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No! You communicated no germ5 to
me unless it was the coy germ of selling things; for I have actually sold
the Bohemian Girl6. Isn’t that a jolt? On that
sodden Monday when you were taking train for Boston7 and when I was lunching with the business manager,
he asked me if I had nothing to show for my stay in the country8. When I told him that I had a
story too long, to “highbrow”, too remote etc, he said he guessed he’d like to see it
that night if I’d send it up by the office boy. The next day I had tea with
him at the Brevoort9 and he offered me seven hundred and fifty
dollars for it. I laughed him to scorn; he
doesn’t know how much a story is worth to his magazine10 half so well as I do, and I told him so. By mo no sort of figuring can such a story
possibly be worth more than five hundred to McClures, so we finally agreed on that price. But he said I was a silly,
and I promised to take $750 for the next one. Everyone in the office was
enthusiastic about the story—in the name of goodness why, I wonder? They will publish it this summer, all in one number, though I shall have to cut it some. But
isn’t this too amazing? And how can I ever leave the faithful McClure’s? Mr.
Mackenzie11 wrung the plot of the opera singer one12 out of me and went to the office
and told it to everyone, and one of the article writers came to Miss Lewis13 and asked her which character
she thought more interesting, the mother or the daughter! They say they
would like the copy July 1, and I have not
even a plan for it as yet, and I know it will be distant and sentimental and terribly hard to write. All this, of
course, is because the business office has been getting a good many letters
and notices about Alexander14, so they come
after the Harp that Once15 with a
football tackle. This morning a note comes from Mr. Mackenzie asking for an
outline of the unwritten story to advertise in the prospectus! I’ll never be
able to write it at all if the advertising man is loosed to snap at my
heels. I shall need the imperturbable nerves of Rex Beach16 himself. Really, I’ve got such a case of stage
fright about it that I dont see how ⬩W⬩S⬩C⬩I can ever put pen to paper. The brazen
immodesty of talking having your unwritten
plot discussed about the office, anyhow! —— However, despite these
disadvantages, if this was the germ you handed on, I’ll keep it thank you,
until you do the sanatorium novel and want it back again.
I wonder whether you’ll be reading this scrawl between gargles; I do hope
not. But why didn’t you send for me to on Sunday if you were down and out and not
doing things? I call that a chill omission. And that Boston train, with a
bad throat—! I know all its dismalness: I am
really somewhat better and am staying over for the Howells17
dinner18. I keep wishing you
could have stayed a little longer, though it was better luck than one
usually has to have you here at all. I did get such delight and satisfaction
out of seeing you here. As to feeling a drop after you departed–well, one
does not so often miss people that one can’t afford a little loneliness.
What joyful things we can do the next time we make the same port! I think it
will always be easier to catch step again now. My metaphors seem to be a
little mixed, but my feelings are quite clear and simple, and its very jolly to care about you so much. Admiration is always a
pleasant thing to feel, and I’ve always felt a great deal of that for you,
since the first few times I saw you. But you probably know that, without my
telling you.
Now I must dress in three square feet of room. I wish the fourth dimension were in practice!
Faithfully alwaysW. S. C.Am I becoming cleverer, or is your handwriting plainer than of yore?
Miss Elizabeth Sergeant1 4 Hawthorne Road Brookline3 Mass. NEW YORK,N.Y STA A2 MAR 01 1912 2 PM