第二十七章　文学课

幸运之神突然间对着乔微笑了，并在她的人生之路上抛下一枚幸运铜钱。虽说不是金币，但是毫无疑问，即使给她五十万，也不会比以这种方式获得小笔金钱更让她感到由衷的幸福。

每隔几个礼拜，她总是会把自己关在房间里，穿上起稿工作服，全身心地投入小说写作，她自己把这形容为“掉进旋涡”，不把它写完就不得安生。她的起稿工作服是一条黑色的羊毛围裙加一顶黑色的羊毛帽子，上面装饰着一朵可爱的红色蝴蝶结；围裙供她在写作时随意擦笔，清理桌面准备大干一场时，帽子为她拢束头发。爱打听的全家人视帽子为航标灯，当她戴着帽子时，大家都跟她保持距离，只是好奇地偶尔探头问一声：“乔，灵感在燃烧吗？”他们甚至不敢随随便便问这个问题，而是要通过观察帽子来做出判断。如果这件善于表达情绪的行头低低地压在前额，表示艰苦的工作正在进行；若是帽子歪戴着，那是正写到激动之处；要是帽子取下丢在地板上，那就是沉浸在绝望中。进门见到这种场景，大家都会不声不响地退出，只有当红色的蝴蝶结在天才的额头快乐地飞舞时，大家才敢跟乔说话。

她并不认为自己是个天才，但是每当创作欲发作时，就全身心地投了进去。幸福感油然而生，忘记了贫困、烦恼，甚至意识不到恶劣的天气，她安全幸福地端坐在想象的世界里，周围拥有很多在她看来是有血有肉的亲切而真诚的朋友。她废寝忘食，夜以继日，只有在这时候感到自己很幸福，活得很有价值，白天和黑夜都显得太短，哪怕别的方面一事无成。神来之笔通常维持一两个礼拜，然后，她从“旋涡”里出来了，饥饿、困乏、乖戾、沮丧。

一次，她刚刚从这些发作中恢复过来，因推托不掉，便去陪克罗克小姐听一个讲座，好心有好报，此行让她有了新的主意。这是一次教区信徒的活动，讲座内容涉及埃及金字塔。乔纳闷为什么要给这些听众选这样的主题。她只能想当然地认为，这些听众满脑子是煤价和面粉价，生活在比狮身人面像斯芬克斯之谜更难解的谜语中。向这些人揭示法老的荣耀，可以减少社会的弊病。

她们到得早，为了消遣时光，乘克罗克小姐扯起袜跟的空儿，乔玩笑着打量起同排座位上人们的脸来。她的左边是两个主妇，结实的额头上戴着无边的帽子，嘴上在讨论女权问题，手上在梭织着什么。再过去，坐着一对卑微的恋人，他们淳朴地握着对方的手；一个忧郁的老处女从纸袋里掏薄荷糖吃；一位老先生脸上盖着一块印度扎染大头巾，打着盹做听课的预备。她的右边只坐着一个看上去勤奋好学的小伙子，正全神贯注地在读报。

那是一张图文并茂的报纸，乔闲得无聊，一边察看离她最近的画作，一边在心里纳闷，是什么事情需要这么一幅具有情节的插图来进行有缘串联。只见画面上，全副武装的印第安人在悬崖上与扑向他喉咙的恶狼以命相搏；两个狂怒的年轻男子正在附近短兵相接，双脚小得奇特，眼睛大得过分；后面有一个衣衫凌乱的女子在拼命地奔跑，惊恐地张大着嘴巴。小伙子停下阅读，翻页时发现她在看，于是好心地给了她半份，率直地问道：“要看吗？这可是一流的故事。”

乔微笑着接受了，她从小就喜欢与小伙子相处。很快，她就觉得自己纠缠于用爱情、神秘和凶杀编织起来的平凡迷宫之中。这篇故事属于通俗文学一类，里面激情泛滥。作者才思不够，写不出什么东西时，就安排一场大灾难的情节，其中一半人物被清除出局，剩下的一半为对手的覆灭而欢呼雀跃。

“一流的情节，是吧？”当她读到她那半份的最后一段时，小伙子问道。

“我觉得如果努力一把，你我都可以写得这么好。”乔回答说。看他如此欣赏这些垃圾，觉得真逗。

“要是我能写得这么好，那就太幸运了。据说，她靠写这类故事发了财呢。”说着，他用手点了点小说标题下的作者名字：S.L.A.N.G. Northbury[1]。

“你认识她？”乔突然来了兴趣。

“不，但是读了她的全部作品，我有个熟人在这份报纸的办事处工作。”

“你是说，她写这类小说发家致富了？”乔看着画报上那群狂躁不安的人和密密麻麻地装点在版面上的惊叹号，肃然起敬。

“我想是的！她很清楚老百姓的喜好，专写人们喜闻乐见、稿酬丰厚的东西。”

讲座开始了，乔几乎没听。当桑兹教授乏味地讲着贝尔佐尼[2]、胡夫[3]国王、圣甲虫和象形文字时，乔偷偷地记下了报社的地址，斗胆决定要去争取那百元奖金。原来这家报纸的专栏里面在有奖征集轰动性的故事。等到讲座结束，听众们醒来时，她已为自己积累起了可观的财富（报纸稿费不是第一笔了），而且已经沉浸在故事情节的虚构中，只是还未能定下，决斗是安排在私奔之前还是在谋杀之后。

回到家里，她只字没提自己的计划，第二天就投入了工作。妈妈忐忑不安，每当灵感发生燃烧时，母亲总显得忧心忡忡。以前，乔从未写过此类体裁，仅仅满足于为《展翅的雄鹰》报撰写温文尔雅的罗曼史。她的演戏经历和博览群书这下可帮上了大忙，不但形成了戏剧性效果的概念，还提供了情节、语言和特定时代的服饰。她尽可能地调用自己对不安情绪的有限理解，努力让故事充满绝望和冒险，背景着落在里斯本，结局安排为一场大地震，真是令人震撼，又合乎情理。稿件悄悄地寄出去了，并附上一张便条，上面用谦虚口吻写道：故事能否获奖，笔者几乎不敢奢望，若编辑部认为拙作有哪怕一点点的价值，些许小钱她也将乐意接受。

六个礼拜是漫长的等待，这对一个还须保守秘密的姑娘来说，就显得更为旷日持久。但是，乔不动声色地等着，就在她要放弃全部希望，觉得再也见不到自己手稿的时候，她收到了一封来信。这封信几乎让她窒息过去，因为就在打开的瞬间，一张一百美元的支票落在了她的膝上。她盯着支票看了一下，仿佛看到了一条蛇，然后，她读着信哭了起来。如果那位和蔼可亲的先生得知，他那封客套信会给一个同胞带来如此强烈的幸福，我想他只要一有机会，定会把全部休闲时间搭上去，并且乐此不疲的。乔看重那封信更甚于奖金，因为它能鼓劲。在多年的努力之后，她发现，自己已经学会了做事，尽管还只是写写煽情故事。这真是令人心花怒放。

世上再没有比她更自豪的小妇人了。这时，她控制住自己的情绪，出现在家人面前，只见她一手举着信，一手举着支票，大声宣布自己得奖了，全家人怔住了。当然啦，大家欢呼雀跃。故事见报后，每个人都读了，一致给予赞美。然而，她的父亲在评论了故事语言通顺、情节新奇而丰富、悲剧气氛令人紧张之后，摇摇头，用一种超凡脱俗的口气说道：

“你可以写得更好，乔。盯住最高目标，别考虑钱。”

“我倒认为这件事情的最大好处是钱。这么多财富你打算怎么打发？”艾美问道，同时用满含崇敬的眼神注视着那张有魔力的纸条。

“让贝丝和妈妈去海边住上一两个月。”乔不假思索地回答。

“啊，太棒了！不，我不能去，乖乖，那样太自私了。”贝丝叫了起来。她拍了拍纤弱的手，深吸了口气，好像渴望着新鲜的海风，然后停下来，推开了姐姐在她面前挥动的支票。

“不，你得去，我已经下定决心。我写小说就为这个，因此才会成功。我只想着自己时，从来干不好事情。你看看，为你写作挣钱也成全了我自己，对吗？而且，妈咪也需要换换空气，她不会丢开你，所以你一定得去。等你长胖了回来，面色红润，那该多好！乔医生万岁！她总能妙手回春！”

一番商量之后，她们俩去了海滨。尽管贝丝回来时不如大家期望的那样长胖了、红润了，但看上去健康多了，而马奇太太则宣布自己感到年轻了十岁。因此，乔很满意对这笔奖金的处理，又心情愉快地投入了工作，争取赚到更多可爱的支票。那一年，她的确赚了好几笔稿费，并开始感到了自己在家里的实力。通过一支魔笔，她写的“垃圾”变成了全家改善生活的福利。《公爵的女儿》付了肉店的账单，《幽灵之手》给铺了新地毯，《考文垂家的诅咒》成了马奇家食品和衣物进项的福音。

财富确是称心如意的东西，但贫穷也有它的光明面。逆境最可贵的功效之一，就是可以激发人们用自己的聪明才智或辛勤双手来争取由衷的满足。世界上的聪明、美好和办事能力，有一半要归功于需要所激发的灵感。乔愉悦地体味着这种快意，不再嫉妒富家姑娘，想到能够负担自己的日常所需，不必求人出一分钱，不觉舒心极了。

她写的小说没有引起人们的关注，却找到了市场。她深受鼓舞，下决心朝名利双收大胆地出击。在誊写了四遍，对着所有知心朋友朗读了一遍之后，她战战兢兢地把她的长篇小说稿交给了三个出版商考虑。最后，终于有了着落，条件是压缩三分之一，删去所有她特别自鸣得意的片段。

“现在我得做个决定，要么把书稿捆回来放在我的铁皮柜里发霉；要么自己掏钱印刷出版；要么迎合买家的意图作些删减，尽量拿点稿费。出名对全家固然是件很好的事，但现金却是更实惠些，所以，想听听大家对这个重要问题的看法。”乔召集了家庭会议，对大家说道。

“别糟蹋了你的书，孩子，其中的价值比你知道的要高，小说的构思很好。让它放着，等成熟了再出版。”这是父亲的建议。他心口如一，积极按照自己布道的内容行事，花了三十年时间，耐心地等待自己的果实成熟，甚至到如今果实已经甜美醇香，他也不急于收获。

“依我看，接受检验比等待更有利于乔。”马奇太太说，“对这类作品而言，评论是最好的检验，会揭示出本人意识不到的优缺点，有助于下次写得更好。我们难免过于偏爱，外界的毁誉对她有好处，即使没什么稿费。”

“对，”乔愁眉不展，“正是这个意思。我折腾这部书那么长的时间，确实不知道它究竟是好，是坏，还是马马虎虎。让冷静而不偏不倚的人看看，然后谈谈他们的看法，对我会是很大的帮助。”

“我倒认为一个字也不能删除。这样做，就糟蹋了这部书。小说的兴趣点在于人物的思想，而不是人物的行动，如果不加阐释地任故事发展下去，就会让读者感到不知所云。”美格说道。她坚信这部小说是迄今为止最出色的。

“可艾伦先生说：‘删去阐释性段落，可使故事简洁而富有戏剧性，要让人物讲故事。'”乔打断了美格，将话题转向出版商的信函。

“就照他说的做。他知道什么样的书有销路，我们不知道。把它弄成一本优秀的通俗小说，尽可能多赚些钱。慢慢地，出了名，就有资格漫笔离题，你的人物中就可以有思想家和玄学家了。”艾美说。她对这个问题持有非常实用的观点。

“唔！”乔笑了起来，“如果我的人物是‘思想家和玄学家’，那可不是我的错，我全然不懂这些东西的，只是有时听爸爸说过。如果我能捕捉到他那些睿智，融进我的小说里，对我来说那更好。行啦，贝丝，你有什么说的？”

“我就是想看到小说尽快出版。”贝丝面带微笑，就说了这么一句，无意识地强调了尽快一词。她那始终孩子般率真的眼睛里，流露出渴望的神态，让乔有一种不祥的恐惧，只觉着心里一阵发冷，从而促使她下决心“尽快”去闯一闯。

于是，这位年轻的女作家怀着斯巴达人的坚毅，把她的处女作放在书桌上，断其筋碎其骨，手法之残忍，不亚于任何一个食人恶魔。为了让大家高兴，她采纳了每一个人的建议，结果就像寓言中的老人和驴，没有一个人中意。

父亲喜欢作品中不知不觉融进去的玄学色彩，因此乔仍保留着，尽管她自己将信将疑。母亲认为细节描写太多，那就大部删除，结果故事中许多必要的过渡都去掉了。美格喜欢悲剧，乔就堆砌了痛苦去迎合她。而艾美反对搞笑的场面，乔怀着生活中最美好的心肠，扼杀了活生生的场景，而这本来是想缓解故事中的忧郁气氛。然后，她砍掉了三分之一，毁灭得真是彻底，还信以为真地寄出了这部可怜的小说，就像一只拔了毛的知更鸟，被放飞到纷繁的世界碰运气去。

嘿，书倒是给出版了，她拿到了三百美元的稿费。表扬和批评纷至沓来，来势比她预期的要大得多。她陷入了困惑的之中，好些时候才恢复过来。

“妈妈，你说过评论会帮助我。可怎么帮？这些评论互相矛盾，我不知道自己到底是写了本前途无量的书，还是违反了基督教全部十诫。”可怜的乔哭着说，双手翻动着一堆短评，细细读去，一会儿让她心里充满自豪和喜悦，一会儿她又感到愤怒和沮丧。“这个人说：‘是一部上好的书，充满了真实、优美、诚挚。一切都很可爱、很纯洁、很健康。'”困惑的女作者接着说道，“下一个说：‘这本书的理论不好，充满了恐怖的虚幻、唯灵的理念和反常的人物。’而我没有任何理论，也不相信唯灵论，我的人物都来自现实生活，我认为这种评论不会是正确的。另一个说：‘这是美国多年来出现的最好的小说之一。’我看不见得；下一个断言：‘尽管它有独创性，写得气势磅礴，表现出极强的感受力，但它是本危险的书。’不是吗？一些人嘲笑挖苦，一些人夸张过奖，几乎所有的人都强调说我有深厚的理论功底，可我只是为娱乐和金钱而写作。我真希望这部书要么全文出版，要么就干脆不出，我痛恨被人如此曲解。”

家人和朋友们时时都来安慰她，表扬她。然而对敏感、心高气傲的乔来说，这是个艰难的时刻，她出发点很好，却显然把事情做砸了。但这对她有好处，因为具有真知灼见的评论者，提出的批评对一个作者来说是最好的教育。最初的悲伤熬过去以后，她能嘲笑自己那本可怜的书了，尽管如此，她依然相信它有价值。经历了这次打击，她感到自己更聪明，更坚强了。

“我不是济慈那样的天才人物，这不能把我棒杀的。”她刚强地说。“别忘了，我还可以嘲笑他们呢，直接取材于现实生活的部分，居然被他们说成是不可能的、荒谬的。而从我愚蠢的脑袋里构思出来的情景，却被说成是‘自然的、温馨的、真实的’。所以我要以此来安慰自己，等我准备就绪，我会振作起来再写一本。”

* * *

[1]五个英文字母拼起来的意思是粗俗俚语。

[2]意大利埃及学家（1778—1823）。

[3]公元前26世纪的埃及国王，他的坟墓就是那个最大的金字塔。

CHAPTER 27 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 then 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 woolen 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 gaily erect upon the gifted brow, did anyone 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 devine 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 Women's Rights and making tatting. Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly holding each other by the hand, a somber 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 fortuitous 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 disheveled 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 personae, 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 Professor 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 on 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 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 denouement. The manuscript was privately dispatched, 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.

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 everyone 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 breeze, then stooped 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 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 seaside 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 mold, 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 practiced what 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 taking 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 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 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 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 spritly 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.”