XXIII

Probably no man ever wrote and published a book, a magazine story, or a
bit of verse without an instant decision to repeat the experiment. The
inclination once indulged becomes insatiable. It is not altogether the
gratified vanity of seeing one's self in print, for, before printing was,
the composers and reciters of romances and songs were driven along the
same path of unrest and anxiety, when once they had the least recognition
of their individual distinction. The impulse is more subtle than the
desire for wealth or the craving for political place. In some cases it
is in simple obedience to the longing to create; in others it is a lower
ambition for notoriety, for praise.

In any case the experiment of authorship, in however humble, a way, has
an analogy to that other tempting occupation of making "investments" in
the stock-market: the first trial is certain to lead to another. If the
author succeeds in any degree, his spirit rises to another attempt in the
hope of a wider recognition. If he fails, that is a reason why he should
convince his fellows that the failure was not inherent in himself, but in
ill-luck or a misdirection of his powers. And the experiment has another
analogy to the noble occupation of levying toll upon the change of
values--a first brilliant success is often a misfortune, inducing an
overestimate of capacity, while a very moderate success, recognized
indeed only as a trial, steadies a man, and sets him upon that serious
diligence upon which alone, either in art or business, any solid fortune
is built.

Philip was fortunate in that his first novel won him a few friends and a
little recognition, but no popularity. It excited neither envy nor
hostility. In the perfunctory and somewhat commercial good words it
received, he recognized the good-nature of the world. In the few short
reviews that dealt seriously with his work, he was able, when the
excitement of seeing himself discussed had subsided, to read between the
lines why The Puritan Nun had failed to make a larger appeal. It was
idyllic and poetic, but it lacked virility; it lacked also simplicity in
dealing with the simple and profound facts of life. He had been too
solicitous to express himself, to write beautifully, instead of letting
the human emotions with which he had to deal show themselves. One notice
had said that it was too "literary"; by which, of course, the critic
meant that he did not follow the solid traditions, the