ahouse in town but had the benefit of her personal supervision. Shegenerally came when things were going wrong, and the sight of herbonnet on the door-step was a surer sign of calamity than a crapebow on the bell. After she left, Mrs. Dace looked very sad, and thedoctor punished Johnny for warbling down the entry: "Miss Sophy BrillIs a bitter pill!" while Theodora, locking herself in her room,resolved with tears that she would never write another novel.The week was a long nightmare. Theodora could neither eat norsleep. She was up early enough, but instead of looking after thechildren and seeing that breakfast was ready, she wandered downthe road to meet the postman, and came back wan andempty-handed, oblivious of her morning duties. She had no ideahow long the suspense would last; but she didn't see how authorscould live if they were kept waiting more than a week.Then suddenly, one afternoon -- she never quite knew how orwhen it happened -- she found herself with a Home Circleenvelope in her hands, and her dazzled eyes flashing over a wilddance of words that wouldn't settle down and make sense."Dear Madam:" [They called her Madam! And then; yes, thewords were beginning to fall into line now.] "Your novel, 'AprilShowers,' has been received, and we are glad to accept it on theusual terms. A serial on which we were counting for immediatepublication has been delayed by the author's illness, and the firstchapters of 'April Showers' will therefore appear in ourmidsummer number. Thanking you for favoring us with yourmanuscript, we remain," and so forth.Theodora found herself in the wood beyond the schoolhouse. Shewas kneeling on the ground, brushing aside the dead leaves andpressing her lips to the little bursting green things that pushed upeager tips through last year's decay. It was spring -- spring!Everything was crowding toward the light, and in her own hearthundreds of germinating hopes had burst into sudden leaf. Shewondered if the thrust of those little green fingers hurt the surfaceof the earth as her springing raptures hurt -- yes, actually hurt! --her hot, constricted breast! She looked up through interlacingboughs at a tender, opaque blue sky full of the coming of a milkymoon. She seemed enveloped in an atmosphere of lovingcomprehension. The brown earth throbbed with her joy, thetree-tops trembled with it, and a sudden star broke through thebranches like an audible "I know!"Theodora, on the whole, behaved very well. Her mother cried, herfather whistled and said he supposed he must put up with groundsin his coffee now, and be thankful if he ever got a hot meal again;while the children took the most deafening and harassingadvantage of what seemed a sudden suspension of the laws ofnature.Within a week everybody in Norton knew that Theodora hadwritten a novel, and that it was coming out in the Home Circle.On Sundays, when she walked up the aisle, her friends droppedtheir prayer-books and the soprano sang false in her excitement.Girls with more pin-money than Theodora had ever dreamed ofcopied her hats and imitated her way of speaking. The local paperasked her for a poem; her old school-teachers stopped to shakehands and grew shy over their congratulations; and Miss SophyBrill came to call. She had put on her Sunday bonnet, and hermanner was almost abject. She ventured, very timidly, to ask heryoung friend how she wrote, whether it "just came to her," and ifshe had found that the kind of pen she used made any difference;and wound up by begging Theodora to write a sentiment in heralbum.Even Uncle James came down from Boston to talk the wonderover. He called Theodora a "sly baggage," and proposed that sheshould give him her earnings to invest in a new patent grease-trapcompany. From what Kathleen Kyd had told him, he thoughtTheodora would probably get a thousand dollars for her story. Heconcluded by suggesting that she should base her next romance onthe subject of sanitation, making the heroine nearly die ofsewer-gas poisoning because her parents won't listen to thehandsome young doctor next door, when he warns them that theirplumbing is out of order. That was a subject that would interesteverybody, and do a lot more good than the sentimental trash mostwomen wrote.At last the great day came. Theodora had left an order with thebookseller for the midsummer number of the Home Circle, andbefore the shop was open she was waiting on the sidewalk. Sheclutched the precious paper and ran home without opening it. Herexcitement was almost more than she could bear. Not heeding herfather's call to breakfast, she rushed up-stairs and locked herself inher room. Her hands trembled so that she could hardly turn thepages. At last -- yes, there it was: "April Showers."The paper dropped from her hands. What name had she readbeneath the title? Had her emotion blinded her?"April Showers, by Kathleen Kyd."Kathleen Kyd! Oh, cruel misprint! Oh, dastardly typographer!Through tears of rage and disappointment Theodora looked again:yes, there was no mistaking the hateful name. Her glance ran on.She found herself reading a first paragraph that she had never seenbefore. She read farther. All was strange. The horrible truth burstupon her: It was not her story! -- -- -- -- She never knew how she got back to the station. She struggledthrough the crowd on the platform, and a gold-banded arm pushedher into the train just starting for Norton. It would be dark whenshe reached home; but that didn't matter -- nothing mattered now.She sank into her seat, closing her eyes in the vain attempt to shutout the vision of the last few hours; but minute by minute memoryforced her to relive it; she felt like a rebellious school childdragged forth to repeat the same detested "piece."Although she did not know Boston well, she had made her wayeasily enough to the Home Circle building; at least, she supposedshe had, since she remembered nothing till she found herselfascending the editorial stairs as easily as one does incredible thingsin dreams. She must have walked very fast, for her heart wasbeating furiously, and she had barely breath to whisper the editor'sname to a young man who looked out at her from a glass case, likea zoological specimen. The young man led her past other glasscases containing similar specimens to an inner enclosure whichseemed filled by an enormous presence. Theodora felt herselfenveloped in the presence, submerged by it, gasping for air as shesank under its rising surges.Gradually fragments of speech floated to the surface. "'AprilShowers?' Mrs. Kyd's new serial? Your manuscript, you say? Youhave a letter from me? The name, please? Evidently someunfortunate misunderstanding. One moment." And then a bellringing, a zoological specimen ordered to unlock a safe, her nameasked for again, the manuscript, her own precious manuscript, tiedwith Aunt Julia's ribbon, laid on the table before her, and heroutcries, her protests, her interrogations, drowned in a flood ofbland apology: "An unfortunate accident -- Mrs. Kyd's manuscriptreceived the same day -- extraordinary coincidence in the choice ofa title -- duplicate answers sent by mistake -- Miss Dace's novelhardly suited to their purpose -- should of course have beenreturned -- regrettable oversight -- accidents would happen -- sureshe understood."The voice went on, like the steady pressure of a surgeon's hand ona shrieking nerve. When it stopped she was in the street. A cabnearly ran her down, and a car-bell jangled furiously in her ears.She clutched her manuscript, carrying it tenderly through thecrowd, like a live thing that had been hurt. She could not bear tolook at its soiled edges and the ink-stain on Aunt Julia's ribbon.The train stopped with a jerk, and she opened her eyes. It was dark,and by the windy flare of gas on the platform she saw the Nortonpassengers getting out. She stood up stiffly and followed them. Awarm wind blew into her face the fragrance of the summer woods,and she remembered how, two months earlier, she had kneltamong the dead leaves, pressing her lips to the first shoots ofgreen. Then for the first time she thought of home. She had fledaway in the morning without a word, and her heart sank at thethought of her mother's fears. And her father -- how angry hewould be! She bent her head under the coming storm of hisderision.The night was cloudy, and as she stepped into the darkness beyondthe station a hand was slipped in hers. She stood still, too weary tofeel frightened, and a voice said, quietly:"Don't walk so fast, child. You look tired.""Father!" Her hand dropped from his, but he recaptured it and drewit through his arm. When she found voice, it was to whisper, "Youwere at the station?""It's such a good night I thought I'd stroll down and meet you."Her arm trembled against his. She could not see his face in thedimness, but the light of his cigar looked down on her like afriendly eye, and she took courage to falter out: "Then you knew --""That you'd gone to Boston? Well, I rather thought you had."They walked on slowly, and presently he added, "You see, you leftthe Home Circle lying in your room."How she blessed the darkness and the muffled sky! She could nothave borne the scrutiny of the tiniest star."Then mother wasn't very much frightened?""Why, no, she didn't appear to be. She's been busy all day oversome toggery of Bertha's."Theodora choked. "Father, I'll -- " She groped for words, but theyeluded her. "I'll do things -- differently; I haven't meant -- "Suddenly she heard herself bursting out: "It was all a mistake, youknow -- about my story. They didn't want it; they won't have it!"and she shrank back involuntarily from his impending mirth.She felt the pressure of his arm, but he didn't speak, and shefigured his mute hilarity. They moved on in silence. Presently hesaid:"It hurts a bit just at first, doesn't it?""O father!"He stood still, and the gleam of his cigar showed a face ofunexpected participation."You see I've been through it myself.""You, father? You?""Why, yes. Didn't I ever tell you? I wrote a novel once. I was justout of college, and I didn't want to be a doctor. No; I wanted to bea genius. So I wrote a novel."The doctor paused, and Theodora clung to him in a mute passionof commiseration. It was as if a drowning creature caught a livehand through the murderous fury of the waves."Father -- O father!""It took me a year -- a whole year's hard work; and when I'dfinished it the publishers wouldn't have it, either; not at any price.And that's why I came down to meet you, because I rememberedmy walk home."