Time for bed, I think. But tomorrow, if the news is good, and war-work done, and it is too rainy to garden, we will pull up our chairs again, and perhaps, with luck, get on with Chapter Two.
CHAPTER II
As usual, you are perfectly right. The first thing, I agree, is to decide where to begin; that is, to discover at what period Laura and Justin, who, after all, interest themselves from the days when they were as old as their tongues, and months ahead of their teeth, begin to be interesting to other people. That is a simple matter? I believe you think, oh trustful Collaborator, that you have but to drop a suggestion, like a penny in a chocolate machine, for a chapter to roll out, ready written, for your censorship! Consider the initial difficulties! Who, for instance, is to decide this question of the interesting moment? John Smith, who likes a good wholesome love story with Sweet Seventeen for heroine? Or Sweet Seventeen herself, whose Prince Charming must be fifty if a day, grey-headed, iron-mouthed, and hopelessly entangled with a repentant actress of at least three distinct, disreputable pasts? Would they be interested in the countrified Laura, not yet a schoolgirl, whom I should dearly love to draw? Of course not!
No, the protagonists must be at least in their quarter century. But what would Mrs. Cloud, on the other hand, say to that? Slur over, if not ignore, the first ten, let alone the first thirty, years of her son’s life, we are, of course, at liberty to do. It is our affair! But, in that case, the book, frankly, will not be worth reading. A character such as Justin’s is not so easily deciphered. Thoroughly to appreciate Justin we must begin at the beginning. We are probably not aware that he weighed, at the very beginning, ten pounds. And speaking of teeth half a page ago—do we know that there is a little white tooth, in a little white thimble-box, in Mrs. Cloud’s big work-basket, that still bears witness how unflinchingly, at five and a quarter, Henry Justin could bear pain? Mrs. Cloud showed it to Laura one expansive day, and Laura, fingering it as she listened to the anecdote that led so inevitably to another anecdote, and another, and yet another, was whimsically jealous that his mother should have had so much more of him than she. Had, as she put it away again in the big basket under the pile of socks, a cold eye for the exquisite darns: wondered that Justin had not got blisters on his heel before now. And without an attempt at consistency, sat herself meekly down at Mrs. Cloud’s feet to beg a darning lesson; which Mrs. Cloud, with the discerning twinkle her son has not as yet acquired, was very ready to give. They were excellent friends, those two. They had affection, and that confident respect for each other which comes of thinking exactly alike on an extremely important subject. They would have both agreed, Collaborator, that to make our book a success, we unquestionably must begin at the beginning—the beginning, of course, of Henry Justin Cloud.
But I would rather talk about Laura.
I know the precedence is Justin’s: for Adam was first formed, then Eve.... Yet Eve, bless her ingenuous, enterprising heart, is always so much more interesting than Adam. If Adam were not in the Bible, wouldn’t you call him ‘stodgy’? And don’t you think Eve did, under her breath?
‘Adam—what’s that, in that tree?
‘Look, Adam!
‘No, not there! Can’t you see where I’m pointing?