It was when he was eighteen that once the old man let his grandson
read The Tempest with him. It was a tremendous evening to Sam.
In the first place, his grandfather swore at him with a fury that
really attracted his attention. But that night the joy of the drama
suddenly possessed him. The deed was done; the dreaming youth awoke to
the passion of art. As Benjamin Wright gradually became aware of it
delight struggled with his customary anger at anything unexpected. He
longed to share his pleasure with somebody; once he mentioned to Dr.
Lavendar that "that cub, Sam, really has something to him!" After that
he took the boy's training seriously in hand, and his artless pride
concealed itself in a severity that knew no bounds of words. When Sam
confessed his wish to write a drama in blank verse, his grandfather
swore at him eagerly and demanded every detail of what he called the
"fool plot of the thing."
"What does that female at the Stuffed Animal House say to the idea of
your writing a drama?" he asked contemptuously.
"She says I may read it to her."
"Knows as much about dramatic poetry as you do I suppose? When you
finish the first act bring it to me. I'll tell you how bad it is."
His eager scoffing betrayed him, and every Sunday night, in spite of
slaughtering criticism the boy took courage to talk of his poem. He
had no criticism from Mrs. Richie.
When he first began to call at the Stuffed Animal House she had been
coldly impatient, then uneasy then snubbing. But nothing can be so
obtuse as a boy; it never occurs to him that he is not wanted. Sam
continued to call and to tell her of his play and to look at her with
beautiful, tragic eyes, that by and by openly adored. Inevitably the
coldness to which he was so calmly impervious wore off; a boy's
innocent devotion must touch any woman no matter how self-absorbed she
may be. Mrs. Richie began to be glad to see him. As for his drama, it
was beautiful, she said.
"No," Sam told her, "it isn't--yet. You don't know. But I like to read
it to you, even if you don't." His candor made her laugh, and before
she knew it in spite of the difference in their years they were
friends As William King said, she was lonely, and Sam's devotion was
at least an interest. Besides, she really liked the boy; he amused
her, and her empty days were so devoid of amusement! "I can't read
novels all the time," she complained. In this very bread-and-butter
sort of interest she had no thought of possible consequences to
Sam. A certain pleasant indolence of mind made it easy not to think of
consequences at all. But he had begun to love her--with that first
passion of youth so divinely tender and ridiculous! After a while he
talked less of his play and more of himself. He told her of his
difficulties at home, how he hated the bank, and how stupid the girls
were.