a hazard of new fortunes v1-第19部分

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Boston　taste　in　such　matters。

March　submitted　silently　to　his　punishment；　and　laughed　with　her　before
company　at　his　own　eccentricity。　　She　had　been　so　preoccupied　with　the
adjustment　of　the　family　to　its　new　quarters　and　circumstances　that　the
time　passed　for　laying　his　misgivings；　if　they　were　misgivings；　about
Fulkerson　before　her；　and　when　an　occasion　came　for　expressing　them　they
had　themselves　passed　in　the　anxieties　of　getting　forward　the　first
number　of　'Every　Other　Week。'　　He　kept　these　from　her；　too；　and　the
business　that　brought　them　to　New　York　had　apparently　dropped　into
abeyance　before　the　questions　of　domestic　economy　that　presented　and
absented　themselves。　　March　knew　his　wife　to　be　a　woman　of　good　mind　and
in　perfect　sympathy　with　him；　but　he　understood　the　limitations　of　her
perspective；　and　if　he　was　not　too　wise；　he　was　too　experienced　to
intrude　upon　it　any　affairs　of　his　till　her　own　were　reduced　to　the　right
order　and　proportion。　　It　would　have　been　folly　to　talk　to　her　of
Fulkerson's　conjecturable　uncandor　while　she　was　in　doubt　whether　her
cook　would　like　the　kitchen；　or　her　two　servants　would　consent　to　room
together；　and　till　it　was　decided　what　school　Tom　should　go　to；　and
whether　Bella　should　have　lessons　at　home　or　not；　the　relation　which
March　was　to　bear　to　the　Dryfooses；　as　owner　and　publisher；　was　not　to　be
discussed　with　his　wife。　　He　might　drag　it　in；　but　he　was　aware　that　with
her　mind　distracted　by　more　immediate　interests　he　could　not　get　from　her
that　judgment；　that　reasoned　divination；　which　he　relied　upon　so　much。
She　would　try；　she　would　do　her　best；　but　the　result　would　be　a　view
clouded　and　discolored　by　the　effort　she　must　make。

He　put　the　whole　matter　by；　and　gave　himself　to　the　details　of　the　work
before　him。　　In　this　he　found　not　only　escape；　but　reassurance；　for　it
became　more　and　more　apparent　that　whatever　was　nominally　the　structure
of　the　business；　a　man　of　his　qualifications　and　his　instincts　could　not
have　an　insignificant　place　in　it。　　He　had　also　the　consolation　of　liking
his　work；　and　of　getting　an　instant　grasp　of　it　that　grew　constantly
firmer　and　closer。　　The　joy　of　knowing　that　he　had　not　made　a　mistake　was
great。　　In　giving　rein　to　ambitions　long　forborne　he　seemed　to　get　back
to　the　youth　when　he　had　indulged　them　first；　and　after　half　a　lifetime
passed　in　pursuits　alien　to　his　nature；　he　was　feeling　the　serene
happiness　of　being　mated　through　his　work　to　his　early　love。　　From　the
outside　the　spectacle　might　have　had　its　pathos；　and　it　is　not　easy　to
justify　such　an　experiment　as　he　had　made　at　his　time　of　life；　except
upon　the　ground　where　he　rested　from　its　considerationthe　ground　of
necessity。

His　work　was　more　in　his　thoughts　than　himself；　however；　and　as　the　time
for　the　publication　of　the　first　number　of　his　periodical　came　nearer；
his　cares　all　centred　upon　it。　　Without　fixing　any　date；　Fulkerson　had
announced　it；　and　pushed　his　announcements　with　the　shameless　vigor　of　a
born　advertiser。　　He　worked　his　interest　with　the　press　to　the　utmost；
and　paragraphs　of　a　variety　that　did　credit　to　his　ingenuity　were　afloat
everywhere。　　Some　of　them　were　speciously　unfavorable　in　tone；　they
criticised　and　even　ridiculed　the　principles　on　which　the　new　departure
in　literary　journalism　was　based。　　Others　defended　it；　others　yet　denied
that　this　rumored　principle　was　really　the　principle。　　All　contributed　to
make　talk。　　All　proceeded　from　the　same　fertile　invention。

March　observed　with　a　degree　of　mortification　that　the　talk　was　very
little　of　it　in　the　New　York　press；　there　the　references　to　the　novel
enterprise　were　slight　and　cold。　　But　Fulkerson　said：　〃Don't　mind　that；
old　man。　　It's　the　whole　country　that　makes　or　breaks　a　thing　like　this；
New　York　has　very　little　to　do　with　it。　　Now　if　it　were　a　play；　it　would
be　different。　　New　York　does　make　or　break　a　play；　but　it　doesn't　make　or
break　a　book；　it　doesn't　make　or　break　a　magazine。　　The　great　mass　of　the
readers　are　outside　of　New　York；　and　the　rural　districts　are　what　we　have
got　to　go　for。　　They　don't　read　much　in　New　York；　they　write；　and　talk
about　what　they've　written。　　Don't　you　worry。〃

The　rumor　of　Fulkerson's　connection　with　the　enterprise　accompanied　many
of　the　paragraphs；　and　he　was　able　to　stay　March's　thirst　for　employment
by　turning　over　to　him　from　day　to　day　heaps　of　the　manuscripts　which
began　to　pour　in　from　his　old　syndicate　writers；　as　well　as　from
adventurous　volunteers　all　over　the　country。　　With　these　in　hand　March
began　practically　to　plan　the　first　number；　and　to　concrete　a　general
scheme　from　the　material　and　the　experience　they　furnished。　　They　had
intended　to　issue　the　first　number　with　the　new　year；　and　if　it　had　been
an　affair　of　literature　alone；　it　would　have　been　very　easy；　but　it　was
the　art　leg　they　limped　on；　as　Fulkerson　phrased　it。　　They　had　not　merely
to　deal　with　the　question　of　specific　illustrations　for　this　article　or
that；　but　to　decide　the　whole　character　of　their　illustrations；　and　first
of　all　to　get　a　design　for　a　cover　which　should　both　ensnare　the　heedless
and　captivate　the　fastidious。　　These　things　did　not　come　properly　within
March's　provincethat　had　been　clearly　understoodand　for　a　while
Fulkerson　tried　to　run　the　art　leg　himself。　　The　phrase　was　again　his；
but　it　was　simpler　to　make　the　phrase　than　to　run　the　leg。　　The　difficult
generation；　at　once　stiff…backed　and　slippery；　with　which　he　had　to　do　in
this　endeavor；　reduced　even　so　buoyant　an　optimist　to　despair；　and　after
wasting　some　valuable　weeks　in　trying　to　work　the　artists　himself；　he
determined　to　get　an　artist　to　work　them。　　But　what　artist？　　It　could　not
be　a　man　with　fixed　reputation　and　a　following：　he　would　be　too　costly；
and　would　have　too　many　enemies　among　his　brethren；　even　if　he　would
consent　to　undertake　the　job。　　Fulkerson　had　a　man　in　mind；　an　artist；
too；　who　would　have　been　the　very　thing　if　he　had　been　the　thing　at　all。
He　had　talent　enough；　and　his　sort　of　talent　would　reach　round　the　whole
situation；　but；　as　Fulkerson　said；　he　was　as　many　kinds　of　an　ass　as　he
was　kinds　of　an　artist。








End