Читать книгу Хорошие жёны / Good wives. Уровень 3 - Луиза Мэй Олкотт, Луиза Мэй Олкотт, Mybook Classics - Страница 5

Fortune suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped a good luck penny in her path. Not a golden penny, exactly, but anyway.

Every few weeks she shut herself up in her room, put on her scribbling suit[14], and ‘fall into a vortex’. Her ‘scribbling suit’ consisted of a black woolen pinafore on which she wiped her pen, and a cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which she bundled her hair.

She did not think herself a genius by any means, but liked to write. She sat safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and dear to her as any in the flesh. The divine usually lasted a week or two, and then she emerged from her ‘vortex’, hungry, sleepy, cross, or despondent.

One day she escorted Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in return for her virtue was rewarded with a new idea. It was a lecture on the Pyramids. They arrived early, and Jo amused herself by examining the faces of the people. On her left were two matrons, with massive foreheads and bonnets, discussing Women’s Rights. Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly holding each other by the hand. A somber spinster was eating peppermints out of a paper bag. An old gentleman was taking his nap behind a yellow bandanna. On her right, her only neighbor was a young man with a newspaper.

Pausing to turn a page, the lad saw her, and with boyish good nature offered half his paper, saying bluntly, “Do you want to read it? That’s a first-rate story.”

Jo accepted it with a smile. She liked the lads. Soon she found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of love, mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class of light literature.

“Good, isn’t it?” asked the boy, as her eye went down the last paragraph of her portion.

“I think you and I can write better if we try,” returned Jo.

“I will be happy if I can. She makes good money of such stories, they say.”

And he pointed to the name of Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury, under the title of the tale.

“Do you know her?” asked Jo, with sudden interest.

“No, but I read all her stories, and I know a fellow who works in the office where this paper is printed.”

“Do you say she makes good money out of stories like this?” and Jo looked more respectfully at the points that adorned the page.

“Of course! She knows just what folks like, and they pay her well for it.”

Here the lecture began, but Jo heard very little of it. The Professor was talking about Cheops, scarabei, and hieroglyphics. Jo wrote down the address of the paper, and boldly resolved to try for the hundred-dollar prize offered in its columns for a sensational story. The lecture ended and the audience awoke.

Jo said nothing of her plan at home, but continued to work next day. Jo never tried this style before. Her story was as full of desperation and despair, She chose location in Lisbon, an earthquake was the end of the story. The manuscript was privately dispatched, accompanied by a note. If the tale doesn’t get the prize, which the writer dares expect, she will be very glad to receive any sum.

Six weeks is a long time to wait, but Jo waited. At last, a letter arrived. A check for a hundred dollars fell into her lap. For a minute she stared at it as if it was a snake. Then she read her letter and began to cry.

She was very proud. She electrified the family by appearing before them with the letter in one hand, the check in the other. She has won the prize! Of course there was a great jubilee, and then everyone read the story and praised it. Her father told her that the language was good, the romance fresh and hearty, and the tragedy quite thrilling. But he shook his head, and said,

“You can do better than this, Jo. Don’t think about the money.”

“I think the money is the best part of it. What will you do with such a fortune?” asked Amy.

“I’ll send Beth and Mother to the seaside for a month or two,” answered Jo promptly.

To the seaside they went, after much discussion. Though Beth didn’t come home plump and rosy, she was much better, while Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger. So Jo was satisfied with the investment of her prize money. She earned some money that year, and began to feel herself a power in the house. By the magic of a pen, her ‘rubbish’ turned into comforts for them all. “The Duke’s Daughter” paid the butcher’s bill, “A Phantom Hand” bought a new carpet, and the “Curse of the Coventrys” blessed the Marches in the way of groceries and gowns.

Jo ceased to envy richer girls. She could supply her own wants, and need ask no one for a penny.

Her stories were not very popular, but they found a market. So she resolved to write a novel. She copied her novel for the fourth time, read it to all her confidential friends, and submitted it with fear and trembling to three publishers. What was the result? She must cut it down one third[15], and omit all the parts which she particularly admired.

“Now I must cut it down. Fame is a very good thing, but cash is more convenient. So I want to hear your opinion,” said Jo, calling a family council.

“Don’t spoil your book, my girl. Let it wait and ripen,” was her father’s advice.

“It seems to me that Jo will profit more by taking the trial than by waiting,” said Mrs. March. “Criticism is the best test of such work, for it will show her both unsuspected merits and faults, and help her to do better next time. The praise and blame of outsiders will be useful, even if she gets little money.”

“Yes,” said Jo, “that’s just it. I really don’t know whether it’s good, bad, or indifferent. It will be a great help to listen to some cool, impartial persons. They will tell me what they think of it.”

“You’ll spoil it if cut it,” said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most remarkable novel in the world.

“But Mr. Allen says, ‘Make it brief and dramatic’,” interrupted Jo, turning to the publisher’s note.

“Do as he tells you. He knows what will sell, and we don’t. Make a good, popular book, and get as much money as you can. When you get a name, you can do whatever you want with your novels,” said Amy, who was very practical.

“Well,” said Jo, laughing, “Now, Beth, what do you say?”

“I want to see it printed soon,” Beth said and smiled.

So, with Spartan firmness, the young authoress took her novel and chopped it up as ruthlessly as an ogre. She wanted to please everyone, she took everyone’s advice, and – like the old man and his donkey in the fable – suited nobody.

Well, it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for it, and plenty of praise and blame.

“You say, Mother, that criticism will help me. But how can it, when it’s so contradictory that I don’t know whether I’ve written a good book or broken all the ten commandments?” cried poor Jo. “This man says, ‘An exquisite book, full of truth, beauty, and earnestness.’ ‘All is sweet, pure, and healthy.’” continued the perplexed authoress. “The next, ‘The theory of the book is bad, full of morbid fancies, spiritualistic ideas, and unnatural characters.’ I had no theory of any kind, don’t believe in Spiritualism, and copied my characters from life. I don’t see how this critic can be right. Another says, ‘It’s one of the best American novels which has appeared for years.’ (I know better than that), and the next asserts that ‘Though it is original, and written with great force and feeling, it is a dangerous book.’ Some make fun of it, some overpraise, and nearly all insist that I have a deep theory, when I only wrote it for the pleasure and the money. I hate to be so misjudged!”

When the first soreness was over, Jo could laugh at her poor little book.

“I’m not a genius, it won’t kill me,” she said stoutly, “So when I’m ready, I’ll write another novel.”