My dear Miss de Montmorenci,
I am sorry that you should hate me and my compliments. I had intended to be as civil and as nice as possible. I am quite in earnest, and you had better send the MS. As to all the questions you ask, I cannot answer them to any purpose till I have read the story—which I will promise to do without subjecting it to the pigeonholes. If you do not like Friday, you shall come on Monday, or Tuesday, or Wednesday, or Thursday, or Saturday, or even on Sunday, if you wish it;—and at any hour, only let it be fixed.
In the course of the next week the novel came, with another short note, to which was attached no ordinary beginning or ending. “I send my treasure, and, remember, I will have it back in a week if you do not intend to keep it. I have not £5 left in the world, and I owe my milliner ever so much, and money at the stables where I get a horse. And I am determined to go to Dieppe in July. All must come out of my novel. So do be a good man. If you are I will see you.” Herein she declared plainly her own conviction that she had so far moved the editor by her correspondence—for she knew nothing, of course, of that ramble of his through King-Charles Street—as to have raised in his bosom a desire to see her. Indeed, she made no secret of such conviction. “Do as I wish,” she said plainly, “and I will gratify you by a personal interview.” But the interview was not to be granted till the novel had been accepted and the terms fixed—such terms, too, as it would be very improbable that any editor could accord.
“Not so Black as he’s Painted;”—that was the name of the novel which it now became the duty of Mr. Brown to read. When he got it home, he found that the writing was much worse than that of the letters. It was small, and crowded, and carried through without those technical demarcations which are so comfortable to printers, and so essential to readers. The erasures were numerous, and bits of the story were written, as it were, here and there. It was a manuscript to which Mr. Brown would not have given a second glance, had there not been an adventure behind it. The very sending of such a manuscript to any editor would have been an impertinence, if it were sent by any but a pretty woman. Mr. Brown, however, toiled over it, and did read it—read it, or at least enough of it to make him know what it was. The verdict which Mr. Z. had given was quite true. No one could have called the story stupid. No mentor experienced in such matters would have ventured on such evidence to tell the aspirant that she had mistaken her walk in life, and had better sit at home and darn her stockings. Out of those heaps of ambitious manuscripts which are daily subjected to professional readers such verdicts may safely be given in regard to four-fifths—either that the aspirant should darn her stockings, or that he should prune his fruit trees. It is equally so with the works of one sex as with those of the other. The necessity of saying so is very painful, and the actual stocking, or the fruit tree itself, is not often named. The cowardly professional reader indeed, unable to endure those thorns in the flesh of which poor Thackeray spoke so feelingly, when hard-pressed for definite answers, generally lies. He has been asked to be candid, but he cannot bring himself to undertake a duty so onerous, so odious, and one as to which he sees so little reason that he personally should perform it. But in regard to these aspirations—to which have been given so much labour, which have produced so many hopes, offsprings which are so dear to the poor parents—the decision at least is easy. And there are others in regard to which a hopeful reader finds no difficulty—as to which he feels assured that he is about to produce to the world the fruit of some newfound genius. But there are doubtful cases which worry the poor judge till he knows not how to trust his own judgment. At this page he says, “Yes, certainly;” at the next he shakes his head as he sits alone amidst his papers. Then he is dead against the aspirant. Again there is improvement, and he asks himself—where is he to find anything that is better? As our editor read Josephine’s novel—he had learned to call her Josephine in that silent speech in which most of us indulge, and which is so necessary to an editor—he was divided between Yes and No throughout the whole story. Once or twice he found himself wiping his eyes, and then it was all
