IN THE GREEN ROOM OF LITERATURE.
Hermia’s imagination in its turn demanded a safety-valve; she found it
necessary, occasionally, to put her dreams into substance and sequence.
In other words she wrote. Not prose. She had neither the patience nor
the desire. Nor did she write poetry. She believed that no woman, save
perhaps time-enveloped Sappho, ever did, and she had no idea of adding
her pseudonym to the list of failures. When her brain became
overcharged, she dashed off verses, wildly romantic, and with a pen
heated white. There was a wail and an hysterical passion in what she
wrote that took the hearts of a large class of readers by storm, and her
verses found prompt acceptance by the daily and weekly papers. She had
as yet aspired to nothing higher. She was distinctly aware that her
versification was crude and her methods faulty. To get her verses into
the magazines they must be fairly correct and almost proper, and both
attainments demanded an amount of labor distasteful to her impatient
nature. Of late, scarcely a week had passed without the appearance of
several metrical contributions over the signature “Quirus;” and the wail
and the passion were growing more piercing and tumultuous. The readers
were moved, interested, or amused, according to their respective
natures.
The morning after the little arithmetical problem, Hermia arose early
and sat down at her desk. She drew out a package of MS. and read it over
twice, then determined to have a flirtation with the magazines. These
verses were more skillful from a literary point of view than any of her
previous work, because, for the sake of variety, she had plagiarized
some good work of an English poet. The story was a charming one,
dramatic, somewhat fragmentary, and a trifle less caloric than her other
effusions. She revised it carefully, and mailed it, later in the day, to
one of the leading New York magazines.
Two weeks passed and no answer came. Then, snatching at anything which
offered its minimum of distraction, she determined to call on the
editor. She had never presented herself to an editor before, fearing his
betrayal of her identity; so well had she managed that not even Bessie
knew she wrote; but she regarded the magazine editor from afar as an
exalted being, and was willing to put her trust in him. She felt shy
about acknowledging herself the apostle of beauty and the priestess of
passion, but ennui conquered diffidence, and one morning she presented
herself at the door of her editor’s den.
The editor, who was glancing over proofs, raised his eyes as she
entered, and did not look overjoyed to see her. Nevertheless, he
politely asked her to be seated. Poor Hermia by this time was cold with
fright; her knees were shaking. She was used to self-control, however,
and in a moment managed to remark that she had come to inquire about the
fate of her poem. The editor bowed, extracted a MS. from a pigeon-hole
behind him, and handed it to her.
“I cannot use it,” he said, “but I am greatly obliged to you,
nevertheless. We are always grateful for contributions.”
He had a pleasant way of looking upon the matter as settled, but an
ounce or two of Hermia’s courage had returned, and she was determined to
get something more out of the interview than a glimpse of an editor.
“I am sorry,” she said, “but of course I expected it. Would you mind
telling me what is the matter with it?”
Editors will not take the trouble to write a criticism of a returned
manuscript, but they are more willing to air their views verbally than
people imagine. It gives them an opportunity to lecture and generalize,
and they enjoy doing both.
“Certainly not,” said the editor in question. “Your principal fault is
that you are too highly emotional. Your verses would be unhealthy
reading for my patrons. This is a family magazine, and has always borne
the reputation of incorruptible morality. It would not do for us to
print matter which a father might not wish his daughter to read. The
American young girl should be the conscientious American editor’s first
consideration.”
This interview was among the anguished memories of Hermia’s life. After
her return home she thought of so many good things she might have said.
This was one which she uttered in the seclusion of her bed-chamber that
evening:
(“You are perfectly right,” with imperturbability. “‘Protect the
American young girl lest she protect not herself’ should be the motto
and the mission of the American editor!”)
When she was at one with the opportunity, she asked: “And my other
faults?”
“Your other faults?” replied the unconscious victim of lagging wit.
“There is a strain of philosophy in your mind which unfits you for
magazine work. A magazine should be light and not too original. People
pick it up after the work of the day; they want to be amused and
entertained, they do not want to think. Anything new, anything out of
the beaten track, anything which does not suggest old and familiar
favorites, anything which requires a mental effort to grasp, annoys them
and affects the popularity of the magazine. Of course we like
originality and imagination—do not misunderstand me; what we do not
want is the complex, the radically original, or the deep. We have
catered to a large circle of readers for a great many years; we know
exactly what they want, and they know exactly what to expect. When they
see the name of a new writer in our pages they feel sure that whatever
may be the freshness and breeziness of the newcomer, he (or she) will
not call upon them to witness the tunneling of unhewn rock—so to speak.
Do you grasp my meaning?”
(Hermia at home in her bed-chamber: “I see. Your distinctions are
admirable. You want originality with the sting extracted, soup instead
of blood, an exquisite etching rather than the bold sweep and color of
brush and oils. Your contributors must say an old thing in a new way, or
a new thing in so old a way that the shock will be broken, that the
reader will never know he has harbored a new-born babe. Your little
lecture has been of infinite value to me. I shall ponder over it until I
evolve something worthy of the wary parent and the American Young
Girl.”)
Hermia in the editor’s den: “Oh, yes; thank you very much. But I am
afraid I shall never do anything you will care for. Good-morning.”
The next day she sent the manuscript to another magazine, and, before
she could reasonably expect a reply, again invaded the sanctity of
editorial seclusion. The genus editor amused her; she resolved to keep
her courage by the throat and study the arbiters of literary destinies.
It is probable that, if her second editor had not been young and very
gracious, her courage would again have flown off on deriding wings; as
it was, it did not even threaten desertion.
She found the editor engaged in nothing more depressing than the perusal
of a letter. He smiled most promisingly when she announced herself as
the mysterious “Quirus,” but folded his hands deprecatingly.
“I am sorry I cannot use that poem,” he said, “but I am afraid it is
impossible. It has decided merit, and, in view of the awful stuff we are
obliged to publish, it would be a welcome addition to our pages. I don’t
mind the strength of the poem or the plot; you have made your meaning
artistically obscure. But there is one word in it which would make it
too strong meat for the readers of this magazine. I refer to the word
‘naked.’ It is quite true that the adjective ‘naked’ is used in
conjunction with the noun ‘skies;’ but the word itself is highly
objectionable. I have been trying to find a way out of the difficulty. I
substituted the word ‘nude,’ but that spoils the meter, you see. Then I
sought the dictionary.” He opened a dictionary that stood on a revolving
stand beside him, and read aloud: “‘Naked—uncovered; unclothed; nude;
bare; open; defenseless; plain; mere.’ None of these will answer the
purpose, you see. They are either too short or too long; and ‘open’ does
not convey the idea. I am really afraid that nothing can be done.
Suppose you try something else and be more careful with your vocabulary.
I trust you catch my idea, because I am really quite interested in your
work. It is like the fresh breeze of spring when it is not”—here he
laughed—“the torrid breath of the simoon. I have read some of your
other verse, you see.”
“I think I understand you,” said Hermia, leaning forward and gazing
reflectively at him. “Manner is everything. Matter is a creature whose
limbs may be of wood, whose joints may be sapless; so long as he is
covered by a first-class tailor he is a being to strut proudly down to
posterity. Or, for the sake of variety, which has its value, the
creature may change his sex and become a pink-cheeked, flax-haired,
blue-eyed doll. Hang upon her garments cut by an unconventional hand,
looped eccentrically and draped artistically, and the poor little doll
knows not herself from her clothes. Have I gazed understandingly upon
the works of the literary clock?”
The editor threw back his head and laughed aloud. “You are very clever,”
he exclaimed, “but I am afraid your estimate of us is as correct as it
is flattering. We are a set of cowards, but we should be bankrupt if we
were not.”
Hermia took the manuscript he had extracted from a drawer, and rose. “At
all events you were charitable to read my verses,” she said, “and more
than good to attempt their re-form.”
The editor stood up also. “Oh, do not mention it,” he said, “and write
me something else—something equally impassioned but quite
irreproachable. Aside from the defect I mentioned, there were one or two
verses which I should have been obliged to omit.”
Hermia shrugged her shoulders. She might repeatedly work the lovers up
to the verge of disaster, then, just before the fatal moment, wrench
them apart and substitute asterisks for curses. The school-girls would
palpitate, the old maids thrill, the married women smile, and the men
grin. No harm would be done, maidens and maids would lay it down with a
long-drawn sigh—of relief?—or regret?
Hermia kept these reflections to herself and departed, thinking her
editor a charming man.
When she reached the sidewalk she stood irresolute for a moment, then
walked rapidly for many blocks. The Mecca of her pilgrimage was another
publishing-house. She stepped briskly upstairs and asked for the editor
with a confidence born of excitement and encouragement. After a short
delay she was shown into his office, and began the attack without
preliminary.
“I have brought you some verses,” she said, “which have been declined by
two of your esteemed contemporaries on the ground of
unconventionality—of being too highly seasoned for the gentle palates
to which they cater. I bring them to you because I believe you have more
courage than the majority of your tribe. You wrote two books in which
you broke out wildly once or twice. Now I want you to read this while I
am here. It will take but a few moments.”
The editor, who had a highly non-committal air, smiled slightly, and
held out his hand for the verses. He read them through, then looked up.
“I rather like them,” he said. “They have a certain virility, although I
do not mistake the strength of passion for creative force. But they are
pretty tropical, and the versification is crude. I—am
afraid—they—will hardly—do.”
He looked out of the window, then smiled outright. It rather pleased him
to dare that before which his brethren faltered. He made a number of
marks on the manuscript.
“That rectifies the crudeness a little,” he said, “and the poem
certainly has intellectuality and merit. You can leave it. I will let
you know in a day or two. Your address is on the copy, I suppose. I
think you may count upon the availability of your verses.”
Hermia accepted her dismissal and went home much elated. The verses were
printed in the next issue of the magazine, and there was a mild storm on
the literary lake. The course of the magazine, in sending up a stream of
red-hot lava in place of the usual shower-bath of lemonade and
claret-cup, was severely criticised, but there were those who said that
this deliberately audacious editor enjoyed the little cyclone he had
provoked.
This was the most exciting episode Hermia could recall since Bessie’s
marriage.
* * * * *