There is little of the man in that long
gaze. He is seeking in the woman's face the sweet and gentle
features of his lost friend.
The American editor refuses such a story. There is no plot here,
he says, and no "punch." He is wrong, although an imperfect
abstract like mine cannot convict him. For the narrative presents
an unforgettable portrait of wistful hero-worship, set in the dim
mists of a Russian river against the barbaric splendor of an
Easter midnight mass. To force a climax upon this poignant story
would be to spoil it. And when it appears, as it will, in reprint,
in some periodical anthology of current fiction, it will not fail
to impress American readers.
But the American editor must have a climax which drives home what
he thinks the public wants. If it is not true, so much the worse
for truth. If it falsifies the story, well, a lying story with a
"punch" is better than a true one that lacks a fire-spitting
climax. The audience which judge a play by the effect of its
"curtain," will not complain of a trifling illogicality in
narrative, or a little juggling with what might happen if the
story were life.
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