Скорбь сатаны / The sorrows of Satan. Уровень 4

I had been out all day trudging from one newspaper office to another, seeking for work and finding none. Every available post was filled. I had also tried, unsuccessfully, to dispose of a manuscript of my own, – a work of fiction which I knew had some merit. But all the �readers’ found it exceptionally worthless. These �readers’ were novelists themselves who read other people’s productions in their spare moments and passed judgment on them.

The last publisher was a kindly man who looked at my shabby clothes and gaunt face with some commiseration.

“I’m sorry,” said he, “very sorry, but my readers are quite unanimous. From what I can learn, it seems to me you have been too earnest. And also, rather sarcastic against society. My dear fellow, that won’t do[6 - that won’t do – так не пойдёт]. Never blame society, – it buys books! Now if you could write a smart love-story, slightly risky, – even a little more than risky for that matter; that is the sort of thing that suits the present age[7 - present age – наше время].

”

“Pardon me,” I interposed, “but are you sure you judge the public taste correctly?”

He smiled a bland smile.

“Of course I am sure,” he replied. “It is my business to know the public taste as thoroughly as I know my own pocket. Understand me, I don’t suggest that you should write a book on an indecent subject, but I assure you high-class fiction doesn’t sell. The critics don’t like it.

What goes down with them and with the public is some sensational realism.”

“I think,” I said with a forced smile, “if what you say be true, I must lay down the pen and try another trade. I consider Literature as the highest of all professions, and I would rather not join in with those who voluntarily degrade it.”

He gave me a quick side-glance of mingled incredulity and depreciation.

“Well, well!” he finally observed, “you are a little quixotic. Will you come on to my club and dine with me?”

I refused this invitation promptly.

I knew my wretched plight, and pride – false pride if you will – rose up to my rescue. I bade him a hurried good-day, and started back to my lodging, carrying my rejected manuscript with me. Arrived there, my landlady met me, and asked me whether I would �kindly settle accounts’ the next day. She spoke civilly enough, and not without a certain compassionate hesitation in her manner.