"'I weary of the hungry world' — what do you know of the hungry world? — you in your New Moon seclusion of old trees and old maids — but it IS hungry. Ode to Winter — the seasons are a sort of disease all young poets must have, it seems — ha! 'Spring will not forget' — THAT'S a good line — the only good line in it. H'm'm — Wanderings — I've heard the secret of the rune That the somber pines on the hillside croon — Have you — HAVE you learned that secret?”
"I think I've always known it," said Emily dreamily. That flash of unimaginable sweetness that sometimes surprised her had just come and gone. "Aim and Endeavour — too didactic — too didactic. You've no right to try to teach until you're old — and then you won't want to — Her face was like a star all pale and fair — Were you looking in the glass when you composed that line?”
"No — " indignantly.
"'When the morning light is shaken like a banner on the hill' — a good line — a good line — Oh, on such a golden morning To be living is delight — Too much like a faint echo of Wordsworth. The Sea in September — 'blue and austerely bright' — 'austerely bright' — child, how can you marry the right adjectives like that? Morning — 'all the secret fears that haunt the night' — what do YOU know of the fears that haunt the night?”
"I know something," said Emily decidedly, remembering her first night at Wyther Grange.
"To a Dead Day — With the chilly calm on her brow That only the dead may wear — Have you even SEEN the chilly calm on the brow of the dead, Emily?”
"Yes," said Emily softly, recalling that grey dawn in the old house in the hollow.
"I thought so — otherwise you couldn't have written THAT — and even as it is — how old are you, jade?”
"Thirteen, last May.”
"Humph! Lines to Mrs George Irving's Infant Son — you should study the art of titles, Emily — there's a fashion in them as in everything else. Your titles are as out of date as the candles of New Moon — Soundly he sleeps with his red lips pressed Like a beautiful blossom close to her breast — The rest isn't worth reading. September — is there a month you've missed? — 'Windy meadows harvest-deep' — good line. Blair Water by Moonlight — gossamer, Emily, nothing but gossamer. The Garden of New Moon — Beguiling laughter and old song Of merry maids and men — Good line — I suppose New Moon IS full of ghosts. 'Death's fell minion well fulfilled its part' — that might have passed in Addison's day but not now — not now, Emily — Your azure dimples are the graves Where million buried sunbeams play — Atrocious, girl — atrocious. Graves aren't playgrounds. How much would YOU play if you were buried?”
Emily writhed and blushed again. WHY couldn't she have seen that herself? ANY goose could have seen it.
"Sail onward, ships — white wings, sail on, Till past the horizon's purple bar You drift from sight. — In flush of dawn Sail on, and 'neath the evening star — Trash — trash — and yet there's a picture in it — Lap softly, purple waves. I dream, And dreams are sweet — I'll wake no more — Ah, but you'll have to wake if you want to accomplish anything.
Girl, you've used PURPLE twice in the same poem.
Buttercups in a golden frenzy — 'a golden frenzy' — girl, I SEE the wind shaking the buttercups, From the purple gates of the west I come — You're too fond of purple, Emily.”
"It's such a lovely word," said Emily.
"Dreams that seem too bright to die — SEEM but never ARE, Emily — The luring voice of the echo, fame — So you've heard it, too? It IS a lure and for most of us only an echo. And that's the last of the lot.”
Mr Carpenter swept the little sheets aside, folded his arms on the desk, and looked over his glasses at Emily.
Emily looked back at him mutely, nervelessly. All the life seemed to have been drained out of her body and concentrated in her eyes.
"Ten good lines out of four hundred, Emily — comparatively good, that is — and all the rest balderdash — balderdash, Emily.”
"I — suppose so," said Emily faintly.
Her eyes brimmed with tears — her lips quivered. She could not help it. Pride was hopelessly submerged in the bitterness of her disappointment. She felt exactly like a candle that somebody had blown out.
"What are you crying for?" demanded Mr Carpenter.
Emily blinked away the tears and tried to laugh.
"I — I'm sorry — you think it's no good — " she said.
Mr Carpenter gave the desk a mighty thump.
"No good! Didn't I tell you there were ten good lines? Jade, for ten righteous men Sodom had been spared.”
"Do you mean — that — after all — " The candle was being relighted again.
"Of course, I mean. If at thirteen you can write ten good lines, at twenty you'll write ten times ten — if the gods are kind. Stop messing over months, though — and don't imagine you're a genius either, if you HAVE written ten decent lines. I think there's SOMETHING trying to speak through you — but you'll have to make yourself a fit instrument for it. You've got to work hard and sacrifice — by gad, girl, you've chosen a jealous goddess. And she never lets her votaries go — even when she shuts her ears for ever to their plea. What have you there?”
Emily, her heart thrilling, handed him her Jimmy-book. She was so happy that it shone through her whole being with a positive radiance. She saw her future, wonderful, brilliant — oh, her goddess would listen to HER — "Emily B. Starr, the distinguished poet" — "E. Byrd Starr, the rising young novelist.”
She was recalled from her enchanting reverie by a chuckle from Mr Carpenter. Emily wondered a little uneasily what he was laughing at. She didn't think there was anything funny in THAT book. It contained only three or four of her latest stories — The Butterfly Queen, a little fairy tale; The Disappointed House, wherein she had woven a pretty dream of hopes come true after long years; The Secret of the Glen, which, in spite of its title, was a fanciful little dialogue between the Spirit of the Snow, the Spirit of the Grey Rain, the Spirit of Mist, and the Spirit of Moonshine.
"So you think I am not beautiful when I say my prayers?" said Mr Carpenter.
Emily gasped — realized what had happened — made a frantic grab at her Jimmy-book — missed it. Mr Carpenter held it up beyond her reach and mocked at her.
She had given him the wrong Jimmy-book! And this one, oh, horrors, what was in it? Or rather, what wasn't in it? Sketches of every one in Blair Water — and a full — a very full — description of Mr Carpenter himself. Intent on describing him exactly, she had been as mercilessly lucid as she always was, especially in regard to the odd faces he made on mornings when he opened the school day with a prayer. Thanks to her dramatic knack of word painting, Mr Carpenter LIVED in that sketch. Emily did not know it, but HE did — he saw himself as in a glass and the artistry of it pleased him so that he cared for nothing else. Besides, she had drawn his good points quite as clearly as his bad ones. And there were some sentences in it — "He looks as if he knew a great deal that can never be any use to him" — "I think he wears the black coat Mondays because it makes him feel that he hasn't been drunk at all." Who or what had taught the little jade these things? Oh, her goddess would not pass Emily by!
"I'm — sorry," said Emily, crimson with shame all over her dainty paleness.
"Why, I wouldn't have missed this for all the poetry you've written or ever will write! By gad, its literature — LITERATURE — and you're only thirteen. But you don't know what's ahead of you — the stony hills — the steep ascents — the buffets — the discouragements. Stay in the valley if you're wise. Emily, WHY do you want to write?
Give me your reason.”
"I want to be famous and rich," said Emily coolly.
"Everybody does. Is that all?”