CHAPTER VII
A WONDERFUL OFFER
Late one afternoon Peter set off to walk to the market-town. He was expecting a letter from his publishers. He had given them the market-town post-office as his permanent address. It was a glorious day, and the sunlight lay warmly on the fields.
During the day he had been writing, but his work had not gone well. That which in brain-imagery had seemed original and lifelike, in articulation appeared to him commonplace and dull. Who would care to read the drivel he was committing to paper? His thoughts, his fancies, of what interest would they be to the multitude? Of what value even to two or three?
Peter was in a mood dangerous for his own creation. His first book had come directly from his inner being, written for the pure love of inscribing [Pg 70]in lucid words the thoughts which filled his brain. The same reason had urged him to write again. Then suddenly before him like a menace rose up an image—the Public. His work would go out to it, had already gone out to it. How would it be received? And if with smiles the first moment, who could tell whether the smiles might not the next be changed to frowns?
He felt like a man whose chance witticism has won him the post of Jester. What anxiety must precede each lightly spoken word that follows; the knowledge that the wings of spontaneity had been clipped, though the knowledge perchance was his alone; the inward wince at a rebuff, the joy at applause! Jester to the many-faced public! Was this to be his rôle? Truly, if a little knowledge be a dangerous thing, a little success appeared quite as dangerous. Had he the strength to forget his audience; to speak only as and when Inspiration bade him; to keep silence when her voice was still? If indeed he had to play the part of Jester, could he be a daring one, heedless alike of frowns and smiles? Could he risk the cap and bells being taken from him? Could he bear hooting and derision?
“I will,” cried Peter to his soul. “I will jest how and as I please. Servant will I be to Inspiration alone, and slave to none. Away with cowardice, Peter, my son, and dismiss the many-headed public from your mind.”
It was therefore in an extremely healthy frame of mind that Peter approached the market-town.
The letter he had expected was awaiting him. He put it in his pocket unopened, for he knew it to be merely a business communication of no particular importance, and set off once more for home.