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.”
Domestic Experiences
Like most other young matrons, Meg began her married life with the determination to be a model housekeeper. She brought much love, energy, and cheerfulness to the work. She wanted to succeed, in spite of some obstacles.
They were very happy, even after they discovered that they couldn’t live on love alone. John did not find Meg’s beauty diminished, though she beamed at him from behind the familiar coffee pot. The little house ceased to be a glorified bower. It became a home, and the young couple soon felt that it was a change for the better. John took steadily to business, feeling the cares of the head of a family upon his shoulders. Meg put on a big apron, and fell to work.
In the autumn, new trials and experiences came to Meg. Sallie Moffat renewed her friendship. It was pleasant, for in dull weather Meg often felt lonely. Seeing Sallie’s pretty things made her long for such, and pity herself because she did not get them. Sallie was very kind, and often offered her the coveted trifles, but Meg declined them, knowing that John wouldn’t like it.
She knew her husband’s income, and she loved to feel that he trusted her, not only with his happiness, but what some men seem to value more – his money. She knew where it was, was free to take what she liked. All he asked was to keep account of every penny, pay bills once a month, and remember that she was a poor man’s wife. Till now she has done well. But that autumn the serpent got into Meg’s paradise, and tempted her like many a modern Eve, not with apples, but with dress.
Sallie was buying silks, and Meg longed for a new one, just a handsome light one for parties. Sallie urged her to do it, offered to lend the money. In an evil moment the shopman held up the lovely, shimmering folds, and said,
“A
cut it down one third – сократить на треть
