that all these silly, optimistic stories are true, I would have gone to the Battery and thrown myself into the ocean long ago.

Don't you think that it is dangerous to show too many good meals to the hungry? No doubt all the happy novels were created to keep people contented, to give them hope. But the last war took away the best hopes from many and many. You can preach in your novels: 'Send him away with a smile'; but what can your optimistic novelists say to a mother who has learned that her boy is dead? I foresee that your after-the-war novels will be full of the boys who returned happily home, and the faithful brides who lead a virtuous life awaiting them. But those who wear the black clothes of mourning will not read them. And it is safer for the present system of society that those people do not read them.

Your 'optimistic' literature, which is intended to make people hopeful, may fill their hearts with bitterness, if they believe it, or with indignation, if they do not. And the masses are ceasing to believe it! It is dangerous to play on the credulity of people.

Certainly, only a part (although the largest part) of your books consists of such sentimentally optimistic mush. You have your great literature, which we used to admire from abroad. Don't believe in your best critics, who talk with the best intentions about the decadence of the American magazines. When my internationalized American friends say with bitterness, 'We have no real literature in America!' it reminds me of our clever but gloomy Russian critics, who would always complain, 'Nobody writes a decent thing nowadays.'

I would like to bring all these Russian literary undertakers to America and show them all the translations, poor as they are, of Gorky, Andreev, Korolenko

(they are all living Russian writers), and make the critics read all the articles praising Russian literature. Perhaps they would feel a bit ashamed of their growling.

The same pessimistic voices I hear in your country: 'We have no literature! We have no literature!' Why, have you not Mark Twain, Jack London, O. Henry? What do you expect from your country to bear you a genius every month? Of course, great writers are rare! We have only one Tolstoi. And we, exactly like you, complained that we did not have a dozen of them.

You praise our literature because you see only the best samples of it. The works of our daily literary failures do not reach you. It is a case of 'natural selection.' Nobody translates the mediocre, and, fortunately, only a very few of you know Russian! In Russia we praise your literature for the same reason: we see only the best part of it.

Nevertheless, those of your critics who blame your literature do it little or no harm: they love art and want to see more of it in their own country; this is the reason of their severe judgment. It was our radicals who blamed our country under the old régime. They did it because they wanted things to be improved.

The worst enemies of American literature are those critics who unrestrainedly praise it. They are like the extreme patriots of Mr. Roosevelt's kind who say, 'Everything American is good.' They create false geniuses by advertising mediocrities. The pseudogreat books are sometimes translated into other languages by the credulous and unintelligent foreigners, and thus lower your literary reputation abroad.

I have never seen so many manufactured geniuses as in America! Your natural gift of advertising shows itself in all its splendor, when you advertise a writer. A second Dante, second

Shakespeare, second Milton - you let us believe that there are hundreds of them here! Very often these highly praised people are just second-rate writers; and I am afraid that your honey-tongued critics are in danger that nobody would believe them if they should happen to discover a real new great writer.

II

Of course, you have in America the good old respectable magazines and publishing houses which shrink from the counterfeited geniuses and the monstrous advertising.

When I started to write in English, I wanted to see my things printed in these fine magazines; I always believed that one must begin everything from the top; that idea of mine worked well in Russia, so I tried to apply it in America, too. I wrote an article and sent it to a well-known monthly. The editors did not accept it, but asked me to come and talk with them about my future plans; they were seemingly interested in my work and wanted me to write for them.

With a beating heart I approached the huge old building, which was visited by Dickens and Thackeray and George Eliot; the building where Edgar Allan Poe recited his poems and Mark Twain smoked his pipe. (I am not quite sure whether all of these famous people actually visited the building, but I liked to imagine they did, because I read that they all contributed to the hundredyears-old magazine, which was born there.)

The first impression of it was as bad as could be. It was simply hopeless! The building stands on the dirtiest and gloomiest street of New York, and the street is darkened by the Elevated and is full of noise. I learned, later on, that there was no Elevated when this house was built, and the street looked

decent then. The editor informed me with pride that it was the first fireproof building erected in this city. But I did n't see any reason why they don't move from this place now, when it is no longer comfortable. Its famous past does n't make it any more attractive to live in.

Well, perhaps I am too democratic, but I must confess that I prefer good air and cleanliness and quietude to beautiful traditions.

This house, filled with traditions, has no good air and quietude at all; it looks like a dusty and noisy factory; dozens of people work together in the two large halls; the editors have no privacy at all, their writing-tables are so near to each other. I, a poor foreigner, would never consent to work under such primitive conditions.

And it was such a contrast to meet in this huge, dusty, cold-looking factory the friendly, kind, attentive people, who greeted me as if they knew me long ago.

There were two ladies with whom I talked first. On almost every one of your big magazines there are elderly, white-haired, well-preserved, kindly, sweet-voiced ladies who talk with you as if you were their daughter.

I don't understand how the publishing companies can obtain so many distinguished, good-natured elderly women to work in their 'book factories' under the present conditions.

Those two lady editors, whom I met first, gave me an exceptionally good impression; I learned, later on, that the younger of them was the so-called 'talking editor'; her mission was to talk with writers. Not an easy job, I must admit! I personally would rather be a missionary in Hawaii than deal with conceited young poets or capricious novelists, or -green foreign journalists who cannot accustom themselves to the habits of a new country.

I believe my talking editor would be a capable missionary: she created an atmosphere of perfect confidence around a newcomer. My heart was warm when I talked with her, and I left the office in a rosy, hopeful mood.

I wrote a short story, which they accepted, and showered many compliments upon me. Another woman editor, a well-known poet, praised me and my country so much that I blushedI, a sophisticated newspaper woman! I felt a great joy.

I need praise like the auto needs gasoline; I must get a big dose of compliments from time to time, otherwise I cannot work.

A few more of my articles were accepted a little later in other first-rate magazines. It was a glorious day for me when I saw one of them printed in the Atlantic Monthly.

It all looked like success, but it was not so wonderful as it seemed to me the first time. Life did not become easy yet.

I love English and, remembering that I am a foreigner, I always fear that I may spoil your beautiful language. I think that, in order to write decently, I ought to work very hard over every little sentence. The result is, that I write one article while an average American journalist writes five or ten. As I work so slowly and live only on my writings, I must sell everything that I write: one large unsold manuscript means bankruptcy to me.

Well, even a good American novelist cannot sell everything he creates. So it was natural that very soon I fell into trouble.

I wrote a story and sent it to the first magazine. It was refused. I felt depressed, because I spent on this thing two months of work, and thought it very good; and I waited for the answer three weeks. When I got it, I was out of money; only thirty cents laid lonely in my old Russian purse.

The letter which accompanied the refusal was very sweet. It assured me

that I have an unusual talent for writing fiction, and so on. Among a few reasons for rejection was: 'Don't think us hopeless optimists, but really we cannot print more stories with an unhappy ending, especially in these sad war times.'

The letter invited me to write something more cheerful.

I would gladly write something cheerful. I have a soft heart and don't like to make people sad, even on the pages of books. I do it only when the natural developing of the theme does not permit me to end the story happily. And I see plenty of sunshine in life, not only its dark corners. But it was pretty hard to think about a new happy story with thirty cents in my pocket and the unpaid rent.

I braced myself up and went to the editor. I had a little cheerful theme in my head; I had nursed it for a long time; I told it to her and she liked it very much.

'Yes, that sounds very interesting! Write it! I think we will accept it.'

I gathered all my courage and explained to her that I could not write anything because of 'circumstances.' I asked a little money in advance.

She looked shocked and surprised.

'No, I don't think our business manager would do it for you. It is not our custom to give money in advance to new writers. If you were well known—' I smiled. 'If I were well known and successful, I would not ask money! I ask it because I need it!'

'I am sorry, Miss Moravsky, but it is not a business proposition. We hope your next story may suit us, but we are not sure of it.'

'But you assured me that I can write well! You proved your good opinion of my writing by accepting my first story; you said I have a bright future

before me. I have reasons to believe it, because I was a successful writer in my own country. Then why cannot your publishers help me? It is a question of death or life to me. To-day I broke my last dollar.'

I picked up a silver paper-knife and started to examine it, in order to hide the expression on my face. I felt that I was on the verge of tears, and it would be so degrading to cry before the foreigner! But my hands trembled and the paper-knife vibrated like a tuning fork. She glanced at this trembling knife and understood. She rose quickly and went to the next office-cage.

A moment later she returned, saying, 'I am very sorry, but, as I expected, our business manager does n't find it possible. Then she added sympathetically, 'Why don't you undertake any other occupation besides writing?'

'Because it is the only one thing which I know. I have no other profession.'

'You may learn something. It is almost impossible for a young writer in this country to live entirely on writing! And you are here for such a short time! Wait until you become better known, and in the meantime undertake some office work. I would gladly assist you to get it. I may give you some letters of introduction.'

"Thank you very much, but I hate regular work! It is a prison! I would never write anything good if I consent to it.'

The friendly manners and voice of the editor changed abruptly.

'Well, if you don't want to work Nobody likes everyday work, I assure you, but we all are doing it just the same. Do you think I would not prefer to write in my room instead of reading manuscripts all day long?'

'But they would fire me out the next day.' I tried to excuse myself: 'I cannot typewrite more than two

pages an hour. Here in America you need specialists. And every professional stenographer would beat me. I will not give my best to society if I start to work in a new field which I dislike. I would be a very poor everyday worker; society can get more out of me if I have an opportunity to write.'

And I tried to prove as eloquently as I could how important it is to have some more voices from abroad, in order to unite the two great countries, Russia and America, to establish international friendship, and so on.

She listened darkly, without the slightest sympathy, and interrupted me at last:

'Society is not interested to get the best out of you; society wants you to work.'

'But it is my work! My profession! To write articles is as good as to make shoes. Why, a shoemaker can live on' his profession, and you want me to write only in my spare time, after I have finished another day's work. It would be rotten writing!'

'I don't understand why you discuss it with me. This is a publishing house, and it is not our business to save writers.'

'It is your business! Do you think this magazine will be prosperous if you never help any new writer to stand on his feet?'

'We are not anxious to have more contributors, we have always plenty of material.'

'Oh, it is heartless, heartless!' I repeated, and rose to leave the office.

She shook hands with me and said in the old sympathetic manner,

'I cannot change the customs of our house, but I am very sorry for you, and if you allow me to help you personally —'

I refused with thanks, and went out, trying to be cheerful; but my pride left me as soon as I passed the door of the

inhospitable magazine. I stopped at the corner, leaned against the wall, and stood there for a long time; I was incapable of moving; I gazed thoughtlessly before me and saw nothing, because my eyes were full of tears. The Elevated roared above my head; I shuddered it awakened me. I started to think again; and, as I looked once more at the huge, fireproof building, I ardently wished it to be burnt, together with all its 'business system.'

III

A few minutes later I sat at Battery Place and thought it all over. I always used to go to this lonely place at the harbor when I felt depressed. The waves remind me that America is not the only place to live in; that the world is great, and is going to be free and happy, and 'let us hope that I will return home to Russia.'

I dreamed now more ardently than ever that I would return to Russia, where there are no 'impersonal publishing companies,' and the kind old editors, who publish their papers themselves, understand the moral and material needs of the writers.

Then I reconsidered my talk with the talking editor and felt ashamed of myself. If the publishing company was heartless to me (how can one expect a business trust to have a heart?), then I was heartless to her: it was so tactless, so cruel, to complain to this woman about my troubles, to her who had spent many years working in that 'factory,' instead of writing books in her own cosy home. And I said to her that I hate the steady hours of work and think it to be a prison, and will never consent to it! How could she sympathize with me, she who was in that prison already? Nine years at the desk of the noisy office, on that gloomy street! no wonder that she writes so little.

I remembered her beautiful book for children, and thought with regret about all the other, unborn books, killed by the hard editorial work. And I recalled the other editor, too, the noble-looking, white-haired lady poet, who resembles a white faded rose. She, too, spent many years gazing at the smoky walls of the old dull building, instead of walking along the avenues of maple trees, which she likes so much. Is it just? She writes exquisite poems; they were published by the best publishers and praised by the best critics of America, and her country could not give her anything better than everyday work in the office. In Poland, in the unhappy country which was not the 'land of the free,' which was never half as rich as the United States in Poland, we would give to our poets homes to live in, and land to plant gardens and flowers. A splendid estate was given as a birthgift to Maria Konopnicka; Sienkiewicz received a similar present; our society understood that a poet cannot live by selling his poems-it is as uncertain as selling flowers. But beauty is important for every society, and our society rewarded beauty. Here it is so businesslike! -'We have no market for poems!'

And to these two women, oppressed by the American publishing system, I dared to come for sympathy! And they were sympathetic! Oh, the people who create books in America have great hearts, but those who trade in them have not.

Who is to be blamed? I don't know any person whom I would blame. The publishing company has no personality; we all remember the recent 'accident of one hundred deaths' which happened in the subway. The judges could not find for a long time the responsible person! The trust company is impersonal, heartless, soulless. And such an institution helps books to be