Smith & Co., there were on it those of other publishers to whom the tale had been sent, not obliterated, but simply scored through, so that Messrs. Smith at once perceived the names of some of the houses in the trade to which the unlucky parcel had gone, without success.
[_To Messrs. Smith and Elder_]
"JULY 15th, 1847.
"Gentlemen--I beg to submit to your consideration the accompanying ma.n.u.script. I should be glad to learn whether it be such as you approve, and would undertake to publish at as early a period as possible. Address, Mr. Currer Bell, under cover to Miss Bronte, Haworth, Bradford, Yorkshire."
Some time elapsed before an answer was returned. . . .
[_To Messrs. Smith and Elder_]
"AUGUST 2nd, 1847.
"Gentlemen--About three weeks since I sent for your consideration a MS.
ent.i.tled "The Professor, a Tale by Currer Bell." I should be glad to know whether it reached your hands safely, and likewise to learn, at your earliest convenience, whether it be such as you can undertake to publish. I am, gentlemen, yours respectfully,
"CURRER BELL.
"I enclose a directed cover for your reply."
This time her note met with a prompt answer; for, four days later, she writes (in reply to the letter she afterward characterized in the Preface to the second edition of "Wuthering Heights," as containing a refusal so delicate, reasonable, and courteous as to be more cheering than some acceptances):
"Your objection to the want of varied interest in the tale is, I am aware, not without grounds; yet it appears to me that it might be published without serious risk, if its appearance were speedily followed up by another work from the same pen, of a more striking and exciting character. The first work might serve as an introduction, and accustom the public to the author"s name: the success of the second might thereby be rendered more probable. I have a second narrative in three volumes, now in progress, and nearly completed, to which I have endeavoured to impart a more vivid interest than belongs to "The Professor." In about a month I hope to finish it, so that if a publisher were found for "The Professor" the second narrative might follow as soon as was deemed advisable; and thus the interest of the public (if any interest was aroused) might not be suffered to cool.
Will you be kind enough to favour me with your judgment on this plan?". . .
Mr. Bronte, too, had his suspicions of something going on; but, never being spoken to, he did not speak on the subject, and consequently his ideas were vague and uncertain, only just prophetic enough to keep him from being actually stunned when, later on, he heard of the success of "Jane Eyre"; to the progress of which we must now return.
[_To Messrs. Smith and Elder_]
"AUGUST 24th.
"I now send you per rail a MS. ent.i.tled "Jane Eyre," a novel in three volumes, by Currer Bell. I find I cannot prepay the carriage of the parcel, as money for that purpose is not received at the small station-house where it is left. If, when you acknowledge the receipt of the MS., you would have the goodness to mention the amount charged on delivery, I will immediately transmit it in postage stamps. It is better in future to address Mr. Currer Bell, under cover to Miss Bronte, Haworth, Bradford, Yorkshire, as there is a risk of letters otherwise directed not reaching me at present. To save trouble, I enclose an envelope."
"Jane Eyre" was accepted, and printed and published by October 16th. . . .
When the ma.n.u.script of "Jane Eyre" had been received by the future publishers of that remarkable novel, it fell to the share of a gentleman connected with the firm to read it first. He was so powerfully struck by the character of the tale that he reported his impression in very strong terms to Mr. Smith, who appears to have been much amused by the admiration excited. "You seem to have been so enchanted that I do not know how to believe you," he laughingly said.
But when a second reader, in the person of a clear-headed Scotchman, not given to enthusiasm, had taken the MS. home in the evening, and became so deeply interested in it as to sit up half the night to finish it, Mr. Smith"s curiosity was sufficiently excited to prompt him to read it for himself; and great as were the praises which had been bestowed upon it, he found that they had not exceeded the truth.
LOUISA MAY ALCOTT
(1832-1888)
He is a hard-hearted churl who can read with unmoistened eyes this journal of a brave and talented girl.
With what genuine, _personal_ pleasure one remembers that a full measure of success and recognition was finally won by her efforts.
From "Louisa Mary Alcott: Her Life, Letters, and Journals." Little, Brown & Co., 1889.
1852.--_High Street, Boston_.--After the smallpox summer, we went to a house in High Street. Mother opened an intelligence office, which grew out of her city missionary work and a desire to find places for good girls. It was not fit work for her, but it paid; and she always did what came to her in the work of duty or charity, and let pride, taste, and comfort suffer for love"s sake.
Anna and I taught; Lizzie was our little housekeeper--our angel in a cellar kitchen; May went to school; father wrote and talked when he could get cla.s.ses or conversations. Our poor little home had much love and happiness in it, and it was a shelter for lost girls, abused wives, friendless children, and weak or wicked men. Father and mother had no money to give, but gave them time, sympathy, help; and if blessings would make them rich, they would be millionaires. This is practical Christianity.
My first story was printed, and $5 paid for it. It was written in Concord when I was sixteen. Great rubbish! Read it aloud to sisters, and when they praised it, not knowing the author, I proudly announced her name.
Made a resolution to read fewer novels, and those only of the best.
List of books I like:
Carlyle"s French Revolution and Miscellanies.
Hero and Hero-Worship.
Goethe"s poems, plays, and novels.
Plutarch"s Lives.
Madame Guion.
Paradise Lost and Comus.
Schiller"s Plays.
Madame de Stael.
Bettine.
Louis XIV.
Jane Eyre.
Hypatia.
Philothea.
Uncle Tom"s Cabin.
Emerson"s Poems. . . .
1853.--In January I started a little school--E. W., W. A., two L"s, two H"s--about a dozen in our parlor. In May, when my school closed, I went to L. as second girl. I needed the change, could do the wash, and was glad to earn my $2 a week. Home in October with $34 for my wages.
After two days" rest, began school again with ten children. Anna went to Syracuse to teach; father to the West to try his luck--so poor, so hopeful, so serene. G.o.d be with him! Mother had several boarders, and May got on well at school. Betty was still the home bird, and had a little romance with C.
Pleasant letters from father and Anna. A hard year. Summer distasteful and lonely; winter tiresome with school and people I didn"t like; I miss Anna, my one bosom friend and comforter.
1854.--_Pinckney Street_.--I have neglected my journal for months, so must write it up. School for me month after month. Mother busy with boarders and sewing. Father doing as well as a philosopher can in a money-loving world. Anna at S.
I earned a good deal by sewing in the evening when my day"s work was done.
In February father came home. Paid his way, but no more. A dramatic scene when he arrived in the night. We were waked by hearing the bell.
Mother flew down, crying "My husband!" We rushed after, and five white figures embraced the half-frozen wanderer who came in hungry, tired, cold, and disappointed, but smiling bravely and as serene as ever. We fed and warmed and brooded over him, longing to ask if he had made any money; but no one did till little May said, after he had told all the pleasant things, "Well, did people pay you?" Then, with a queer look, he opened his pocketbook and showed one dollar, saying with a smile that made our eyes fill, "Only that! My overcoat was stolen, and I had to buy a shawl. Many promises were not kept, and travelling is costly; but I have opened the way, and another year shall do better."
I shall never forget how beautifully mother answered him, though the dear, hopeful soul had built much on his success; but with a beaming face she kissed him, saying, "I call that doing _very well_. Since you are safely home, dear, we don"t ask anything more."
Anna and I choked down our tears, and took a little lesson in real love, which we never forgot, nor the look that the tired man and the tender woman gave one another. It was half tragic and comic, for father was very dirty and sleepy, and mother in a big nightcap and funny old jacket.