publish that novel.”
“You’ve got cold feet? I can understand that.”
“It’s going to make too many people unhappy—my friend is terrified now. She thinks she might lose her job if people knew.”
Laura deliberately looked into the fire, sorting things out in her own mind.
“You hadn’t really faced it, had you? I wonder then why you made the immense effort that must have gone into writing this novel.”
“I know. Why did I? I must be crazy!” There she sat, so young, so charming really, a very young person who had taken on the whole complex responsibility of public revelation without having measured the cost.
“But you believe in your work?”
“I don’t know anymore.” Harriet gave a strange little sigh. “Maybe writing it was just therapy.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
“That’s what my friend says. She’s a teacher, and she’s older than I am.” Harriet clasped her hands to her chest and rocked with the pain of it. “If I publish this book it’s the end of us—that’s it: That’s why …”
“That’s tough.”
“I feel awfully confused. That’s why I wanted to see you. It’s very kind of you to let me come.” The round, troubled face broke into a smile. Laura could sense how much better Harriet felt at the moment because she had been able to come out with the matter. All very well, but what was Laura to say now?
“You seemed to understand. I mean, you talked about your son. And you felt my parents had been too harshly drawn. I thought maybe you could help. Is it just cowardice not to go ahead? Maybe if I destroy my book, I’m really destroying myself. I think of all these images, that one can’t close the door against life, and having a first novel accepted is certainly the opening of a door. If one closes that door, isn’t it fatal? But on the other hand if I close the door between Fern and me,” Harriet fixed her eyes solemnly on Laura, “what am I doing to her, and to myself?”
“I’m an editor, not a psychiatrist. You are asking me questions I can’t possibly answer.” Then Laura, seeing the dismay she had caused, added quickly, “But that doesn’t mean that I don’t understand. I think you’re in a horribly painful dilemma. I don’t know what to say about it. I can understand better, though, why you thought of an assumed name. Maybe that is the solution, after all.”
“Now it seems to me cowardly. Sooner or later I’ve got to face myself and not be ashamed. Besides, people find out.” And she murmured half to herself, “Even if I did use another name, Fern would be terrified.”
“It sounds to me as though Fern has some problems of her own. People pay a high price, I think, for leading a life they are not willing to live publicly.”
“But it hasn’t been possible. I mean, you lose your job. You are treated as a pariah. What I can’t stand is the whole sexual bit, the way people look at you. And you know all they are interested in is what you do in bed. It’s horrible!”
“You are very good about that in your novel. The reader is aware that the relation between the two women is real, not a matter of experimenting or of mere sexual adventure, or whatever. One reason I felt that we would want to publish is that the time has come for works of art that will deal with all this naturally and without sensationalism. If I may say so, the classics in the field—I am thinking of Nightwood—make the homosexual unsavory to put it mildly.”
“So you really believe my book has value.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Oh, dear …” Harriet sighed again. She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, then took a swallow of wine.
Laura laughed. “Maybe it would have been more helpful to say the book was not very good, after all!”
“Then I could throw it away?” Harriet frowned. “I guess I couldn’t whatever you said or thought. I don’t think I’m a genius, but I know I have to write the way a fish has to swim.”
“I think you are a
“You’ve got cold feet? I can understand that.”
“It’s going to make too many people unhappy—my friend is terrified now. She thinks she might lose her job if people knew.”
Laura deliberately looked into the fire, sorting things out in her own mind.
“You hadn’t really faced it, had you? I wonder then why you made the immense effort that must have gone into writing this novel.”
“I know. Why did I? I must be crazy!” There she sat, so young, so charming really, a very young person who had taken on the whole complex responsibility of public revelation without having measured the cost.
“But you believe in your work?”
“I don’t know anymore.” Harriet gave a strange little sigh. “Maybe writing it was just therapy.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
“That’s what my friend says. She’s a teacher, and she’s older than I am.” Harriet clasped her hands to her chest and rocked with the pain of it. “If I publish this book it’s the end of us—that’s it: That’s why …”
“That’s tough.”
“I feel awfully confused. That’s why I wanted to see you. It’s very kind of you to let me come.” The round, troubled face broke into a smile. Laura could sense how much better Harriet felt at the moment because she had been able to come out with the matter. All very well, but what was Laura to say now?
“You seemed to understand. I mean, you talked about your son. And you felt my parents had been too harshly drawn. I thought maybe you could help. Is it just cowardice not to go ahead? Maybe if I destroy my book, I’m really destroying myself. I think of all these images, that one can’t close the door against life, and having a first novel accepted is certainly the opening of a door. If one closes that door, isn’t it fatal? But on the other hand if I close the door between Fern and me,” Harriet fixed her eyes solemnly on Laura, “what am I doing to her, and to myself?”
“I’m an editor, not a psychiatrist. You are asking me questions I can’t possibly answer.” Then Laura, seeing the dismay she had caused, added quickly, “But that doesn’t mean that I don’t understand. I think you’re in a horribly painful dilemma. I don’t know what to say about it. I can understand better, though, why you thought of an assumed name. Maybe that is the solution, after all.”
“Now it seems to me cowardly. Sooner or later I’ve got to face myself and not be ashamed. Besides, people find out.” And she murmured half to herself, “Even if I did use another name, Fern would be terrified.”
“It sounds to me as though Fern has some problems of her own. People pay a high price, I think, for leading a life they are not willing to live publicly.”
“But it hasn’t been possible. I mean, you lose your job. You are treated as a pariah. What I can’t stand is the whole sexual bit, the way people look at you. And you know all they are interested in is what you do in bed. It’s horrible!”
“You are very good about that in your novel. The reader is aware that the relation between the two women is real, not a matter of experimenting or of mere sexual adventure, or whatever. One reason I felt that we would want to publish is that the time has come for works of art that will deal with all this naturally and without sensationalism. If I may say so, the classics in the field—I am thinking of Nightwood—make the homosexual unsavory to put it mildly.”
“So you really believe my book has value.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Oh, dear …” Harriet sighed again. She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, then took a swallow of wine.
Laura laughed. “Maybe it would have been more helpful to say the book was not very good, after all!”
“Then I could throw it away?” Harriet frowned. “I guess I couldn’t whatever you said or thought. I don’t think I’m a genius, but I know I have to write the way a fish has to swim.”
“I think you are a
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