“All right.” I started away briskly as if I thought I was going, but I didn’t. This time I turned around, went clear into the room and sat down on the couch.
“And anyway,” I said, “you haven’t any right to deceive your mother like that. It is robbing her of a joy that she surely deserves. She has earned it. You haven’t any right not to tell her that your story won the prize. Whether we let you withdraw it or not, it would be wrong for you to steal that pleasure from your own mother. You are thinking merely of your own selfish wishes.”
“No, no, no! Don’t you see?” She flung herself toward me. “It is like being a surgeon. I must cut out the ambition. I can never fulfill it. Never, never, I tell you. The news of this prize will make it grow and grow like a cancer or something, till it will hurt worse, maim, kill, when I fail at last. If she would only see that I love mathematics and can do something in that maybe some day. But in literature. Suppose I shut myself up for years, struggle, struggle, struggle to wring out something that isn’t in me, while she wears herself out to support me. The publishers will send it back, one after another. I can’t write, I tell you. I know it. It will be all an awful sacrifice—a useless sacrifice, with no issue except waste of her life and my life. Don’t you see?”
“Don’t you think,” said I calmly, “don’t you think that you are just a little foolish and intense?” That is what a professor said to me once and it had a wonderfully reducing effect. So I tried it on this excited little freshman. But the result was different. Instead of clearing the atmosphere with a breeze of half mortified laughter, it created a stillness like the stillness before a whirlwind. I got up hastily. “I think I had better be going,” I said.
This time I heard the key turn in the lock behind me as I walked rapidly away. Actually I had to hold myself in to keep from scuttling away like a whipped puppy. That is how I felt inside. I didn’t believe that she would ever forgive me. There were two compensations for this episode in my editorial career: one was the realization that the little freshman had plenty of dignity to fall back on, the other was that she would not be very likely to ask again for the return of the prize story.
Considering that this was my sincere attitude, you may imagine how amazed I was to hear my name called by this young person the very next morning. She came running up to me at the instant my fingers were on the knob of the sanctum door. Her hands were filled with those little cardboard rhomboids, polyhedrons, prisms and so forth which the freshmen have to make for their geometry work.
“I’m going to do it,” she began breathlessly, “I’m going to tell my mother. Perhaps it would please her more if—if you should write me a note on paper with the name of the Monthly at the top, you know. She used to be an editor when she was in college. In it say that the board gave me the prize. I think it will please her.”
“I shall be delighted,” I exclaimed. Then something in the way she was gazing down at those geometrical monstrosities (I never could endure mathematics myself) made me want to comfort her.
“Why, child, it won’t be necessary to sacrifice math entirely. You can elect analytics and calculus to balance the lit and rhetoric. Cheer up.”
She raised eyes brimming with tears. “My mother thinks that math has an adverse tendency. She doesn’t want me to take much science either. She says that science deals with facts, literature with the impression of facts.”