i cannot remember how old i was when i wrote the thrilling poem about the tiger who swallowed the horse, nor am i quite certain that it was my first literary effort, but i know that i was still at the tight knickerbocker stage, and that my previous poems, if there had been any, had remained secrets of my own. it was due to a cousin that my conspiracy against the world of common sense was finally discovered. woman-like, she tickled my ears with flattery, and persuaded me to let her read the precious document; and then, as soon as she had it in her hand, she fled to the camp of the olympians, leaving me alone in the little dark room to reflect on the guiles of the sex. with straining ears i waited for the distant chorus of mocking laughter that would announce my failure, while my body p. 162tingled all over with shame. yet beneath my fear i was conscious that i had not been wholly unwilling to be betrayed. it seemed to me that if i proved to be a great poet, my future traffic with the olympians might be of a more agreeable character than it had been previously. on the other hand, i felt that life would be impossible if they greeted my poem with scorn. conceived and perfected in solitude, it had become an intimate part of myself, and i turned dark thoughts to the purple berries that grew in the shrubbery, and provided us with wholly innocuous poison for our arrows. even then, it would seem, i had an instinctive knowledge of the tragedy of failing as a poet.
and then, while i yet waited in suspense, i heard the sound of footsteps and knew that my cousin was returning. in a flash i realised how stupid i had been to remain in the room, when i might have hidden myself in some far corner of the attic and appeared no more until my shame had been forgotten. my legs trembled in sudden panic, and it seemed to me that my face was ticking like a clock. i received my first p. 163critic with my head buried in the cushions of the sofa.
looking back, i perceive that the olympians rose to the occasion, but at the time i could hardly believe my good-fortune. long after my cousin had gone away i lay on the sofa turning over the pleasant message in my mind—and the magic half-crown in my hand. praise i had desired, if not expected; but that the olympians—whose function in life was to divert our tips into a savings-bank account that meant nothing to us, that these stern financiers should give me a whole half-crown in one sum, unhindered by any restrictions in the spending, was incredible. yet i could feel its rough edge in the dark; and considering its source, i formed an erroneous idea of the influence of the arts on the minds of sane grown-up people, from which even now i am not wholly delivered.
after a while, with a mind strangely confused between pride and modesty, i stole into the room where the others were sitting. but with a quick sense of disappointment i saw that i need not have concerned p. 164myself at all with the proper attitude for a young poet to adopt. the olympians, engaged in one of their meaningless discussions, did not notice my entrance, and only my brothers were interested when i crept silently into their midst.
“what are you going to spend it on?” they whispered.
oddly, for i was the youngest of four, this success of mine was responsible for a literary outburst in our normally uncultured schoolroom, and one of the fruits of that intellectual disturbance, in the shape of a manuscript magazine, lies before me. it contains an editorial address to the “friendly reader,” two short stories full of murders, a quantity of didactic verse, and the first instalment of a serial, which commences gravely: “my father was a bootmaker of considerable richness.” of literary achievement or even promise it would be hard to find a trace in these yellowing pages, but there is an enthusiasm behind every line of them that the critic would seek in vain in modern journalism. indeed, those were the days in which to write, when paper and p. 165pencil and half an hour never failed to produce a masterpiece, and the finished work invariably thrilled the artist with “out-landish pride.” i cannot recall that any further half-crowns rewarded our efforts, and possibly that is the reason why three of the four boys who wrote that magazine are now regenerate and write no more.
and even the fourth must own to having lost that fine, careless trick of throwing off masterpieces, and to regretting, in moments of depression, the generous olympian impulse that enabled him to barter his birthright of common sense for a silver coin with a rough edge. and the olympians—they, too, have regretted it, i suppose, for the goddess of letters is an exacting mistress, and we do not willingly see our children engaging in her irregular service. yet i do not see what else they could have done at the time.
a little while ago i discovered a small girl, to whom i act as a kind of illegal uncle, in the throes of lyrical composition. with soft words and flattering phrases, borrowed, perhaps, from the cousin of the past, i won the paper from her grasp. it was like all p. 166the poetry that children have ever written, and i was preparing to banter the young author when i saw that she was regarding me with curious intentness, and that her face turned red and white by turns. even if my intentions had been honourable i could not have disregarded her signs of distress. “i think it’s very nice indeed,” i said; “i’ll give you half a crown for it.”
as her fingers closed on the coin i felt inclined to raise a shout of triumph. for now that i had paid the half-crown back i should be able gradually—for, of course, the habit of years is not broken in a minute—to stop writing. my only fear is that my conscience may have gone to sleep in my long years of aloofness from simplicity; for though i already detect a note of vagueness in the eyes of my niece, and her mother complains that she is becoming untidy, i hold my peace, and offer no explanation. for i feel sure that if i did i should recover my half-crown.
