Proof of the Pudding
Spring playfully caught the eye of Editor Westbrook, from the Minerva Magazine, leading him astray from his intended path. Having indulged in lunch at his preferred spot in a Broadway hotel, he set out for his office, only to find himself captivated by the allure of the vernal season. This led him to veer eastward onto Twenty-sixth Street, navigating through the bustling traffic of Fifth Avenue before leisurely strolling along the pathways of budding Madison Square.
The gentle ambiance and surroundings of the park almost resembled a pastoral
scene, with green dominating the color palette - a hue symbolic of both man and
nature's creation. The tender grass lining the pathways bore a shade
reminiscent of verdigris, a vivid green evoking memory of the multitude who had
tread upon it during the summer and autumn months. The burgeoning tree buds
appeared oddly familiar, akin to the garnishes adorning a modest dinner plate.
Above, the sky boasted a pale aquamarine tint, reminiscent of verses penned by
poets in candlelit halls. Amidst this, the newly painted benches stood out as
the sole unpretentious green amidst shades of pickled cucumber and well-worn
raincoat fabric.
However, to Editor Westbrook's urbanized gaze, the landscape unfolded as a
masterpiece, a testament to the city's blend of natural beauty and urban charm.
And now, whether you're one to rush in or prefer the gentle concourse, you
must venture into a brief exploration of the editor's mind.
Editor Westbrook's spirit was content and serene. The April issue of the
Minerva had sold out before the tenth day of the month; a Keokuk newsdealer
even lamented that he could have sold fifty more copies if he had them. The
magazine's owners had bumped up his salary, and he had just hired a talented
cook who happened to be wary of policemen. Furthermore, his speech at a
publishers' banquet was published in full in the morning papers. Adding to
his joy were the resonant notes of a splendid song his charming wife had sung
to him before he left their uptown apartment. She had taken a keen interest in
her music lately, practicing diligently, and when he praised her improvement,
she had hugged him with joy. He also felt the invigorating presence of Spring,
akin to a trained nurse, gently healing the convalescent city.
As Editor Westbrook strolled among the park benches, already occupied by
vagrants and the watchful guardians of unruly children, he felt his sleeve
grabbed and held. Suspecting he was about to be panhandled, he turned with a
cold and indifferent expression, only to find his captor was none other than
Dawe—Shackleford Dawe—disheveled and almost ragged, his former gentility barely
discernible beneath his worn appearance.
As the editor collected himself from his surprise, a brief biography of Dawe
unfolded. Once a fiction writer and Westbrook's acquaintance, they had once
considered each other old friends. Dawe had some wealth back then, residing in
a respectable apartment near Westbrook's. Their families often socialized, with
their wives becoming close friends. However, a stroke of misfortune depleted
Dawe's funds, leading him to the Gramercy Park neighborhood, where one could
live modestly for a few coins a week. Despite occasional success selling
stories, most of Dawe's submissions to Westbrook's Minerva were rejected. Mrs.
Dawe, more concerned about their meager meals, humorously dubbed their fare
"Maupassant hash," lamenting the lack of a more substantial literary
diet. This encounter in Madison Square marked the first time Westbrook had seen
Dawe in months.
"Shack, is that really you?" Westbrook awkwardly acknowledged his
words, inadvertently drawing attention to Dawe's altered appearance.
"Sit down for a minute," urged Dawe, pulling at Westbrook's
sleeve. "This is my office. I can't come to yours looking like this. Oh,
don't worry, you won't be out of place. Those disheveled characters on the
other benches will mistake you for a well-dressed thief. They won't realize
you're just an editor."
"Smoke, Shack?" offered Editor Westbrook, cautiously settling onto
the vibrant green bench. He always gracefully acquiesced when he did.
Dawe seized the cigar eagerly, like a kingfisher swooping for its prey or a
child grabbing a chocolate cream. "I've just—" Westbrook began.
"Oh, I know; spare me," interrupted Dawe. "You've got ten
minutes at most. How did you manage to bypass my office boy and infiltrate my
sanctuary? There he goes now, chasing a dog that can't read the 'Keep off the
Grass' signs."
"How's the writing going?" inquired the editor.
"Look at me for your answer," replied Dawe. "Now, don't give
me that embarrassed, 'friendly but honest' look and suggest I become a wine
agent or a cab driver. I'm in this fight to the end. I know I can write
compelling fiction, and I'll make you admit it yet. I'll have you change the
spelling of'regrets' to 'c-h-e-q-u-e' before I'm through."
Editor Westbrook peered over his noseglasses with a mix of sorrow, sympathy,
and skepticism—the patented expression of an editor besieged by unattainable
contributors.
"Have you read my latest story, 'The Alarum of the Soul'?" asked
Dawe.
"Thoroughly. I deliberated over it, Shack; truly, I did. It had its
merits. I was composing a letter to accompany its return to you. I
regret—"
"Skip the regrets," cut in Dawe sharply. "They're meaningless
now. Tell me, what were the good points?"
"Well," began Westbrook, pausing with a sigh, "the story is
built around an almost original plot. Characterization—your best yet.
Construction is nearly flawless, except for a few weak spots that could be
strengthened with some adjustments. It was a good story, but—"
"I can write English, can't I?" interrupted Dawe.
"I've always said you have a style," conceded the editor.
"But the problem lies in—"
"The same old issue," finished Editor Westbrook. "You build
up to your climax like an artist, only to ruin it by turning into a mere
observer. I don't know what stubbornness possesses you, Shack, but you do this
with every piece you write. No, I take back the comparison to an observer.
Occasionally, photography, despite its distortions, captures a moment of truth.
But you spoil every conclusion with those flat, dull strokes of your pen that
I've complained about countless times. If you could elevate your dramatic
scenes to the literary heights they deserve and paint them with the vivid
colors of art, you'd find fewer rejection letters in your mailbox."
"Rubbish and stage lights!" scoffed Dawe. "You're still stuck
in that old melodrama rut. Whenever the villain with the black mustache kidnaps
golden-haired Bessie, you insist the mother must kneel in the spotlight and vow
vengeance."
Editor Westbrook allowed himself a smile of unyielding confidence. "I
believe," he remarked, "that in reality, a woman might express
herself in those words or something similar."
"Not outside a theatrical run of six hundred nights," retorted
Dawe heatedly. "Let me tell you what she'd really say. She'd say, 'What!
Was Bessie taken by a stranger? Good grief! It's one problem after another!
Fetch my other hat; I need to hurry to the police station. Why wasn't someone
watching her, I wonder? For heaven's sake, move aside, or I'll never get ready.
Not that
hat—the brown one with the velvet bows. Bessie must have lost her mind;
she's usually wary of strangers. Is this too much powder? My goodness, I'm so
flustered!'"
"That's how people talk," Dawe continued. "In real life, they
don't burst into heroics and poetry during emotional crises. It's just not
natural. When they do speak in such situations, they use the same language they
do every day, perhaps with a bit more confusion."
"Shack," said Editor Westbrook solemnly, "have you ever
lifted the broken and lifeless body of a child from under a streetcar and
placed it before the distraught mother? Have you listened to her words of grief
and despair as they poured out spontaneously?"
"No, I haven't," admitted Dawe. "Have you?"
"Well, no," conceded Westbrook, with a slight frown. "But I
can imagine what she would say."
"So can I," replied Dawe.
At this moment, it was time for Editor Westbrook to assert his authority and
silence his opinionated contributor. It was not for an aspiring fictionist to
dictate the dialogue of the heroes and heroines of Minerva Magazine, contrary
to the editor's beliefs.
"My dear Shack," he began, "if there's one thing I know about
life, it's that every sudden, profound, and tragic emotion elicits a fitting
expression of feeling. Whether this harmony between expression and emotion is
due to nature or the influence of art is hard to say. The roar of a lioness
mourning her cubs is dramatically different from her usual sounds, just as the
profound utterances of King Lear surpass his senile ramblings. However, all
individuals have a subconscious sense of drama that prompts them to express
emotions in language befitting their importance and dramatic value, a sense
acquired from literature and the stage."
"And where did literature and the stage acquire this?" asked Dawe.
"From life," declared the editor triumphantly.
Dawe stood up, gesturing passionately but silently. He struggled to find the
words to adequately express his disagreement.
Nearby, a disheveled man opened his eyes and realized he should support his
fellow downtrodden.
"Hit him, Jack," he called hoarsely to Dawe. "Why's he making
a ruckus like a penny arcade among gentlemen who come to the Square to sit and
contemplate?"
Editor Westbrook glanced at his watch with feigned nonchalance.
"Now tell me," demanded Dawe anxiously, "what specific faults
in 'The Alarum of the Soul' led you to reject it?"
"When Gabriel Murray receives a call informing him his fiancée has been
shot by a burglar," began Westbrook, "he says—well, I don't recall
the exact words, but—"
"I do," interjected Dawe. "He says, 'Damn Central; she always
cuts me off.' And then to his friend: 'Hey, Tommy, does a thirty-two bullet
make a big hole? It's tough luck, huh? Could you get me a drink from the
sideboard, Tommy? No, just straight; nothing fancy.'"
"And when Berenice reads the letter from her husband saying he's run
off with the manicure girl," Westbrook continued, "her response
is—let me think—"
"She says, 'Well, what do you think of that?'" supplied Dawe.
"Inappropriately banal words," Westbrook declared, "plunging
the story into bathos. Worse still, they present a false reflection of life. No
one ever speaks in clichés when faced with sudden tragedy."
"Wrong," argued Dawe stubbornly. "No one speaks in lofty
language when they encounter a real climax. They speak naturally, if not a
little worse."
Westbrook stood up with an air of indulgence and insider knowledge.
"Westbrook," Dawe persisted, grabbing his lapel, "would you
have accepted 'The Alarum of the Soul' if you believed the characters' actions
and words were true to life in the parts we discussed?"
"It's possible," conceded the editor, "if I shared your
belief. But as I've explained, I don't."
"What if I could prove you wrong?" pressed Dawe.
"I'm sorry, Shack, but I'm afraid I don't have time to continue this
argument right now."
"I'm not here to argue," Dawe said. "I want to prove to you,
based on real-life experience, that my perspective is correct."
"How do you plan to do that?" asked Westbrook, intrigued.
"Listen," said Dawe earnestly. "I've thought of a way. It's
crucial to me that magazines recognize my theory of true-to-life fiction. I've
been fighting for it for three years, and now I'm down to my last dollar with
two months' rent due."
"I've applied the opposite of your theory," Westbrook noted,
"in selecting fiction for the Minerva Magazine. Our circulation has
increased from ninety thousand to"
"Four hundred thousand," Dawe corrected. "When it should have
reached a million."
"You mentioned demonstrating your theory," Westbrook prompted.
"I will," Dawe affirmed. "Give me half an hour, and I'll
prove to you I'm right. I'll prove it through Louise."
"Your wife?" Westbrook exclaimed. "How?"
"Not exactly through her, but with her," Dawe clarified. "You
know how devoted Louise has always been. She's been even more supportive since
I've been cast as the neglected genius. She's been my rock throughout
this."
"Indeed, she's a remarkable woman," agreed Westbrook. "I
remember how close she and Mrs. Westbrook were. We're both fortunate to have
such wives. You must bring Mrs. Dawe over soon, and we'll have one of our
chafing-dish suppers."
"Later," said Dawe. "Once I get another shirt, But here's my
plan: Louise told me she's visiting her aunt and will be home by three. She's
never late. It's now—"
Dawe checked the time on Westbrook's watch.
"Twenty-seven minutes to three," Westbrook confirmed, checking his
own watch.
"We have enough time," Dawe said. "Let's go to my flat. I'll
write a note, leave it for her to find, and we'll observe her reaction. Then
we'll know whose theory is correct."
"That seems rather cruel," Westbrook objected. "I can't agree
to play with Mrs. Dawe's emotions like that."
"Come on," Dawe urged. "It's for her benefit too. I need to
prove myself to get my stories published. It won't harm her. She's resilient.
It'll only last a moment, and then I'll explain everything. You owe it to me to
give me this chance."
Reluctantly, Westbrook consented, though he felt a pang of guilt. But the
part of him that agreed hid a morbid curiosity.
They left the square and headed eastward until they reached the Gramercy
neighborhood. The park within its iron railings contrasted sharply with the
decaying houses outside.
A couple of blocks north, Dawe led Westbrook to a narrow flathouse with an
ostentatious facade. They climbed to the fifth floor and entered Dawe's
sparsely furnished flat.
"Find a chair if you can," Dawe instructed, "while I look for
pen and ink."
As Dawe searched, he came across a note on the table. Reading it aloud, he
revealed its contents to Westbrook:
DEAR SHACKLEFORD,
By the time you get this, I'll be about a hundred miles away and still
going. I've joined the chorus of the Occidental Opera Co., and we start on the
road today at twelve o'clock. I didn't want to starve to death, so I decided to
make my own living. I'm not coming back. Mrs. Westbrook is coming with me. She
said she's tired of living with a combination phonograph, iceberg, and
dictionary, and she's not coming back either. We've been practicing the songs
and dances for two months on the quiet. I hope you'll be successful and get
along all right. Goodbye.
LOUISE
Dawe dropped the letter, covering his face with trembling hands, and cried
out:
"My God, why have you given me this cup to drink? Since she is false,
let faith and love, Heaven's fairest gifts, become the jesting bywords of
traitors and friends!"
Westbrook's glasses fell to the floor as he struggled to comprehend the
situation.
"Isn't that something?" Westbrook muttered, shocked by the revelation. "Ain't it a kick in the teeth, Shack? Unbelievable."
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