[COPYRIGHT STORY.] THE HEART OF THE EDITOR.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XL, Issue 4, 25 January 1908, Page 36

[COPYRIGHT STORY.] THE HEART OF THE EDITOR.

By

W. E. NORRIS,

yOU see,” said the Editor of “The Epoch,” drumming absently with his long thin lingers upon a bulky pile of manuscript which lay before him, “the thing is really good. Good in a literary sense, I mean.” “But not suitable for ‘The Epoch,’ eh?” asked young Farmer, junior partner in the publishing firm of Farmer and Co., who were the proprietors of that thriving periodical. “Uh, not in its present shape. I don’t know what magazine editor would have the pluck to take such a novel as it stands. The fellow goes altogether too far; readers would be up in arms. It’s allowable, perhaps, to run a tilt at monarchy or revealed religion or even marriage, but not at the whole lot together!” "Well, send his M.S. back to him, then.” “Only—it’s so devilish good!” murmured the Editor regretfully. “Can’t he be induced to modify it?” The Editor shook his head. “He’s an intractable beggar, this Mr John Strong. I’ve written to him about it and asked him to come here and talk matters over, but he won’t. He says a personal interview would be disagreeable to him and could serve no useful purpose. He consents to soften down what he calls ‘sundry incidental crudities,’ but as for altering the whole scope and significance of the work—no, thank you! Indeed, I hardly see how he could.” “And is his work so desperately immoral?” “I’m afraid the readers of ‘The Epoch’ might think so. I believe I think so myself; though it’s written with such power that I hate to refuse it.” Young Farmer, who did not profess to be a judge of literature, got up, laughing. “Well, Curtis,” said he, “I can see that you are bent upon securing this serial, and you know we have unbounded confidence in you. You won’t do anything that could injure the magazine. Why not look the man up, since he won’t come to the office, and explain to him that there are things which the public must not be asked to swallow?” The Editor nodded and sighed. “I’ll think of it,” he answered. Lean Hugh Curtis, with the soft brown eyes and the kindly, prematurely lined face, took his editorial functions in a very scrupulous, conscientious spirit. Like many another man of letters, who has occupied a similar post, he was in a state of perpetual mental strife between his love of what he knew to be adequate work and the ever present recollection that he had to cater for an audience composed chiefly of foo!s, and, in a large measure, of intolerant fools. A magazine, after all, is a commercial enterprise, ami he had no right to involve Farmer and Co. in pecuniary loss. Consequently, he passed amongst his habitual contributors for being fidgety and hard to please, although everybody liked him as a man. This unknown John Strong, from whose pen he had already accepted a few brilliant short articles, and who—mainly as the result of his encouragement—had submitted to him the more ambitious novel, entitled “Daybreak,” which he was now considering was, he felt sure, a writer who would achieve renown, and he no more wished to let the man slip through his fingers

Author of “My Friend Jim,” Etc.

than a patient angler wishes to sacrifice a fish somewhat too heavy for his tackle. With excisions and emendations, “Daybreak” might, he thought, be made possible—just possible. But in any case the venture must be a risky one. Upon the whole, it seemed worth while to take Farmer’s advice and call upon the recalcitrant author. Personal interviews, without a doubt, do sometimes bring about understandings which are not to be arrived at through correspondence. The upshot of these musings was that towards close of day Curtis found himself entering an ugly, forbidding edifice in far West Kensington which was obviously let in flats. “Can you tell me on which floor Mr Strong lives?” he asked the porter. “No gentlemen of that name ’ere, sir,” answered the man. This was both vexatious and incredible. “I am certain I have got the address right,” said Curtis. “Think again—Mr John Strong. “Never heard tell of him, sir. Stop a minute, though. I believe there’s been some letters come for a party by the name of Strong as Miss Marshall, on the fifth floor, said she was to forward. Like to see Miss Marshall, sir?” Curtis had not the least wish to see Miss Marshall, whoever she might be, and he turned away in some disgust at having wasted more than an hour of valuable time. But just as he was in the act of hailing a passing hansom there came a light touch upon his elbow, and, facing about, he was confronted by a yoiusg lady, who said: “I beg your pardon; did I hear you asking for Mr John Strong?” “You did,” he replied. “Perhaps you are Miss Marshall?” The girl—she was a very pretty girl, with a neat figure, a round, babyish face, and large grey eyes—smiled. “No, I ahi not Miss Marshall, though I live with her; I am her cousin, Miss Thorne. You, I am sure, are Mr Curtis; so I may as well tell yon at once that, besides being Miss Thorne, I am John Strong.” It is safe to say that there was not at that moment in all London a more astounded man than the Editor of “The Epoch.” “Impossible!” he exclaimed with more candour than politeness. She took no umbrage. “Ah,” she remarked, “I knew you would say so, and it was chiefly for that reason that I refused to go to your office. But I had just a little scrap of a hope that you might come here, and I am so glad you have; for it shows that you haven’t yet finally decided to reject 'Daybreak.' Won’t you come upstairs now that we have met?” Her voice struck Curtis as no less attractive than her face and manner. How any of the three could appertain to the scholarly incisive, audacious writer of “Daylireak” he was at a loss to imagine. Silently and furtively he scrutinised this amazing young woman while the lift whisked them l>oth up to the fifth floor. There Miss Thorne, after leading the way into a flat of tiny dimensions, threw open the door of a cheerless, halffurnished apartment which evidently served as a dining room. “Sorry I can’t ask you into the sittingroom,” said she, “but Camilla is there, and I daresay you would rather talk to me alone. We’re unspeakably poor; so,

as you see ws only run to a table and a couple of chairs here. However, nobody can sit upon more than one chair at a time. You take that one and I’ll take this.” Suiting the action to the word, she placed her elbows on the table, dropped her chin upon her hands and faced him laughingly. “Well,” she went on, “now we are going to have it out, I suppose.” Considering that she was an obscure would-be contributor to a world-renown-ed periodical and that she was in the presence of one who might well prove to be the arbiter of her destinies, she certainly did not appear to be troubled with shyness. It was Hugh Curtis who experienced a little of that distressing sensation on being compelled to tell her that there were passages in her book which many, if not all readers would consider profane and indecent. He hastened to add that, after seeing her, he could readily believe that these blemishes might be the outcome of sheer innocence. What he professed himself unable to understand was that one of her years should have acquired the style and knowledge of which “Daybreak” afforded evidence in every page. She accepted both the censure and the compliment with serenity. “O'h, well,” she said, “I have had a fairly good education. Of course some themes can’t be handled without taking your gloves off, and parts of the dialogue in “Daybreak” are rather —well, plain-spoken. I daresay they could be toned down. But the book itself has to be what it is or nothing. You must admit that.” “I admit that so fully,” Curtis replied, “that I fear I must very reluctantly decline to associate ‘The epoch’ with such very subversive doctrines as you preach.” He spoke with some sternness and firmness, as was bis habit; but pressure was brought to bear upon him after a fashion for which he was not prepared when Miss Thorne’s lovely grey eyes filled with slow tears. She heaved a long sigh and murmured: “There’s no more to be said, then. It’s—it’s rather a disappointment. 1 thought, after your taking the trouble to come here and all, you must be inclined to accept the serial, and — and we’re so frightfully poor!” Like all editors, Curtis was painfully familiar with that unfair and irrelevant plea. Had he not known how to harden his heart against it, he would have been unfit for his position, and the extreme difficulty which he experienced in hardening his heart against Miss Thorne was due less to pity than to a very sincere appreciation of her talent. So, at least, he told himself. For the rest, further discussion proved her to be singularly amenable to reason. If he would but run through the M.S. with her and point out passages which it might be advisable to omit! Or even if he could indicate some way of recasting the plot, so as to bring it more into harmony with his requirements, she would be only too glad to meet him. ‘Chateau qui parle et femme qui eeoute!’ This time it was the Editor who represented both fortress and listener, and the result justified the proverb. “Well, I’m rather busy just now,” was Curtis’ final formula of capitulation, “but I'll make time to come here for two

or three afternoons, and we’ll grapple with the book together. Between us, we ought to be able to knock it into something like presentable shape. But we must look sharp; for I shall want to begin printing almost at once. Otherwise there will be no vacancy in the magazine for at least two years.” “Does that mean that you accept the book ?” Curtis shrugged his shoulders, laughing a little. “Oh, I accept it. Subject, naturally, to indispensable changes in the text.” Then it was pretty to see Miss Thorne clap her hands and skip about the room like a delighted child. Singular, mused Curtis, are the feminine developments which we have lived to witness! Here, to all appearance, was as nice and simple a girl as anyone could desire to behold; yet she was not only acquainted with everything which one would fain believe unknown to maidens, but did not mind writing about what she knew in the most unequivocal language. Extraordinary well-read and talented, no doubt; but he would have liked her better in her personal capacity if she had possessed fewer claims upon his admiration as an authoress. However, she did not allow him much leisure for moralising. “Come and announce the good news to my cousin Camilla,” she commanded (she issued orders to the grave Editor in the most matter-of-course way), and he was led into the adjoining room, where Miss Marshall, a gaunt personage of anything between forty and fifty, with short, grizzled hair and a pair of spectacles bestriding a formidable nose, received him somewhat stiffly. “I don’t know that I should let you tinker with my work if I were Nellie,” this unprepossessing lady remarked, after listening to explanations. “I shouldn’t wonder if you made a hash of it. But there! — beggars mustn’t be choosers.” It was not a very gracious way of acknowledging what was really no small sacrifice of time and convenience on the part of a busy man; but Curtis only smiled—feeling, indeed, little interest in Miss Marshall, beyond a certain altruistic satisfaction that her emancipated young cousin should be under guardianship so obviously prim and austere. On the other hand, his interest in Miss Nellie Thorne and her work was destined to augment at a rate which might have given his female relations legitimate ground for anxiety if he had had any. Female relatives, who seldom discern anything in a pretty girl save the allimportant fact that she is pretty, would doubtless have formed conclusions based upon common experience had they seen Curtis hurrying out to West Kensington day after day and spending hours in feverishly slashing and re-writing the pages of “Daybreak,” with his head very close to that of the gifted authoress. But in honest truth the work captivated him almost as much as did the writer; although he was naturally touched and gratified by the humility with which Miss Thorne acquiesced in his emendations. “Oh, of course, you know how to put things so much better than I do,” she would say submissively. “Well, perhaps he did. At all events, he so far identified himself with “Daybreak” by degrees as to feel some per*

tonal pride in the finished composition. The worst of it was that he could uot help feeling some vicarious shame into the bargain. The book was elever, daring, original, vastly superior to the comjnon run of contemporary fiction; but—but it was not the sort of book that a nice-minded girl could have written. Such was Curtis’ reluctant, but conclusive verdict, and it was a little strange, a little disappointing that Miss Thorne should remain so insensible or indifferent to that aspect of her production. With the end of the collaboration Came the end of an acquaintanceship which had been undeniably pleasant. Curtis had no further excuse for calling at the West Kensington flat, while he had absolutely no time for social intercourse. So, at any rate, he averred, in reply to sundry amiable little notes offering him a cup of tea; but the fact Was that he had other and better reasons for practising self-denial. He was pet, he hoped, an utter idiot, nor was he any longer young enough to let a pair oi grey eyes, however charming, disturb the clearness of his own mental vision. So he stood firm and the notes presently Ceased. Not without trepidation did Curtis .wait results, when, a couple of months later, the opening chapters of the new serial were laid before the readers of “The Epoch.” Editors and theatrical managers know full well that in dealing .With the British public nothing is certain, nothing can be positively predicted. “Daybreak” might pass almost unnoticed, might arouse a gradual storm of angry protest, or might simply bore people who objected—most people do—• to the investigation of grave social problems under the garb of fiction. But it did none of these things. It gripped attention from the very outset, its force and talent were instantly recognised, and by the time that the third number of the magazine had been issued everybody was asking everybody else who John Strong was. Now John Strong, as we know, was a modest, retiring person who had no desire to lay aside her anonymity; but she Would have been scarcely human if, with

the trumpet of Fame already sounding preliminary blasts in her ear, she had not been a trifle hurt by the cold silence of her editorial collaborator. Apparently she did not mean to put up with it; for one morning Curtis received a summons from her which even he could not be so rude as to disregard. “Will you please name any day when it would be convenient to you to come here? We want to see you, if you don’t mind. And it’s rather particular.” He frowned, grunted, telegraphed to say that he would be at West Kensington that same afternoon, and kept his appointment. He was admitted by Miss Thorne, who beckoned him into the dingy little dining-room which had been the scene of their joint labours, and whose grey eyes had, he thought, a suggestion of mingled triumph and apprehension in them. It also struck him that she was looking prettier than ever; l)ut that was an irrevelance. “I congratulate you,” he began a little formally. “I have never known nor heard of a case in which the first few parts of a serial by a new writer have created such a stir as ‘Daybreak’ has done. The Farmers have informed you, no doubt, of the exceptionally favourable terms which they arc prepared to offer for the story when it appears in volume form. A very large sale is, of course, assured.” She nodded. “It’s a real success, then?” “Oh yes, it’s a real success.” He added grimly, “A calamitous success!” “But why calamitous?” she asked, opening her eyes wide. In accents of ill-suppressed irritation, he answered: “Because the sequel to such a start is obvious and unavoidable. Because you’ll do it again. Because John .Strong is bound to become stronger as he goes on. In a word, because, much as I admire your book, I can’t like it. Or, it may be more accurate to say that I can’t like to think of your having written it.” Her eyes dropped, as did the corners of her mouth; but the dimples on her cheeks deepened, and she showed no sign of having taken offence. “Then,” she observed demurely, “perhaps it will

relieve you to hear that I didn’t.” “What? — you didn’t write ’Daybreak’!” “Not one solitary word of it, except the part that you dictated to me. Now don’t be in a rage; just consider for a moment. What possible difference can it make to you or Messrs Farmer or anybody else whether John Strong stands for Nellie Thorne or Camilla Marshall?” “Miss Marshall!” ejaculated Curtis. “Good Lord!” “Does that astonish you? I should have thought it was as plain as'plain could be that Camilla just exudes genius from every pore, whereas I am”-—she jerked up her shoulders deprecatingly—“what I am. All along I have been in terror lest you should suspect the truth; but you are not very—Well, never mind! I think perhaps I like you all the better for that.” “I cannot conceive for what purpose this deception has been practised upon me,” said Curtis severely, though in secret he was overjoyed. “Ah, well, you must fight that out with Camilla, who thinks the time has now come for her to drop the veil, and who begged me to personate her at first. You look as if you tliought I ought to have refused; but let me tell you that, although Camilla is an old dear, she is the sort of person whom it isn’t comfortable to disobey. As for the book—• well, I agree with you about the book.” Curtis’ face was wreathed in smiles. “You don’t like ‘Daybreak’? I was sure you couldn’t!” She drew a little nearer to him, and, lowering her voice to a whisper, “I trust to your honour never to repeat this,” said she, “but quite, quite between ourselves —I think it’s a perfectly beastly book!” Under certain circumstances the most reticent of men and the staidest of editors will behave in a manner wholly Out of keeping with their ascertained characters. “Oh, you darling!” exclaimed Hugh Curtis. What followed that very startling and unconventional utterance on his part

may be readily imagined. It was perhaps half an hour later that Miss Thorne remarked: “1 think you really ought to go in and see Camilla now, Hugh. No; I’m not going with you, many thanks. Henceforth it will be your privilege to stall I between me and the cold blast.” So the radiant editor proceeded alone into the drawing-room, where Miss Mar shall’s bony lingers were extended to him, and where an ironical smile re warded the polite things that lie said to her about her great work. “Il’in! you did your level best to ruin it for me,” she remarked, with a sniff. “Watering down my most powerful pas sages like that until they tasted of noth ing at all! How I kept my hands off you while you were so complacently en gaged in making me ridiculous 1 don’t know! Iron self-control, I suppose, and a sense of the paramount importance of getting my foot on the first rung of the ladder by hook or by crook. Never again, though! I’m independent now, and, if at any future time you should publish a book of mine in ‘The Epoch,’ you’ll be goodenough to respeetthe copy.” “I can but apologise,” answered Curtis meekly, “and assure you that the alterations which I felt it my duty to make were imperative. The public would never have tolerated—” “Stuff and nonsense! Don’t tell me that! What you really mean is that you funked your public, and I’ve nc opinion of people who funk. What’s more, I believe they’re always wrong.” “It may be so; yet even you seem to have fallen a little short of tin courage of your opinions when you gjt behind your cousin. “Not a bit of it! I had to find ar editor somehow, and I kuov enough oi editors and men to know that they car resist a homely old maid easily enough It was Nellie’s eyes that persuaded you to accept a serial which scared you oul of your priggish wits. Deny it if yoi. can! ” Curtis burst out laughing. “My dear Miss Marshall,” he returned, “that is the very last thing that I should wish to Geny!”