DOI Artikel:
James, Henry: The next time
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.27805#0026
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The Next Time
sallow persons of fashion, with dashing signatures, looked at you
from retouched eyes and little windows of plush, I was left to wait
long enough to feel in the air of the house a hushed vibration
of disaster. When our young lady came in she was very pale,
and her eyes too had been retouched.
“Something horrid has happened,” I immediately said; and
having really, all along, but half believed in her mother’s meagre
permission, I risked with an unguarded groan the introduction of
Mrs. Stannace’s name.
“Yes, she has made a dreadful scene ; she insists on our putting
it off again. We’re very unhappy : poor Ray has been turned
off.” Her tears began to flow again.
I had such a good conscience that I stared. “Turned off
what ? ”
“ Why, his paper of course. The Beacon has given him what
he calls the sack. They don’t like his letters—they’re not the
sort of thing they want.”
My blankness could only deepen. “Then what sort of thing
do they want ? ”
“ Something more chatty.”
“ More ? ” I cried, aghast.
“More gossipy, more personal. They want ‘journalism.’
They want tremendous trash.”
“ Why, that’s just what his letters have been /” I broke out.
This was strong, and I caught myself up, but the girl offered
me the pardon of a beautiful wan smile. “So Ray himself
declares. He says he has stooped so low.”
“ Very well—he must stoop lower. He ?nust keep the place.”
“ He can’t ! ” poor Maud wailed. “ He says he has tried all he
knows, has been abject, has gone on all fours, and that if they
don’t like that-”
“He
The Next Time
sallow persons of fashion, with dashing signatures, looked at you
from retouched eyes and little windows of plush, I was left to wait
long enough to feel in the air of the house a hushed vibration
of disaster. When our young lady came in she was very pale,
and her eyes too had been retouched.
“Something horrid has happened,” I immediately said; and
having really, all along, but half believed in her mother’s meagre
permission, I risked with an unguarded groan the introduction of
Mrs. Stannace’s name.
“Yes, she has made a dreadful scene ; she insists on our putting
it off again. We’re very unhappy : poor Ray has been turned
off.” Her tears began to flow again.
I had such a good conscience that I stared. “Turned off
what ? ”
“ Why, his paper of course. The Beacon has given him what
he calls the sack. They don’t like his letters—they’re not the
sort of thing they want.”
My blankness could only deepen. “Then what sort of thing
do they want ? ”
“ Something more chatty.”
“ More ? ” I cried, aghast.
“More gossipy, more personal. They want ‘journalism.’
They want tremendous trash.”
“ Why, that’s just what his letters have been /” I broke out.
This was strong, and I caught myself up, but the girl offered
me the pardon of a beautiful wan smile. “So Ray himself
declares. He says he has stooped so low.”
“ Very well—he must stoop lower. He ?nust keep the place.”
“ He can’t ! ” poor Maud wailed. “ He says he has tried all he
knows, has been abject, has gone on all fours, and that if they
don’t like that-”
“He