The Incentive.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLVIII, Issue 17, 23 October 1912, Page 49

The Incentive.

By

V.H. FRIEDLAENDER.

©LIVER'S eyes rested on the while flowers of the chestnut tree beneath which Nance was sitting.

“ ' ith tapers alight at the shrine of Spring,’” he murmured tentatively. “ How's that, umpire?” He made a grimace. “No; bad again. Tapers and shrines and dim interiors—and Spring? Horrible! But what is it about a chestnut in flower that simply hurls one upon the rocks of simile?” Nance shook her head and smiled, but her eyes held an absent look. Oliver dropped to the grass beside her. " Tell me,” he said softly. “Oh, Oliver!” There was a startled quiver in her voice. “ How quick you are! How did you know there was anything to tell?” "Dear!” His tone was explanation no less than caress. " I lunched with the Keens to-day.” Chin on hand, Nanee gazed straight before her. " They had asked quite a party to meet Jasper Brand, and everyone kow-towed to him and gushed over his books as if—as if he mattered. And no one seemed even to remember ” she hesitated. “ That Oliver Wynne Penning existed:” lie smiled. "Yes.” The word broke from her sharply, as though she feared he might guess her real thought, which had been, " That I existed.”

She stole a swift glance at his face—no, he had not guessed. He was gazing at a rose tree before him with the smiling, inward look that had first attracted her. Now it made her frown a little; she was beset by torturing doubts. What if she had made a mistake? Of course there was the future, but—what if Oliver had no future? What if his two books were mere sky-rockets instead of the first herald flames of a mighty furnace? To marry a failure —that would be horrible.

" Well ?” Oliver prompted with his lazy smile.

" They were horrid,” she said. “When Jasper Brand was introduced to me he pretended to have to think before remembering you, and spoke of ‘Barter’ as though it had been written last century ” “ Two years ago—nearly,” chuckled Olive. " Yes, but he writes four or five every year. And he pretended he couldn't remember ‘ Waste Places’ at all.” “ Glorious!” sighed Oliver ecstatically. “ And that little exhibition of bounce on the part of the amiable Jasper annoyed you? Oh, Nanee! Only think of me in competition with Braud! Brand, the mystery monger; Brand, the dealer in battle, murder, and sudden death; Brand, whose pages scintillate —with dukes and duchesses. Oh, Nanee of mine!” “ I know —I know,” she said, half reassured. “ But they don’t, you see, Oliver; the Keens and all the people like the Keens. A novel’s a novel to them, ami everything that isn’t new doesn't count.” “Brand new,’ he murmured. “ A thousand apologies.” “ When they don’t hear of a new book for two years,” she persisted, “ they think it's all over.” “All over? Well, well!” He laughed, and she was comforted. There was a peculiar quality about Oliver’s laugh—a hint of remoteness, a suggestion of reserve force—that always secretly thrilled her. For the moment she turned to her allegiance. “ Of course, I don’t mind, really,” sho said. “Of course not.” His careless acquiescence was faintly irritating to her. “Nor do I. Let the Brands of this world write for the Keens thereof. I have the effrontery to stalk bigger game.” She nodded, soothed again, all but satisfied. This was the mood that appealed to her. Oliver, however, seldom indulged in it. Even now he began at once to laugh at himself. “ What insufferable side!” he said. “Nance, why don't you turn round and rend me? Fancy letting me spread

myself like that! You aren’t doing your obvious duty by your man.” She flushed. “ I love to hear you speak ■ —confidently,” she said in a low voice. “ But, Nance,” he protested, “don’t you see the weak point in my supercilious sneers at the people like Brand ? » But for the accident of a little money, 1 should have to —to turn somersaults for halfpence just as he does.” She made an indignant gesture. “ Oh, yes, but I should! Because a man’s first duty is to be self-supporting, and if he can't be that by selling only his best work, he’s got to do it by selling his second and third best.” She glanced at him doubtfully. The ground before her was difficult, and she knew it. But the desire to spur him to instant new accomplishment was strong within her.

“Well, but,” she said hesitatingly, “aren’t there advantages about poverty, in a way? I mean, isn’t-it sometimes hn incentive to work?” “ Oh, of course,” he admitted readily, “it may be. Only the necessity to work doesn’t necessarily make one’s work good.” There was a pause; she was searching for a natural opening to her question. Oliver unconsciously supplied it. “ I’m pretty thankful,” he said, “that I haven't got to hurry.” “ Have you got far with the new book?” Carefully she concealed her intense eagerness. “No; or, at least, pretty far in one way, but no distance at all on paper.” Her heart sank, but she spoke lightly. “In two years. Oh, Oliver!” “ My first years of you.” “Oh, if I’m a drag on you !” '

“Nanee, Nance!” His voice shook a little. “ Don’t you know what you are to me? You must never, never say that again.” “But if you can’t work because of me ?” “Nanee, I won’t have it! Listen; I’ll try to explain. The book’s growing; 1 don’t know exactly how or when, but it’s growing. You see why?—because I’m growing—through you. There’ll come a week, a day, a minute, when it demands to be written, and then there’ll be sheets of paper to show. And there’s another thing I’m sure of. It’s going to be a bettex' piece of work than either of the others, and it’s going to be better because I've got you.” She was secretly dismayed. Oliver- no doubt thought he was speaking the truth, but was he not deceiving himself? This was not the way in which his other two books had been written. “1 seem to be rather a niggard,” she said, smiling. “ A niggard?”

“Yes. I seem to dole out my bits of inspiration in homoepathic doses, don’t I ? Do you remember you told mo ‘ Waste Places ’ was begun and finished in three months?” “ Ah! ” he drew in his breath shortly, and she sat very still. Was he going to tell hex’ the history of “ Waste Places”?

“ That was different, Nance,” he said in a low voice. “ I was going through a horrible time when I wrote that. One of my lungs went wrong, and I was sent to a sanatorium in the Black Forest. It was a toss-up whether I lived or died, and I was convinced I should die. So I dictated ‘Waste Places’ to a friend. That was when I was twenty-three.” She lookcxl at him meditatively. This at least had been wonderful. Surely- — surely he would not fail her I “ One can hardly believe it,” she said. “‘Waste Places’ —at twenty-three!” “ But then,” he explained simply, “ I thought I was dying.” Sho looked puzzled.

“Don’t you see, Nance? It makes all the difference. Instead of a lifetime I had only a few months before me. All my living and writing had to be crowded into them. So I grew. Have you ever read ‘The Ballad of Reading Gaol'?’’ “ Yes.”

You remember that part about the feelings of the condemned murderer waiting for the day of execution? And

how the man who watched him says of the murderer’s thoughts, “'None knew so well as I; For he who lives more lives than one, More deaths than one must die’?’’ She nodded. “ Well, that’s nothing but a fine definb tibn of imagination, isn’t it? And I’d always had the faculty of living more lives than one, ami in those three months I —died a considerable number of deaths.” She followed him dimly, too dimly for comment. Yet she felt the remembered pain behinxl the level tones, and she let her fingers touch his. “ And I suffered, Nance, and learnt things. Because suffering, you know, is a sort of forcing-house, isn’t it? —a place of early development and unnatural growth. So somewhow into ‘Waste Places’ I got all kinds of things I wasn’t fairly entitled to—at twenty-three. Of course, in that ease it was suffering foxmyself, but the other time ” he hesitated. “‘Barter’?” she asked softly. " Yes. I had a sister; we two were left alone. And she—died, after knowing fox- a year that she must die. That was—worse still, Nance. She knew, and made me write, to save me from the horror of it.” In the silence that followed they felt the first chill of dusk in the air. Nanee drew hex- shoulders together in little shiver, and Olivei- welcomed the movement with a sigh of relief. “ It’s getting cold, Nance. Shall we go in?”

She let him take her hands ami draw her up, but she still lingered. “ Oliver.” “ Yes?”

“ Then you mean that suffering is the only incentive?” He made a sharp movement. “ No, no! Life would be unbearable if there were such cruelty as that.” She did not respond, and his eyes searched for an illustration that should carry conviction. “Look, Nance!” He picked a rose and held it towards her. “ It’s as perfect, _ isn’t it, as those early ones youxfather grew under the glass?” She took it from him. “ Yes.” “ The result’s the same, you see, and the process doesn’t matter. Ami it’s like that with writing. Suffering only produces now a result that would have come naturally ami easily in a few years.” She bent to fasten the rose at hexwaist. Oh, was he mad? A few years! Was she to wait years, then? “Waste Places” and “Barter” were good; that was undeniable; but people—the general run of people—would forget them if Oliver did not follow them up. When was he going to crown them with the unforgettable book that woultl mean Fame? Hex- eyes dilated. Fame! The hush at hex- approach, the whisper at hex - passing, the envy of friends, the eager, ingratiating deference of acquaintances: she sickened fox- the day of these things. A few years? Ho spoke as though women never lost youth and beauty.

She trembled for an instant with the fierce desire to speak out. Then she looked up and smiled, as if in comprehension.

“And now I think we’ll really go in,” she said lightly. “To be married with a cold woukl bo nn insufferable outrage, wouldn't it?” For two months after they brought to Oliver- his wife’s discoloured hat, the limp, pitiful wisp of material that had once, been her scarf, and one stiff, shrivelled kid glove, he saw no one, spoke to no one but his servants. Then one day he sent for Forrest, who was his friend as well as his physician. “I think,” he said, with a soxt of shamed hesitation, “that I'm going mad. Can you do anything?” Forrest guessed what those months must have held to bring Oliver to such an appeal. He walked to the window and spoke with his back to his friend. “You must tell mo more,” he said. “What have you been doing, fox- instance?” “Nothing,” Oliver answered. “I can't do anything, except think. I —go through it all, you know. I see the boat capsize, and wait for her to come up, and hear her call to me before she —stifles. Or else I follow her down to the Isittoni, and watch her—change—day after day. Or I —’’ he broke off. “You know,” I expect,” he said wearily. Forrest turned and i.nuc towards him.

he forced his voice to be stern, even harsh. “1 can do nothing, Oliver, but you can. You must. Do you dream these things, or think them?” Oliver looked at him vaguely. “1 don’t know. I can’t tell the differen. always between sleeping ami waking. He hesitated an instant. “When you’ve gone,” he added reluctantly, “1 shan’t know whether I’ve really been talking to you, or dreaming——” His friend cut him short. "Look here, Oliver, this won’t do,” he said sharply. "You ve got to get yourself in hand. You must go away.” Oliver met his eyes. "From her?” he asked. Forrests silence acknowledged tlie force of the argument. For such as Oliver the euro of the mind did not resolve itself into so simple a matter as the transference of the body. But then, what was the cure? Forrest’s eves, travelling round the room, rested on Oliver’s locked desks Its idle, dreary tidiness answerel him. He pointed to it. “Oliver, don't you see what you’ve done?” “No; what?” His eyes followed the direction of the finger listlessly. I ouve blocked your -your safety valve. Think a minute. Didn't you start with a bigger slice of imagination than most of us? Anti haven't you exercised and strengthened it for years by writing? '1 hen—this happens, and you give up writing altogether for months. What did you think your imagination would tlo? Sit down and go to sleep? Of course not. It has run riot over the only bit of ground you've given it, which is—her.” Oliver's eyes showed a faint glimmer of interest. “Get to work, man. Write!” Forrest went on. “Give your imagination its own work to do, the work it’s used to. Write till your back aches and your lingers are cramped and your eyes swim. Then go to bed, ami I believe you'll sleep—without dreaming.” There was a pause. “I wonder,” Oliver said at last. Unobtrusively Forrest watched him; watched the new, fierce eagerness leap to his eyes and stiffen his body; watched his hands travel, at first vaguely and afterwards impatiently, through his pockets. “My keys?” he muttered, frowning, and Forrest went noiselessly out. ‘'Congratulations, Oliver.” The hands of the two men met. “Thanks.” Oliver's voice was not entirely under control,- and he sought cover in the usual way. “Will you smoke?” For some time they sat in the silence that, between smokers, is something more subtle than silence. Then Forrest spoke. "You’ve got there this time,” he said, with the almost laughable Anglo-Saxon anxiety to be guiltless of gush. Oliver’s eyes avoided his. “I’ve wanted all along,” he .began nervously, “to thank you for showing me ” “Oh, rot! ” Silence fell again and complete understanding. Olivei- knew all that lay behind his friend’s "You’ve got there.” There was no doubt about “Shoals.” If OliverWynne Fenning never wrote another lino no Jasper Brands would ever again have the hardihood to pretend not to know him. That would argue themselves too painfully unknown. But “Shoals” had not been written at n small cost, and presently Forrest broached his plan.. “I’m starting my holiday tomorrow,” he said. “Walking tour.” Oliver nodded. “ Alone?” “ No; with you.”

Olivei- smiled. “No, you don’t!” he protested. “ I’ve got all sorts of things to finish up.” Ho jerked his head in the direction of his desk. “ They’ve got to wait,” Forrest said. “ They can’t. I have to ■” “Look bore.” Forrest leaned forward. “Do I teach you how to write? Very Well, then; don't teach me how to prescribe. You’re coming with mo to-mor-row.” “But why? I’m all right. “Are you? If you don’t conic, it won't be long before you’re sorrv.” “ Why?” “ Because your brain will strike. It’s done about all tlie work it reckons to do without a iioliday. It’a shrieking out to you about it, but you can’t hear. You haven’t been trained to. I have. And I’m going to see lii.it your body does something for a change.” Oliver looked al. him doubtfully. “What” lie asked, weakening. “Well,” said ForrcG. "you’re going t® walk every day a. f.u n< 1 do: yoxftw

ing to Mt, grow tired, eat again, and Bleep, day after day, like the beasts that perish. Ami, above all, you’re going to do in and out of season exactly what- L 'Jell you. In a month or so you’ll come home, amkyour brain wilt be rested.” For an inst ant their eyes met. ‘‘ You’re *—pretty decent to me,” Oliver said, huskily. Forrest rose. ‘'Oh, rot!” he observed again. ** You’ll come, then?” Oliver nodded. Afterwards he gave orders for his things to be packed. ’I hen he went back to the smoking-room and nervously Switched on the light. Only one more night of solitude, he remembered, and — {she never came when the room was light. r lhen at a sound he started and turned. She was standing in the doorway not vith wide-tlung arms and terrified eyes, as she often came, nor with sea -oaked dress and hair; but smiling, with sparkling eyes, in dainty muslins. ‘'Oh, Oliver. I'm so glad!’ r He stood paralysed; an icy fear weighed him down. It had never been eis bad as this; never had her face been bo clear, her voice so strong. Then it mist be that the terror dodging his heels

had seized him at last; he had gone mad. Jt was with a helpless gesture like a child’s that at last ho held.an arm defensively across his eyes. ‘‘Don’t! Don’t!” he gasped. The girl shut tin* door softly behind her and came towards him. ‘’Oliver.” she said, “ it’s, all right. You aren’t frightened —of me?” iSlie laughed, and clasped her fingers round his arm. ‘‘Jx»ok! I’m real. Touch me.” •Hesitatingly he obeyed her. ” Nance!” With incoherent words he crushed her to him. Her head was in the hollow of his shoulder; there was no possibility of unreality about that. I’m so proud, Oliver.” she whispered. ‘So very proud! It is glorious. All the world’s gone mad over it!” (Her head in the hollow of his shoulder! How could a man grasp more than that in the first instant?) ” It?” he asked vaguely. ‘‘ W hat ?” ‘’Why. dearest!” she protested, and laughed into his eyes. "'Shoals/ of course. What else?” ‘■()h, 4 Shoals.’” A shadow crossed his face. '' Nance, we won’t talk of it—not yet. Yes, I know it’s—iny best, but you’ll understand that it will always hurt

<o think of- it, .because it will bring back —losing you.'’ .* > ' ■' But. I’m found, now, Oliver. He nodded. “ Tell me about it,” he urged eagerly. She braced herself. It was difficult to foresee* how he would take it. At first lie might even be angry, but she could explain; she was sure she could explain. “ Dear,*’ she said, “ I so wanted you to come into your own. In the three months we bad been married you had written nothing. Nor before—long before. So I went away —to help you.” lie gazed at her without comprehension. ” You went away?

" Yes. You see, I felt sure that if I—went, you’d be able to write your big book. Ai:d you have, haven't you, Oliver? You wouldn't have written Shoals’ if I'd been with yon, would you?” " N\>, not •Shoals,’ ” he said slowly. ‘‘Not ‘Shoals.’ ” She pressed his arm gently. “So I diil help, Oliver. When you've had time to think, you'll admit that I did help.” He seemed not to hear. “ 1 should have written —the other. Didn't I tell vou.about it?’ she stirred, and his arms fell away from her. “ Wasn't it ‘Shoals’ you had begun, Oliver in your head?” "No.” In his eyes was a strained look, as of one who strives to see in darkness. “ It's gone,” he added; “the one 1 was writing when you—died.” She comprehended with a jw ift stab of fear that his last word was deliberately' chosen. “Oliver!” she cried sharply. "Don't you understand? I did it for your sake; 1 knew it would be only for a little while; I knew 1 was coming back as soon as the book was written.” He looked at her without seeing her ‘‘You knew,” he agreed; “yes, I understand that. You knew.” “ Oh. I know it's been hard for you,” she admitted eagerly. “If I could have thought of another way—but there wasn't one. You see I was right, don’t you, Oliver? You've written ‘.Shoals,’ and—and it's made you.” In nervous little bursts she talked on. “ Oliver!” He heard her voice as from a far, far distance—a thing negligible, idle, of no account. With a strange, new clumsiness he drew out the chair at his desk and sat down. She waited. There was no sound, no movement. Yet something—something sinister and irresistible and relentless as death was happening. t-lie knew it, felt it, all but saw it. And feared it—how she feared it! And presently Oliver picked up a pen. The simple action was full of some awful, vague horror. She made a supreme effort and spoke. "What are you doing. Oliver?” For a long minute he did not answer; he was writing rapidly. Then he turned and held up a sheet of paper. “I've done all this already,” he said, and the words ■ ame with a curious, hesitating thickness. “ Look! It's my new book.” Her eyes rested on the paper; it was covered with grotesque, meaningless 'crawls, and words that were no words. With a low moan of fear, and hands flung out before her, she turned and ran from him.