Page:The Atlantic Monthly volume 98.djvu/880

866 866 The Contributors' Club not be wholly kept to ourselves. The faithful friend said it would not be fair, and I was fain to believe it. So just a few of the elect were told, Jack of course first. He was evidently a good deal impressed, and it is one of Jack's limitations or mine that he is n't easily impressed. He seemed surprised, too, most un- flatteringly so, and I was divided be- tween my desire to appear nonchalant, and my impulse to let him see how sur- prised I was myself. I don't know yet whether he thought more of me or less of the Atlantic. I suspect it was the latter. Then I was lunching with a couple of old friends one day, when my host suddenly turned to me, and asked if I had read that capital little bit in the current Contribu- tors' Club, mentioning my own produc- tion. He miscalled the title, but that did n't matter, nothing did just then. His chuckle of reminiscent enjoyment ' was music in mine ears, and unable to resist the temptation, I divulged myself on the spot. They took it very nicely, and hand- somely said that the Atlantic was to be congratulated; but they did n't seem as much impressed as I had expected, which I know is inconsistent of me after what I said about Jack. I asked them not to say anything about it to our common friends, not just then at any rate. But a few months later the lady shout- ed to me through the din of an afternoon tea, "My husband has been looking for your things in the Atlantic. He enjoys them so much. Edith says she would re- cognize your style anywhere, that you write just like yourself." I was mightily taken aback. Edith! How many more had they told, and how many articles had they found in the style that Edith would know anywhere ? Then one blue Monday morning Jack (whom I had left sitting up over a pile of magazines the night before) remarked to me, " I see you have another bright little article in the Contributors' Club. I quite enjoyed it. It was fully up to the stand- ard of the last, indeed, I thought it even a little better." Now could anything be more provok- ing ? It was bad enough not to have an- other article in the Atlantic, without the humiliation of having to affirm the fact; and when I did, Jack looked first incred- ulous, then disconcerted. (It is always hard for Jack to believe his own judg- ment can be in error.) I felt myself some- thing of a culprit under his astonished gaze, as if I were somehow disappointing family expectations. Besides it was n't at all flattering to think I wrote so much like the rest of the world that nobody could tell the difference. But that was n't the worst. I had a letter the other day from one of the elect, a very particular friend, of literary lean- ings, who lives far enough away to be enveloped in the enchantment which dis- tance lends, and who wrote out of turn for the express purpose of congratulating me as follows: "Where do you find all those deli- ciously absurd things to say ? The con- tributor is undoubtedly yourself and in your very best style. Don't tell me you did n't write it. Have you a double ? I even heard^Jack in some of the remarks adroitly smothered out of print. Are there others I have n't seen ? and how many and when? The president of our club who has exceptionally fine literary taste and discrimination read it to me. We laughed over it together. She remembers your contribution to a Christmas num- ber some time ago and discovered this herself, was n't it clever of her ? She says whenever anything especially bright appears in the Club she at once attrib- utes it to you. Confess now to the number of your sins. I want to see them all." I don't suppose it is necessary to de- scribe my sensations. Besides, they are too poignant. I should be so happy to confess to sins of that order if only I had committed any. Mine are sins of omis- sion. My friends discredit the fact now; but when they find their mistake they w,ill discredit me. It is time I answered that letter, and long past ; but what am I going to say?