The editor was a good man, and had always been my
friend. He listened with great attention to what I told him, and
evidently sympathized with me in my trouble.
"As we have written to you," he said, "the only reason why we
did not accept the manuscripts you sent us was that they would
have disappointed the high hopes that the public had formed in
regard to you. We have had letter after letter asking when we
were going to publish another story like `His Wife's Deceased
Sister.' We felt, and we still feel, that it would be wrong to
allow you to destroy the fair fabric which you yourself have
raised. But," he added, with a kind smile, "I see very plainly
that your well-deserved reputation will be of little advantage to
you if you should starve at the moment that its genial beams are,
so to speak, lighting you up."
"Its beams are not genial," I answered. "They have scorched
and withered me."
"How would you like," said the editor, after a short
reflection, "to allow us to publish the stories you have
recently written under some other name than your own? That would
satisfy us and the public, would put money in your pocket, and
would not interfere with your reputation."
Joyfully I seized the noble fellow by the hand, and instantly
accepted his proposition. "Of course," said I, "a reputation is
a very good thing; but no reputation can take the place of food,
clothes, and a house to live in, and I gladly agree to sink my
over-illumined name into oblivion, and to appear before the
public as a new and unknown writer.
Pages:
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49