was in my nature a strong materialistic strain--a strain of cynicism
some said; but to me it seemed rather a strain of common sense,
which enabled me to see things as they were, quite uninfluenced by
the emotional disturbances which impaired the calm judgments of my
fellows. So, though at this time I expected to marry and, of course,
expected that my wife would be in love with me when we married, yet
I was quite aware that there could be no guarantee that she would
remain so. The value of a flask of this water to a person so able as
myself to gaze without blinking upon the realities of life, was very
evident. I should present it to my wife on our wedding day and tell
her its story; and though I knew it could avail no more than anything
else on this earth to keep me her love, yet I hoped that it might serve
to guard me against those unpleasant little eccentricities of conduct
which sometimes follow the death of conjugal affection. It was with
this hope that I always preserved it, and it is with a similar hope on
your behalf, my dear Robert, that I have presented you and Amy with the
flask.’
“The old gentleman sat down in the midst of a stunned silence. It was,
of course, an atrocious thing that he had done. On their very wedding
day to suggest that the love of the bridal pair might not last forever!
Craig’s face was pale and his lips were tightly compressed; on Amy’s
cheeks burned two angry red spots. But, as I have said before, when one
has a relative who is very old and also very wealthy, it is astonishing
how lenient one becomes toward his lapses from what one believes to
be the correct standards of taste and conduct. Neither Craig nor his
wife spoke; the silence lasted yet another moment, then some one made a
remark, which, however pointless, at least had the merit of provoking
a general conversation, in the course of which old Forsythe and his
crudeness were ignored by general consent.
“A little later Craig found his wife upstairs, just as she had donned
her traveling dress. Uncle Robert, of course, was not there; and Craig
permitted himself to become quite angry. The flask stood sparkling in
the sunlight, on a little table where Amy had placed it on coming into
the room. Craig would have smashed it to pieces, but Amy stayed his
hand.
“‘Oh, no,’ she said, ‘your uncle may ask for it when he comes to
see us, and we could not afford to offend him by telling him we had
destroyed it.’
“The fact that it was she who saved the flask from destruction,
afterwards seemed to Craig a rare bit of irony; but at the time he saw
only an early proof of the wise, semi-maternal interest every good
wife takes in her husband’s affairs, and he found it so inexpressibly
touching that, instead of smashing the flask, he kissed his wife.
“Nevertheless, they did not exhibit old Forsythe’s wedding gift
conspicuously in their drawing-room, though it was there that they
found it greeting them upon returning from their trip. What to do with
it was quite a problem until Mrs. Craig found a vacant space behind
a row of books in the library, and there it was promptly bestowed.
You see, as a hiding-place, this spot had two great virtues: it hid,
which is a requisite of all hiding-places, and it allowed the flask
to be quickly produced in case of Uncle Robert’s visits, which was a
requisite of this particular hiding-place.
“After about two years had passed, however, they found that they had
lost all sensitiveness upon the subject, and they even, at times, with
a decided feeling of being an old married couple, treated the episode
humorously for the benefit of their friends. ‘Dear Uncle Robert and his
quaint idea of an appropriate wedding gift!’ They were able to adopt
this attitude the more easily, perhaps, because there seemed so little
probability that the event, to guard against which Uncle Robert had
given them the flask, would ever occur. They were a model couple--Darby
and Joan in all respects save that of age, and neither had ever shown
the slightest inclination to stray beyond the strictest limits imposed
by the matrimonial tether. This in spite of the fact that for two years
they had not been separated for twenty-four hours at a time. Or should
I say because of it? One can never tell. At any rate, when Uncle Robert
died, about this time, he had been entirely forgiven, and they grieved
for him quite sincerely.
“Now it happened that the bulk of the estate which the old gentleman
had left to Craig and any possible children, was stock in a rubber
concession in two of the smaller South American states; and it also
happened that just after Forsythe’s death, acute trouble began to
develop between the two countries. After several weeks of great
anxiety, Craig felt that he had no choice, but must go and defend
his interests in person. Accordingly, he immediately began his
preparations for the trip. Mrs. Craig desired earnestly to go with him,
but of this he would not hear.
“‘I shall not be gone over two months at the most,’ he said, ‘and that
is not really such a long time. Besides, there will be danger for you
if it comes to hostilities; and there is always fever.’
“In the end Mrs. Craig was persuaded to stay at home, and Craig went
alone. On the night before he sailed he had an inspiration. He was in
the library, disposing of some odds and ends of his affairs, when the
inspiration came to him. He went to the bookshelves, pushed aside some
books and took out the crystal flask. For a moment he held it in the
light of the reading lamp, admiring the lustre of the delicate glass
and the clear transparency of the liquid it contained. A smile curved
his lips, and he held the neck of the flask over the flame of the lamp
until the sealing gum was softened, then removed the stopper, poured
out part of the contents and refilled the flask with ink. When he had
replaced the stopper, he again held the flask to the light, but now the
liquid it contained was a dirty, muddy gray--the color he wished. He
smiled again in satisfaction, and returned the flask to its old place
on the bookshelf.
“You see, he had conceived the idea of an excellent joke upon his wife.
She would in all probability discover the flask at some time during his
absence; she would realize immediately what he had done; and he could
imagine her laughing with him across the thousand miles that separated
them. And what a finish it would make to their story! Perhaps, too,
she would play up to the situation by pretending to take her discovery
seriously. The affair was full of humorous possibilities, and he amused
himself greatly in anticipating them.
“But the absence which was to have extended over not more than two
months, as a matter of fact, lasted for a little more than a year.
During all this time it was never certain that Craig would not be able
to return almost immediately; there was therefore no reason for his
wife to join him, and she remained at home--alone.
“Upon what must have happened I can only touch lightly, because I
cannot understand it. Mrs. Craig was alone, it is true, but her
husband loved her; and when he left, she had undoubtedly cared for
him. Of course, with the sudden increase in Craig’s income, she was
thrown with a set she had never met before; she and Craig had not been
poor, but this change meant wealth, really great wealth, and perhaps it
turned her head. Perhaps, being as strangely illogical and as strongly
resentful of fancied slights as women always are in matters which
concern their affections, she had convinced herself that Craig need
never have stayed from her so long, if his inclination and his duty had
not traveled along the same road, and in her anger sought for revenge.
Perhaps ... but I do not know. One can never tell.
“When at last Craig returned home, however, she greeted him with
manifestations of greatest pleasure; and Craig himself, when I met him
on the street two days after his arrival, seemed radiantly happy. He
had reason to be; he had wealth, occupation, strength and the love of
the woman whom he loved. He probably thought himself, and he certainly
seemed to me, one of the favored ones of the world.
“It was in all probability on the evening of this day that he first
thought of the flask, and then it dawned on him quite suddenly that his
wife had not spoken of it. His joke, of course, had failed, because if
she had seen the flask during his absence, he would long since have
heard something of it. Still, he would get it out and make what he
could of the change that had come over it.
“‘Amy,’ he said, ‘we have forgotten to look at the flask.’ He watched
her closely, but her face did not change. She did not even show
the slight surprise that might have been expected at his sudden
introduction of the subject.
“‘So we have,’ she answered. She smiled slightly. ‘If you think an
inspection necessary, will you get it?’ She was so ready that it seemed
almost as if she had been waiting for his suggestion; but he did not
notice this--at the time.
“He walked across the room, already smiling as he thought of the
surprise in store for her. Still smiling he reached down into the
vacant space behind the books until he found the flask, then turned
and held it to the light....
“That was a year ago.
“The next day Craig went to Canada. He did not return until his wife
had sailed for Europe. She is still there, and Craig is--as you saw
him.”
Drysdale stopped.
“But what was the matter? What was wrong?” exclaimed young Gwillam.
“What--”
Drysdale interrupted him.
“You see,” he said, “when he looked at the flask that night, it had
once more been filled with a perfectly clear and transparent liquid.”
WHY THE EDITORS BUY
ADVENTURE
As _Adventure_ readers include the cultured and critical as well as
those of simple tastes, we seek the kind of workmanship that will
stand the difficult test of meeting the approval of both groups. But
in selecting our fiction it always seems to us that only that part of
the story is effective that reaches the reader’s mind and the highest
literary attainment is likely to go hand in hand with simplicity and
clearness.
We regard it as vitally important that the illusion should be kept
up. We want the reader to leave his own world and to live entirely
in the world of the story. For this reason we dislike too pronounced
mannerisms of style, too unusual names for characters, misstatements
in local color, improbability in plot details. We also wish that the
author would avoid the obtrusion of his own personality into the
story, too much surface cleverness, the specific call upon the reader
to philosophize (thus making him think, rather than keeping him in
the receptive mood), a too cynical or sophisticated attitude on the
author’s part. In general the two points--clearness and keeping the
illusion--are probably those which we emphasize most particularly. We
have in addition certain types of story that we try to avoid:--those
that involve international or political questions; we dislike stories
of opium smuggling; stories in which _all_ of the main characters are
“natives”; stories which feature intermarriage. Generally speaking, we
do not care much for a villain in the rôle of central character; nor
for much high society atmosphere; millionaire circles; prisons; slums;
lost wills; psychopathic cases; gangsters. Of course exceptions to all
of the above sometimes force themselves upon us by sheer merit.
We do not insist upon the accepted idea of the “happy ending” but we
prefer stories that uplift rather than depress. We consider only the
net effect of the story on the reader for the man or woman who is
reading a magazine, is doing so, primarily with the idea of enjoying or
relaxing, not to be made uncomfortable or unhappy. However, a story to
sell to _Adventure_ need not be artificially shaped. We are looking for
stories that will please our readers and the range of selection is wide
indeed.
ARTHUR S. HOFFMAN.
_Adventure._
THE RIDGEWAY COMPANY, Publishers,
Spring and Macdougal Streets,
New York City.
THE AMERICAN MAGAZINE
In buying a story for _The American Magazine_ I have four leading
questions in mind:
1. Is it interesting?
2. Is it true?
3. Does it add to our store of knowledge of human nature?
4. Is there a lift to it?
Not all four requirements are always met in the stories I take but they
are the main guide-posts. Let me take these questions in their order
and be more detailed and explicit concerning each one.
If a story isn’t interesting, or has a very limited field of interest,
no matter how well written it is, I cannot use it in _The American
Magazine_. And the interest must not be sporadic, it must be cumulative
in its effect. A story should grip the reader’s attention at the
beginning and hold it steadily all the way through. Good progressive
writing is far more effective than that which contains a number of
thrills linked together by long, arid paragraphs.
In asking myself--is it true?--I do not intend to convey the meaning
that I am looking for stories of real happenings. As a matter of fact,
I am of the opinion that fiction doesn’t dare be as wild and exciting
as real life. As Byron wisely said, “Truth is always strange--stranger
than fiction.” Consequently I look for stories that _ring_ true, the
characters in which have their counterparts in everyday life or are so
vividly created by the writer that they are accepted by the reader as
natural, even if unusual, human beings. In the making of a plot I want
sanity enthroned, the believable things of life depicted; not cock and
bull fakes, which although they may create momentary excitement will
cause the reader to lay the story down and say, “It’s all right, but
it’s highly colored and far-fetched.” I would infinitely rather have
less excitement, fewer dramatic pyrotechnics and have the reader slap
his knee and exclaim, “Can you beat that for the real thing!” I want
him to corroborate and testify to the convincingness and obvious truth
of the story out of his own experiences and observations or through the
instinctive acceptance of it by his imagination.
I hope, however, from the foregoing words writers will not run away
with the idea that so long as the characters are lifelike a story
will get across. The ideal story for this magazine is one that has a
convincing plot as well as convincing characters. But I would rather
sacrifice plot to characterization any day of the week. If a story
comes into the office slender of plot but brimful of human wisdom and
accurate character work, I buy it. As a matter of fact, some of the
most successful stories I have published have been of this type. I do
not, however, buy a story that is strong on plot if the characters are
overdrawn or unnatural and it has an atmosphere of unreality.
This brings me to my third question: “Does it add to our store of
knowledge of human nature?” If the people in a story are natural,
if they meet problems with sense of humor, if their actions are
interestingly sane and normal, and the story presents news of human
nature wisely and accurately, the reader can scarcely avoid learning
something to his advantage. His sympathy and imagination are going to
be aroused and quickened only by stories that are probable in both
character and plot, because they alone will give him a true slant on
human nature and add to his understanding of it.
In commenting on the last question, I feel I cannot too strongly
emphasize the need of the quality which I define as “lift.” A story may
be surpassingly true, the characterization good, the plot well thought
out, but if it does not stir the emotion, if it doesn’t make the reader
feel better, I am not keen for it. I want cheerful stories that leave a
sense of satisfaction in their wake--stories that are full of warmth,
charm, friendliness, and right living. Highly colored, far-fetched or
gloomy fiction may interest for a moment, but it will not yield genuine
and lasting pleasure. I avoid unpleasantly tragic and morbid stories,
no matter how well written, because they usually leave a distinct
effect of depression. The reader has to recover from them; climb
painfully back to a normal belief in human kind. I must have stories
that touch the heart as well as appeal to the intellect. They must
satisfy the reader and leave him with the feeling of time well spent.
In dividing my answer to your question into definite heads I see that
these overlap each other and that consequently my explanations do the
same in a measure. But at least they are not contradictory, and I hope
the cumulative effect makes my practice clear. You realize much must be
left out of an attempt to set down briefly an editorial policy relating
to so wide and varied a literary field as that of fiction.
JOHN M. SIDDALL.
_The American Magazine._
THE CROWELL PUBLISHING CO.,
381 Fourth Avenue,
New York City.
THE AMERICAN BOY
The _American Boy_ aims to interest and help boys between the ages
of twelve and twenty, recognizing the fact that to be helpful to the
boy it is necessary first to secure his interest and command his
attention. Stories and articles should be of such literary quality as
will inculcate the best literary standards in the boy reader, as well
as interest him and have an effective message. The atmosphere must be
wholesome, alive, vigorous, and inspiring, and stories should be a
force for good, not repelling the boy reader by too obvious moralizing,
but implying the moral by the characters and the action. The magazine
endeavors to put before its boys, through the medium of stories,
boy heroes who can set them fine examples; in business stories, it
endeavors to inculcate the principles of good business; in athletic
stories, it sets forth high athletic ideals.
The _American Boy_ is always particularly careful in the presentation
of facts. Stories and articles should always teach truth. Fiction
stories, of course, need not be true stories--stories of actual
facts--but they should give accurate pictures of the phases of life
they are representing; they should not misrepresent the facts of
geography, natural science, history, business, or human relationships.
Writers who get into the _American Boy_ are those who have a story to
tell--a point to make--that is worth while; a story of daring which
provides a hero (always demanded by boys); a story of adventure that
satisfies the boy’s natural longing to roam; a story of an exciting
game which, enthralling the boy, makes clear to him what is right and
what is wrong; a story of service that will aid the boy to adjust
himself to social life; a story of business that will give the boy a
true impression of the workaday world he is to enter. Material with
a strong feminine element is not used in the _American Boy;_ nor is
“little kid” material. The average age of _American Boy_ readers is
sixteen; and boys of that age are interested in the doings, not of boys
younger than themselves, but of boys their own age, or older, and of
men.
Something to be borne in mind by those who essay to write for a boys’
magazine is the distinct difference between stories of boys and stories
for boys. The story of boys is particularly popular just now in adult
magazines. It tells of a boy from the adult viewpoint. To the adult,
what the boy does is often distinctly humorous. To the boy it is
serious business, and he would be properly offended should one poke
fun at him in his own magazine. The story for boys must be handled
from the boy viewpoint, not from the adult viewpoint. This does not
mean that the story should be “written down”--quite the reverse. Once
having grasped the boy viewpoint and secured the proper angle, the
writer should use the same style and diction as in handling the story
of similar sort for the ordinary adult publication.
The story for boys need not necessarily be a story of boys. True, a boy
is more likely to be interested in a story with a boy hero than in a
story of an adult hero. The magazine wishes to place before its readers
fictional characters whom the boy may emulate. It is such characters
which arouse his enthusiasm.
WALTER P. MCGUIRE.
_The American Boy._
Detroit, Michigan.
ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY
Why _are_ manuscripts rejected? “Why is a mouse when it spins?” Perhaps
the reply to the ancient wheeze, “Because the higher the fewer,” is
as satisfactory an answer to the first question as any. There are so
_many_ reasons, in fact; so many varied and diverse considerations that
enter into the acceptance or rejection of a manuscript that a direct
and concise answer is impossible. Wholly aside from the merit of the
story there is the question of the editorial, business, political, and
religious policy of the magazine; the quantity and character of the
material on hand; the length of the story which exigencies of make-up
may make impossible for that particular magazine, at that particular
time, and a dozen other considerations, varying with each publication
and of which the author is quite unconscious.
Generally speaking however 90 per cent of manuscripts are rejected
because they fail to grip the interest in the first few pages. It
might be remembered that the editor in his official capacity is not an
analyst or critic. He is first and foremost a _buyer_; and moreover a
buyer of comparatively small quantities picked from an enormous mass
of material in a limited time. It would be a total impossibility for
him to read and weigh in its entirety every manuscript that comes
before him. Also it is unnecessary. One doesn’t have to eat the whole
of the egg to discover it is passé. He is a buyer and he knows, or is
supposed to, the tastes and desires of his principal--that is to say
the particular fraction of the general public to which his particular
periodical caters--he knows what they want and it is from that point of
view that he reads. It is his job and his joy to supply his readers not
only with what they want but with the _best_ of what they want, and, if
authors would only believe it, there is more rejoicing in the editorial
heaven over one new writer of promise than over the ninety and nine who
have already arrived.
An editor is not an incompetent ass because he rejects for his
adventure magazine a story that later is snapped up by the _Century_
or _Atlantic_, although authors are apt to chortle gleefully over
such a contretemps; nor is there any truth in the oft repeated
rumors--propagated by the failures--of a cabal to suppress budding
genius, and a clique of editors to guard the Olympian heights from all
but those bearing the stamp of approval of their masters. As a matter
of fact if an author after real and conscientious effort fails to sell
it is either because his stuff does not measure up to standard or
because he is persistently peddling to the wrong market. You can’t sell
the finest line of fancy flower pots to a fish dealer.
It is this latter point that should be stressed especially. Far too
many really able authors fail to understand the value of a thorough
knowledge of the market. Most of them haven’t even a general knowledge
of it; do not think of it at all. To them a magazine is a magazine.
Their attitude is “You publish stories, Why not mine?” and they send
a beautifully written and wholly plotless character sketch to a
publication using only rapid fire adventure stuff and a charming little
New England pastoral to one of the magazines devoted wholly to sex
topics, and then wonder why they come back.
Perhaps speaking broadly it is this ignorance of market that accounts
for at least a large percentage of the rejections that afflict
authors (aside from the vast army of amateurs, novices and hopeless
incompetents) whose work is really good.
ELLIOT BALESTIER.
_Argosy-Allstory Weekly._
THE FRANK A. MUNSEY CO.,
280 Broadway,
New York City.
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY
It really would not serve your purpose if I were to write you about my
principles of accepting stories. They are too capricious, and would
only tend to lower the feelings of respect which you are inculcating in
your readers.
Quite seriously, my selection is made according to the whim of one
individual.
ELLERY SEDGWICK.
_The Atlantic Monthly._
8 Arlington Street,
Boston, Mass.
THE CENTURY MAGAZINE
When you ask me what kind of stories we want for _The Century_, I am
puzzled about answering, for the truth is we like almost all kinds,
provided they are done with distinction. I think I may speak for the
editorial staff when I say that distinction is the mark at which we are
aiming.
_The Century_ is a family magazine, edited for the mature members of
the family. Every one who reads the magazine knows that we welcome new
writers. Indeed, it is a day of rejoicing when the mail yields a story
of real promise by an unknown writer.
We do not want war stories, for the public is tired of war-fiction;
nor “machine-made” stories, the cheap clap-trap that has nothing to
recommend it but facility.