Chapter: XXVII. LITERARY LESSONS.


                           


Fortune suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped a good-luck penny in her
path. Not a golden penny, exactly, but I doubt if half a million would
have given more real happiness than did the little sum that came to her
in this wise.

Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her
scribbling suit, and "fall into a vortex," as she expressed it, writing
away at her novel with all her heart and soul, for till that was
finished she could find no peace. Her "scribbling suit" consisted of a
black woollen pinafore on which she could wipe her pen at will, and a
cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which
she bundled her hair when the decks were cleared for action. This cap
was a beacon to the inquiring eyes of her family, who during these
periods kept their distance, merely popping in their heads
semi-occasionally, to ask, with interest, "Does genius burn, Jo?" They
did not always venture even to ask this question, but took an
observation of the cap, and judged accordingly. If this expressive
article of dress was drawn low upon the forehead, it was a sign that
hard work was going on; in exciting moments it was pushed rakishly
askew; and when despair seized the author it was plucked wholly off, and
cast upon the floor. At such times the intruder silently withdrew; and
not until the red bow was seen gayly erect upon the gifted brow, did any
one dare address Jo.

She did not think herself a genius by any means; but when the writing
fit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon, and led a
blissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather, while she sat
safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and
dear to her as any in the flesh. Sleep forsook her eyes, meals stood
untasted, day and night were all too short to enjoy the happiness which
blessed her only at such times, and made these hours worth living, even
if they bore no other fruit. The divine afflatus usually lasted a week
or two, and then she emerged from her "vortex," hungry, sleepy, cross,
or despondent.

She was just recovering from one of these attacks when she was prevailed
upon to escort Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in return for her virtue
was rewarded with a new idea. It was a People's Course, the lecture on
the Pyramids, and Jo rather wondered at the choice of such a subject for
such an audience, but took it for granted that some great social evil
would be remedied or some great want supplied by unfolding the glories
of the Pharaohs to an audience whose thoughts were busy with the price
of coal and flour, and whose lives were spent in trying to solve harder
riddles than that of the Sphinx.

They were early; and while Miss Crocker set the heel of her stocking, Jo
amused herself by examining the faces of the people who occupied the
seat with them. On her left were two matrons, with massive foreheads,
and bonnets to match, discussing Woman's Rights and making tatting.
Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly holding each other by the
hand, a sombre spinster eating peppermints out of a paper bag, and an
old gentleman taking his preparatory nap behind a yellow bandanna. On
her right, her only neighbor was a studious-looking lad absorbed in a
newspaper.

It was a pictorial sheet, and Jo examined the work of art nearest her,
idly wondering what unfortuitous concatenation of circumstances needed
the melodramatic illustration of an Indian in full war costume, tumbling
over a precipice with a wolf at his throat, while two infuriated young
gentlemen, with unnaturally small feet and big eyes, were stabbing each
other close by, and a dishevelled female was flying away in the
background with her mouth wide open. Pausing to turn a page, the lad saw
her looking, and, with boyish good-nature, offered half his paper,
saying bluntly, "Want to read it? That's a first-rate story."

Jo accepted it with a smile, for she had never outgrown her liking for
lads, and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of love,
mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class of light
literature in which the passions have a holiday, and when the author's
invention fails, a grand catastrophe clears the stage of one half the
_dramatis personæ_, leaving the other half to exult over their downfall.

"Prime, isn't it?" asked the boy, as her eye went down the last
paragraph of her portion.

"I think you and I could do as well as that if we tried," returned Jo,
amused at his admiration of the trash.

"I should think I was a pretty lucky chap if I could. She makes a good
living out 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 pieces, and I know a fellow who works in the
office where this paper is printed."

"Do you say she makes a good living out of stories like this?" and Jo
looked more respectfully at the agitated group and thickly-sprinkled
exclamation-points that adorned the page.

"Guess she does! She knows just what folks like, and gets paid well for
writing it."

Here the lecture began, but Jo heard very little of it, for while Prof.
Sands was prosing away about Belzoni, Cheops, scarabei, and
hieroglyphics, she was covertly taking down the address of the paper,
and boldly resolving to try for the hundred-dollar prize offered in its
columns for a sensational story. By the time the lecture ended and the
audience awoke, she had built up a splendid fortune for herself (not the
first founded upon paper), and was already deep in the concoction of her
story, being unable to decide whether the duel should come before the
elopement or after the murder.

She said nothing of her plan at home, but fell to work next day, much to
the disquiet of her mother, who always looked a little anxious when
"genius took to burning." Jo had never tried this style before,
contenting herself with very mild romances for the "Spread Eagle." Her
theatrical experience and miscellaneous reading were of service now, for
they gave her some idea of dramatic effect, and supplied plot, language,
and costumes. Her story was as full of desperation and despair as her
limited acquaintance with those uncomfortable emotions enabled her to
make it, and, having located it in Lisbon, she wound up with an
earthquake, as a striking and appropriate _dénouement_. The manuscript
was privately despatched, accompanied by a note, modestly saying that if
the tale didn't get the prize, which the writer hardly dared expect, she
would be very glad to receive any sum it might be considered worth.

Six weeks is a long time to wait, and a still longer time for a girl to
keep a secret; but Jo did both, and was just beginning to give up all
hope of ever seeing her manuscript again, when a letter arrived which
almost took her breath away; for on opening it, a check for a hundred
dollars fell into her lap. For a minute she stared at it as if it had
been a snake, then she read her letter and began to cry. If the amiable
gentleman who wrote that kindly note could have known what intense
happiness he was giving a fellow-creature, I think he would devote his
leisure hours, if he has any, to that amusement; for Jo valued the
letter more than the money, because it was encouraging; and after years
of effort it was _so_ pleasant to find that she had learned to do
something, though it was only to write a sensation story.

            [Illustration: A check for one hundred dollars]

A prouder young woman was seldom seen than she, when, having composed
herself, she electrified the family by appearing before them with the
letter in one hand, the check in the other, announcing that she had won
the prize. Of course there was a great jubilee, and when the story came
every one read and praised it; though after her father had told her that
the language was good, the romance fresh and hearty, and the tragedy
quite thrilling, he shook his head, and said in his unworldly way,--

"You can do better than this, Jo. Aim at the highest, and never mind the
money."

"_I_ think the money is the best part of it. What _will_ you do with
such a fortune?" asked Amy, regarding the magic slip of paper with a
reverential eye.

"Send Beth and mother to the seaside for a month or two," answered Jo
promptly.

"Oh, how splendid! No, I can't do it, dear, it would be so selfish,"
cried Beth, who had clapped her thin hands, and taken a long breath, as
if pining for fresh ocean-breezes; then stopped herself, and motioned
away the check which her sister waved before her.

"Ah, but you shall go, I've set my heart on it; that's what I tried for,
and that's why I succeeded. I never get on when I think of myself alone,
so it will help me to work for you, don't you see? Besides, Marmee needs
the change, and she won't leave you, so you _must_ go. Won't it be fun
to see you come home plump and rosy again? Hurrah for Dr. Jo, who always
cures her patients!"

To the sea side they went, after much discussion; and though Beth didn't
come home as plump and rosy as could be desired, she was much better,
while Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger; so Jo was
satisfied with the investment of her prize money, and fell to work with
a cheery spirit, bent on earning more of those delightful checks. She
did earn several that year, and began to feel herself a power in the
house; for 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" put down a new carpet, and the "Curse of the Coventrys" proved the
blessing of the Marches in the way of groceries and gowns.

Wealth is certainly a most desirable thing, but poverty has its sunny
side, and one of the sweet uses of adversity is the genuine satisfaction
which comes from hearty work of head or hand; and to the inspiration of
necessity, we owe half the wise, beautiful, and useful blessings of the
world. Jo enjoyed a taste of this satisfaction, and ceased to envy
richer girls, taking great comfort in the knowledge that she could
supply her own wants, and need ask no one for a penny.

Little notice was taken of her stories, but they found a market; and,
encouraged by this fact, she resolved to make a bold stroke for fame and
fortune. Having copied her novel for the fourth time, read it to all her
confidential friends, and submitted it with fear and trembling to three
publishers, she at last disposed of it, on condition that she would cut
it down one third, and omit all the parts which she particularly
admired.

"Now I must either bundle it back into my tin-kitchen to mould, pay for
printing it myself, or chop it up to suit purchasers, and get what I can
for it. Fame is a very good thing to have in the house, but cash is more
convenient; so I wish to take the sense of the meeting on this important
subject," said Jo, calling a family council.

"Don't spoil your book, my girl, for there is more in it than you know,
and the idea is well worked out. Let it wait and ripen," was her
father's advice; and he practised as he preached, having waited
patiently thirty years for fruit of his own to ripen, and being in no
haste to gather it, even now, when it was sweet and mellow.

"It seems to me that Jo will profit more by making 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. We are too partial; but the praise and blame of
outsiders will prove useful, even if she gets but little money."

"Yes," said Jo, knitting her brows, "that's just it; I've been fussing
over the thing so long, I really don't know whether it's good, 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 out a word 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 sell, 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 foreboding 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 every one, she took every one'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 nearly all 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 sombre
character of the story. Then, to complete 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 dire 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 over-praise, 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 it 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."

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]




                  [Illustration: Domestic Experiences]

 Jo is spending time working on her novel. Whenever she gets a writing fit, she shuts herself up in her room and writes, ignoring everything else going on around her. One day, Jo goes with a family friend, Miss Crocker, to attend a lecture on ancient Egypt. Jo and Miss Crocker arrive early for the lecture, and Jo spends her time people-watching. Beside her, a young boy is sitting reading a melodramatic-looking paper. The boy offers to let Jo read the story he has. She accepts, and finds that the story is a sensational romp involving love, mystery, and murder. Jo gives the boy back his paper. He thinks the story is wonderful, but she thinks that she could do just as well. The boy tells her that the author, whose pseudonym is "Mrs. S. L. A. N. G. Northbury," makes a good living writing stories like that. The lecture begins, but Jo can hardly pay attention to the speaker's description of ancient Egypt. She's busy writing down the address of the paper, which is offering a $100 prize for the best short story. The next day, Jo begins writing the most sensational story she can think of. Her mother is a little disturbed by her obsessive writing. Jo waits for six weeks, keeping her submission a secret. One day, she receives a letter saying that she has won the prize. A check for $100 is enclosed! Jo tells her family about the prize and shows them the check. Everyone is excited, except for her father, who tells her that she can do better. Jo's sisters ask what she is going to do with the money. She says she is going to send Beth and Marmee to the seaside for a month to help Beth get well. Beth and Marmee go on the holiday that Jo pays for. Both of them seem much healthier and happier when they return from their vacation. Jo keeps writing sensational stories and using her earnings to pay the family's bills and buy things they need. Jo feels proud of her hard work and satisfied by the knowledge that she can help provide for herself and her loved ones. One day, having finished her novel, Jo decides to try and get it published as well. After sending the manuscript to several publishers, one of them agrees to publish it - if Jo will cut it by one-third. Jo asks her family what they think. Her father advises her to wait, polish the novel herself, and perhaps publish it as a whole one day. Her mother advises her to publish, even if she has to abridge, so that she can get feedback from reviewers. Jo's sisters have equally divergent opinions. Meg thinks the novel is perfect and that Jo shouldn't change it at all. Amy thinks that Jo should do whatever the editor says, since he knows what will sell. Beth just wants to see it published soon. Jo decides to publish the novel. She cuts it down one-third, but since she tries to take everyone's advice about what to leave in and what to take out, the result is a mess. Jo is paid $300 for her novel. Her reviews are mixed, and she can't decide which of the criticisms are helpful and which are just silly. Now she wishes that she had published the novel whole or not at all; she thinks she's been misjudged. Jo's family comforts her, and she comes out of the episode ready to try another novel - someday.

