75 лучших рассказов / 75 Best Short Stories

‘A story!’ I shrieked. ‘What on earth do you think we’d want stories for! Do you think we’ve nothing better to do than to print your idiotic ravings? Have you any idea, you idiot, of the expense we’re put to in setting up our fifty pages of illustrated advertising? Look here,’ I continued, seizing a bundle of proof illustrations that lay in front of me, ‘do you see this charming picture of an Asbestos Cooker, guaranteed fireless, odourless, and purposeless? Do you see this patent motor-car with pneumatic cushions, and the full-page description of its properties? Can you form any idea of the time and thought that we have to spend on these things, and yet you dare to come in here with your miserable stories. By heaven,’ I said, rising in my seat, ‘I’ve a notion to come over there and choke you: I’m entitled to do it by the law, and I think I will.’

‘Don’t, don’t,’ he pleaded. ‘I’ll go away. I meant no harm. I’ll take it with me.’

‘No you don’t,’ I interrupted; ‘none of your sharp tricks with this magazine. You’ve submitted this manuscript to me, and it stays submitted. If I don’t like it, I shall prosecute you, and, I trust, obtain full reparation from the courts.’

To tell the truth, it had occurred to me that perhaps I might need after all to buy the miserable stuff. Even while I felt that my indignation at the low knavery of the fellow was justified, I knew that it might be necessary to control it. The present low state of public taste demands a certain amount of this kind of matter distributed among the advertising.

I rang the bell again.

‘Please take this man away and shut him up again. Have them keep a good eye on him. He’s an author.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said the secretary.

I called her back for one moment.

‘Don’t feed him anything,’ I said.

‘No,’ said the girl.

The manuscript lay before me on the table. It looked bulky. It bore the title Dorothy Dacres, or, Only a Clergyman’s Daughter .

I rang the bell again.

‘Kindly ask the janitor to step this way.’

He came in. I could see from the straight, honest look in his features that he was a man to be relied upon.

‘Jones,’ I said, ‘can you read?’

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, ‘some.’

‘Very good. I want you to take this manuscript and read it. Read it all through and then bring it back here.’

The janitor took the manuscript and disappeared. I turned to my desk again and was soon absorbed in arranging a full-page display of plumbers’ furnishings for the advertising. It had occurred to me that by arranging the picture matter in a neat device with verses from ‘Home Sweet Home’ running through it in double-leaded old English type, I could set up a page that would be the delight of all business readers and make this number of the magazine a conspicuous success. My mind was so absorbed that I scarcely noticed that over an hour elapsed before the janitor returned.

‘Well, Jones,’ I said as he entered, ‘have you read that manuscript?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you find it all right – punctuation good, spelling all correct?’

‘Very good indeed, sir.’

‘And there is, I trust, nothing of what one would call a humorous nature in it? I want you to answer me quite frankly, Jones, – there is nothing in it that would raise a smile, or even a laugh, is there?’

‘Oh, no, sir,’ said Jones, ‘nothing at all.’

‘And now tell me – for remember that the reputation of our magazine is at stake – does this story make a decided impression on you? Has it,’ and here I cast my eye casually at the latest announcement of a rival publication, ‘the kind of tour de force [346] which at once excites you to the full qui vive [347] and which contains a sustained brio [348] that palpitates on every page? Answer carefully, Jones, because if it hasn’t, I won’t buy it.’

‘I think it has,’ he said.

‘Very well,’ I answered; ‘now bring the author to me.’

In the interval of waiting, I hastily ran my eye through the pages of the manuscript.

Presently they brought the author back again. He had assumed a look of depression.

‘I have decided,’ I said, ‘to take your manuscript.’

Joy broke upon his face. He came nearer to me as if to lick my hand.

‘Stop a minute,’ I said. ‘I am willing to take your story, but there are certain things, certain small details which I want to change.’

‘Yes?’ he said timidly.

‘In the first place, I don’t like your title. Dorothy Dacres, or, Only a Clergyman’s Daughter is too quiet. I shall change it to read Dorothea Dashaway, or, The Quicksands of Society .’

‘But surely,’ began the contributor, beginning to wring his hands–