bad, or indifferent. It will be a great help to have cool, impartial persons take a look at it, and tell me
what they think of it." "I wouldn't leave a word out of it. You'll spoil it if you do, for the interest of the
story is more in the minds than in the actions of the people, and it will be all a muddle if you don't explain
as you go on," said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most remarkable novel ever written.
"But Mr. Allen says, `Leave out the explanations, make it brief and dramatic, and let the characters tell
the story'," interrupted Jo, turning to the publisher's note. "Do as he tells you. He knows what will sale,
and we don't. Make a good, popular book, and get as much money as you can. By-and-by, when you've
got a name, you can afford to digress, and have philosophical and metaphysical people in your novels," said
Amy, who took a strictly practical view of the subject. "Well," said Jo, laughing, "if my people are `philosophical
and metaphysical', it isn't my fault, for I know nothing about such things, except what I hear
father say;, sometimes. If I've got some of his wise ideas jumbled up with my romance, so much the
better for me. Now, Beth, what do you say?" "I should so like to see it printed soon," was all Beth said,
and smiled in saying it. But there was an unconscious emphasis on the last word, and a wistful look
in the eyes that never lost their childlike candor, which chilled Jo's heart for a minute with a forboding
fear, and decided her to make her little venture `soon'. So, with Spartan firmness, the young authoress
laid her first-born on her table, and chopped it up as ruthlessly as any ogre. In the hope of pleasing
everyone, she took everyone's advice, and like the old man and his donkey in the fable suited nobody.
Her father liked the metaphysical streak which had unconsciously got into it, so that was allowed to remain
though she had her doubts about it. Her mother thought that there was a trifle too much description.
Out, therefore it came, and with it many necessary links in the story. Meg admired the tragedy, so Jo
piled up the agony to suit her, while Amy objected to the fun, and, with the best intentions in life, Jo
quenched the sprightly scenes which relieved the somber character of the story. Then, to complicate the
ruin, she cut it down one third, and confidingly sent the poor little romance, like a picked robin, out into
the big, busy world to try its fate. Well, it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for it, likewise
plenty of praise and blame, both so much greater than she expected that she was thrown into a state
of bewilderment from which it took her some time to recover. "You said, Mother, that criticism would
help me. But how can it, when it's so contradictory that I don't know whether I've written a promising
book or broken all the ten commandments?" cried poor Jo, turning over a heap of notices, the perusal of
which filled her with pride and joy one minute, wrath and dismay the next. "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.' Now, as 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.' 'Tisn't! Some make fun of it, some overpraise,
and nearly all insist that I had a deep theory to expound, when I only wrote it for the pleasure and the
money. I wish I'd printed the whole or not at all, for I do hate to be so misjudged." Her family and friends
administered comfort and commendation liberally. Yet it was a hard time for sensitive, high-spirited Jo,
who meant so well and had apparently done so ill. But it did her good, for those whose opinion had real
value gave her the criticism which is an author's best education, and when the first soreness was over,
she could laugh at her poor little book, yet believe in it still, and feel herself the wiser and stronger for
the buffeting she had received. "Not being a genius, like Keats, it won't kill me," she said stoutly, "and
I've got the joke on my side, after all, for the parts that were taken straight out of real life are denounced
as impossible and absurd, and the scenes that I made up out of my own silly head are pronounced
`charmingly natural, tender, and true'. So I'll comfort myself with that, and when I'm ready, I'll up again
and take another."
|
