Life — June 22, 1911 — page 36: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Fancy, Famine and Fact are, indeed, pleased to learn definitely that there is a short story famine. We have been feeling for a long time—five years, possibly—that something was wrong, though, truth to tell, we had suspected that the famine was in the short story rather than of it. And we are doubly glad to learn the truth just at-this time, for in our ignorance we were on the verge of concluding that what ailed the short story was the same things that ailed the modern stage—optimism and the tured business man. It seemed to us that we were noticing in both the same unreality, the same disregard for the incidental truth of life, the same in- ability to portray for us recognizable characters under recognizable circum- stances: and they seemed both to have the same idle aim—the maximum of mere entertainment at the minimum of mental outlay. In fact, our later day short story has been quite as successful in banishing intellectual effort from our amusements as the later day drama. ‘ But, after all, it is only famine and charity stills criticism. We forgive the beggar his rags and indulge him in the pretentions under his tatters. And charity compels us to do even more: if our mental pabulum hasn’t been quite what it seemed, we must seck out our compensations. They are not far to seek. We have fed on rose leaves, but we have not been cor- rupted, and if we haven’t been nour- ished, we have been at least sustained. If we have been unable on the whole to read contemporaneous literature we have been, at any rate, fascinated with contemporaneous advertising. We don’t know anything about human life, of course, but we are aware of the virtues of vacuum cleaners and cellu- loid collars. We are ignorant of the human heart, but we know the latest fashions in breakfast foods and_soap. And if we haven’t gained anything of culture we know the advantages of six cylinders over two and the con- venience of safety razors. Nor has the gain been wholly ours. The artists surely haven't lost any- thing at all. For the artist’s inspira- “tion is as independent of the story he is illustrating as the composer's in- spiration is independent of the. words he is setting to music. And the very famine itself has been responsible for providing pleasant and profitable em- ployment in their homes for numerous young ladies, whose temperament, lim- ited’ intelligence and absolute “igno- rance of life would otherwise have ‘ex- posed them unnecessarily to the‘ evil influences of the stage. We are glad for all these things, but, most of all, we are glad for the edi- tors. Hitherto we had always imag- ined that the editor’s position was a difficult one, indeed, and one demand- ing tact, sound judgment, wide fa- miliarity with the literature of all ages, fine business ability and dis- crimination. We had been inclined to picture him as delicately weighing ar- tistic values and forecasting public taste, and we had conccived him as shockingly held between the cross fires of the heavy advertisers, the circula- tion and friends suffering with the itch for scribbling, and who yet, with a firm, sure grip, was gently leading the public up the steep incline of general culture. We are very glad to learn that such is not the case. How much more pleasantly the true picture affects one! The editor comes languidly down to his office—it is noon, of course. “Any mail?” says he pleasantly to the office boy. “Only this, sir,” and the boy holds sadly out to him a single manuscript. “What is it?” asks the editor, genially, “T's a short story by Selma Swan- son.” “Selma Swanson?” The editor’s brows wrinkle a little. “ Who's she?” “She's second maid in the Van Car- morgan’s house,” says the boy, apol- ogetically. “ But it doesn’t seem very new and the grammar’s atrocious.” “Fix the grammar,” says the edi- tor, sternly, “And don’t pay her too much for it—or she may be encour- aged to write another.” “T wish you could find time to read it yourself,” persists the boy. “Life, my boy, is too short to read Nobody's Magazine, Besides, it’s un- necessary, If the public will read the rot we published last month they'll read anything. And the circulation,” says he, referring to a memorandum on his littered desk, “ jumped up 6,200 last issue, but whether it was due to the cover or the auto ad. on the back I don’t know. And, by the way, boy— just write a paragraph for the ‘Chats with Our Readers,’ attributing the in- creased sale of the publication to the serial.” “Very well, sir,” says the office boy. “And send that story over to Big- gins to illustrate,” adds the editor. “ But he’s illustrating the Bunccum’s. serial.” “Then send it to that young chap. who did those astonishing designs for the collar ads. He probably doesn’t know any more about draughting than Selma does about life, but if he can get so much inspiration out of collars, perhaps he can get a little out of Selma. Swanson.” “Yes, sir,” says the office boy. “And write one of those muck- rakers to do a special on the ‘ Weight of Our Presidents.’” “Yes, sir,” says the office boy. And then, having transacted the business of the day, the editor is able to concentrate his mind on his real occupation—which is writing for the other magazines. It is pleasant to contemplate, of course, but, just the same—we hope it. won't last forever. fl Cluny Gwynne. — isd aint; grate! we Mint Manut M81 Ber comicbooks.com