Did Persephone, snatched from the warm fields of Enna, peer half-consentingly down the abyss that opened at her feet? Paulina, it must be owned, hung a moment over the black gulf of temptation. She would have found it easy to cope with a deliberate disregard of her grandfather’s rights; but young Winsloe’s unconsciousness of that shadowy claim was as much a natural function as the falling of leaves on a grave. His love was an embodiment of the perpetual renewal which to some tender spirits seems a crueller process than decay.
On women of Paulina’s mould this piety toward implicit demands, toward the ghosts of dead duties walking unappeased among usurping passions, has a stronger hold than any tangible bond. People said that she gave up young Winsloe because her aunts disapproved of her leaving them; but such disapproval as reached her was an emanation from the walls of the House, from the bare desk, the faded portraits, the dozen yellowing tomes that no hand but hers ever lifted from the shelf.
II
After that the House possessed her. As if conscious of its victory, it imposed a conqueror’s claims. It had once been suggested that she should write a life of her grandfather, and the task from which she had shrunk as from a too-oppressive privilege now shaped itself into a justification of her course. In a burst of filial pantheism she tried to lose herself in the vast ancestral consciousness. Her one refuge from scepticism was a blind faith in the magnitude and the endurance of the idea to which she had sacrificed her life, and with a passionate instinct of self-preservation she labored to fortify her position.
The preparations for the Life led her through by-ways that the most scrupulous of the previous biographers had left unexplored. She accumulated her material with a blind animal patience unconscious of fortuitous risks. The years stretched before her like some vast blank page spread out to receive the record of her toil; and she had a mystic conviction that she would not die till her work was accomplished.
The aunts, sustained by no such high purpose, withdrew in turn to their respective divisions of the Anson “plot,” and Paulina remained alone with her task. She was forty when the book was completed. She had travelled little in her life, and it had become more and more difficult to her to leave the House even for a day; but the dread of entrusting her document to a strange hand made her decide to carry it herself to the publisher. On the way to Boston she had a sudden vision of the loneliness to which this last parting condemned her. All her youth, all her dreams, all her renunciations lay in that neat bundle on her knee. It was not so much her grandfather’s life as her own that she had written; and the knowledge that it would come back to her in all the glorification of print was of no more help than, to a mother’s grief, the assurance that the lad she must part with will return with epaulets.
She had naturally addressed herself to the firm which had published her grandfather’s works. Its founder, a personal friend of the philosopher’s, had survived the Olympian group of which he had been a subordinate member, long enough to bestow his octogenarian approval on Paulina’s pious undertaking. But he had died soon afterward; and Miss Anson found herself confronted by his grandson, a person with a brisk commercial view of his trade, who was said to have put “new blood” into the firm.
This gentleman listened attentively, fingering her manuscript as though literature were a tactile substance; then, with a confidential twist of his revolving chair, he emitted the verdict: “We ought to have had this ten years sooner.”
Miss Anson took the words as an allusion to the repressed avidity of her readers. “It has been a long time for the public to wait,” she solemnly assented.
The publisher smiled. “They haven’t waited,” he said.
She looked at him strangely. “Haven’t waited?”
“No—they’ve gone off; taken another train. Literature’s like a big railway-station now, you know: there’s a train starting every minute. People are not going to hang round the waitingroom. If they can’t get to a place when they want to they go somewhere else.”
The application of this parable cost Miss Anson several minutes of throbbing silence. At length she said: “Then I am to understand that the public is no longer interested in—in my grandfather?” She felt as though heaven must blast the lips that risked such a conjecture.
“Well, it’s this way. He’s a name still, of course. People don’t exactly want to be caught not knowing who he is; but they don’t want to spend two dollars finding out, when they can look him up for nothing in any biographical dictionary.”
Miss Anson’s world reeled. She felt herself adrift among mysterious forces, and no more thought of prolonging the discussion than of opposing an earthquake with argument. She went home carrying the manuscript like a wounded thing. On the return journey she found herself travelling straight toward a fact that had lurked for months in the background of her life, and that now seemed to await her on the very threshold: the fact that fewer visitors came to the House. She owned to herself that for the last four or five years the number had steadily diminished. Engrossed in her work, she had noted the change only to feel thankful that she had fewer interruptions. There had been a time when, at the travelling season, the bell rang continuously, and the ladies of the House lived in a chronic state of “best silks” and expectancy. It would have been impossible then to carry on any consecutive work; and she now saw that the silence which had gathered round her task had been the hush of death.
Not of his death! The very walls cried out against the implication. It was the world’s enthusiasm, the world’s faith, the world’s loyalty that had died. A corrupt generation that had turned aside to worship the brazen serpent. Her heart yearned with a prophetic passion over the lost sheep straying in the wilderness. But all great glories had their interlunar period; and in due time her grandfather would once more flash full-orbed upon a darkling world.
The few friends to whom she confided her adventure reminded her with tender indignation that there were other publishers less subject to the fluctuations of the market; but much as she had braved for her grandfather she could not again brave that particular probation. She found herself, in fact, incapable of any immediate effort. She had lost her way in a labyrinth of conjecture where her worst dread was that she might put her hand upon the clue.
She locked up the manuscript and sat down to wait. If a pilgrim had come just then the priestess would have fallen on his neck; but she continued to celebrate her rites alone. It was a double solitude; for she had always thought a great deal more of the people who came to see the House than of the people who came to see her. She fancied that the neighbors kept a keen eye on the path to the House; and there were days when the figure of a stranger strolling past the gate seemed to focus upon her the scorching sympathies of the village. For a time she thought of travelling; of going to Europe, or even to Boston; but to leave the House now would have seemed like deserting her post. Gradually her scattered energies centred themselves in the fierce resolve to understand what had happened. She was not the woman to live long in an unmapped country or to accept as final her private interpretation of phenomena. Like a traveller in unfamiliar regions she began to store for future guidance the minutest natural signs. Unflinchingly she noted the accumulating symptoms of indifference that marked her grandfather’s descent toward posterity. She passed from the heights on which he had been grouped with the sages of his day to the lower level where he had come to be “the friend of Emerson,” “the correspondent of Hawthorne,” or (later still) “the Dr. Anson” mentioned in their