On one of these occasions I proposed a separation, and offered to settle upon her half the money I possessed, so long as we remained apart.
"Will you give it me in a lump?" she asked.
"No," I answered, "there must be a guarantee that you will not violate the conditions of the deed, which would be drawn up and signed by both of us. You shall have the interest of the money. If I die before you it will all be yours without restriction."
"Thank you, my dear," she said. "I prefer things as they are. You will not get rid of me so easily. You would divorce me if it were in your power. Of course you won't answer that. But you will never get the chance, love. I am acquainted with the grounds upon which a divorce can be obtained. You shall have no reason to say that I am not a true and faithful wife to you."
And, indeed, upon the score of faithfulness—in its legal sense—I entertained no doubts. She had but one love—brandy.
While I was endeavoring to obtain a footing in the literary field by means of short stories, I was preparing a series of articles upon the curse of the land—drink—drawing upon actual facts and real life for my pen and ink pictures. By good fortune I obtained an introduction to the editor of a paper, the columns of which were open to social subjects, and I submitted a few of these articles to him. He approved of them, and suggesting certain alterations, which I agreed to make, consented to use them. His paper was one which did not admit of signed contributions, and had it been otherwise I should not have put my name to them, my domestic troubles on the same theme being a bar to such a course. The editor did not inquire into the source from which I obtained the facts for my descriptions of the effects of the awful vice; he was content with my method of treatment and with my literary style.
"Just one word of advice," he said, "don't shrink from speaking broadly and plainly. It is a burning question, and you can't put it too strongly. I am not so well up in the subject as yourself, but I should say, even if a man drew entirely upon his imagination, he could not paint more striking pictures than reality can supply. The successful artist paints from life and nature."
"What I describe," I replied, "is what I have seen. Nothing more horrible can be met in the Vision of Hell. This city of shame and sin is full of little hells, and if there is any truth in pulpit sermons and religious ministrations, in every little hell souls are daily being damned."
He threw a searching glance upon me. "I like that. Don't forget the metaphor; use it in one of the early articles. Some writers keep their big plums till the last; it is a mistake. Fairy tales can be written on a Swiss mountain or an Italian lake, but to do justice to such a subject as yours you must dig into Babylon's crust; you need the pest-houses of civilization, the hog-like natures of men and women familiar with crime and poverty."
"The evil is not confined to hovels," I remarked, "nor to the criminal classes. Mansions of the well-to-do supply fruitful material."