The Happy Ending

Showing How Strange and Unexpected Differences May Come to Bear Upon the Work of a Novelist

JENO HELTAI

BENJAMIN GLAZER

AMONG the letters received by the eminent novelist that morning was this:

Dear Sir:

An unknown admirer writes this to you. I am reading with intense interest your serial now running in the Weekly Home Companion. When I finish each installment, I can scarcely wait for the next to appear.

Without intending to flatter you, I want to say that never in my life have I read such a beautiful and thrilling story as yours, and never have I felt as attached to any character in a story as I feel to your heroine, the beautiful Edna. Her nobility has filled me with admiration and her terrible sufferings, which you describe with such a master hand, have inspired me with profound sympathy. I have been more than ever worried about Edna of late. Though your story is approaching its climax, and the Count—the proud aristocrat and irresistible Don Juan—has already made her his, you have given no hint or sign as to whether he will honorably marry her, or brutally abandon her, though she is in every way worthy to bear the noble title of Countess.

Laugh at me, if you must, but I cannot wait until the serial ends to learn of Edna's fate. Please have pity on a faithful reader and let me know what fate is in store for her. I enclose a stamped and addressed envelope.

Your humble and anxious admirer,

JULIE CHILLA.

DEAR Miss Chilla:

I have received so many hundreds of letters about Edna that I make it a rule never to answer them. Your letter, however, was so candid and charming that I shall make an exception in your case.

At the risk of grieving you I must inform you that Edna will never become the Countess Czenor. The Count, as you already suspect, will abandon her brutally and unconscionably. And, finding her humiliation too intolerable to be borne, Edna will throw herself into the Danube from—let us say—the Suspension Bridge.

This is a tragic ending for a girl so good and beautiful, but the design of my conception makes it inevitable. I have been censured in the past for wasting my talents on trivial tales. This time, at the cost of many sleepless nights, I shall show my critics that I know how to bring a story to its grim conclusion.

Please accept my profound regrets.

Faithfully yours,

S. CENVERITH.

A LETTER received by the eminent novelist two days later:

My dear Mr. Cenverith:

I scarcely know how to begin this letter, the whole thing is so awkward and unusual. But knowing you not only as a writer of talent but also as a gentleman of discretion, I throw myself upon your mercy, assuring you that, if you oblige me in this request, I shall consider myself indebted to you for life. The case is as follows:

I have a little friend. I may as well tell you her name, as everybody knows about our friendship except, possibly, my wife. Her name is Julie Chilla. You will recall the name because she wrote you a letter a couple of days ago. Since receiving your reply, she has not stopped crying. She is mourning for Edna, and last night she smashed an expensive vase, saying, if you will pardon me for repeating it, that you are the most contemptible scoundrel on earth. And then she added that I was a greater scoundrel for permitting you to make that Count ruin the girl and let her throw herself in the Danube. Then she rushed into her bedroom and locked the door; and when I remonstrated with her, she coldly declared that she could see no one because she was in mourning for Edna, who was her best friend.

As you see, my dear friend, the situation is desperate. I love Julie so dearly that I would do anything she asked of me. In a moment of weakness last night I promised her that the Count would marry Edna. I promised on the ground that I was personally acquainted with you, having had the pleasure of meeting you on several occasions at my bank, and believing that you would not refuse me such a trifling favor, considering the fact that I have had the privilege of being of service to you. Yours ever gratefully,

AMADA PRACHTVOL DE GAVAS, President of the Bank of Pest.

DEAR Mr. President:

I have read you letter with mixed feelings of amazement and sorrow. It is natural, it is pardonable of a young, sympathetic and sensitive reader like Miss Chilla to make such a request, but coming from you, a man of experience and intelligence, and president of a great bank, it is simply unpardonable.

Quite apart from the insult to me, quite apart from the humiliation of having a stranger seek to interfere with the plot of my novel and have me weave the story according to his ideas rather than my own, quite apart from the insult such a suggestion must carry to any self-respecting writer, I am amazed, I am shocked to learn that you hold literature in such low esteem as to suppose it can be influenced in such fashion. We authors take our work more seriously than you seem to understand. We write not for cheap applause, but wholly to satisfy an artistic conscience of our own.

Nevertheless, I am grieved to be unable to comply with your request,—all the more grieved because of the pleasant relations which have heretofore existed between your bank and me. I sincerely wish I could help you, but it is quite, quite impossible. As I have previously explained in my letter to your little friend, I owe it to myself to prove my worth. The years are passing, and it is time I began think-, ing of laying the foundations of immortality for my humble works.

In any other circumstances I should be honored to serve you, but you must believe me when I say that this time it is impossible.

Yours very sincerely,

S. CENVERITH.

A FEW days later the eminent novelist received the following communication: Dear Sir:

My client, the Bank of Pest, directs me to inform you that your note for eight hundred kronen, which is three months overdue, but which had been extended by order of the President, will be presented to you for payment tomorrow. In the event of default in payment of said note I am instructed to institute suit against you without further notice.

Yours truly,

GUIDO VESCKY,

Attorney for the Bank of Pest.

DEAR Mr. President:

Enclosed I send you a charming letter this day received from your attorney. I perceive the significance of the fact that it came just after I had been compelled to refuse you a favor.

I need not say I am amazed. I have heard of writers trying to blackmail a bank, but for a bank to blackmail a writer is quite unique in my experience. Please go on with your suit, attach my income at the magazine office, sell the pillow under my head, yet, I swear to you, Edna will not be Count Czenor's bride. Nothing you may do can prevent her from throwing herself into the river; and she shall leave behind her, not only one baby, but twins. This will be my revenge.

Respectfully yours,

S. CENVERITH.

MY dear Mr. Cenverith:

I assure you I had nothing to do with the affair of your note at my bank. Our attorney wrote the letter on his own initiative. It was an unpleasant coincidence, nothing more.

I have directed him to take no action on your note, and you may rest assured that the incident is closed. And to prove to you that I value your friendship and good will far more than a few paltry kronen, I have destroyed your note altogether. You do not owe us anything.

If ever you should happen to be in need of another loan, consider us at your service. I am always ready to do a favor for a friend. Yours devotedly,

AMADA PRACHTVOL DE GAVAS.

DEAR Mr. President:

Having refused to be blackmailed, I shall also refuse to be bribed. But for Miss Chilla's sake, I have decided to yield. You may tell her that, difficult as it may be. Count Czenor will marry Edna.

It was kind of you to offer me another loan. I shall call on you at your office tomorrow.

Sincerely yours,

S. CENVERITH.

DEAR Mr. Cenverith:

I have just received the news, and I am so happy that I am weeping for joy. You cannot imagine what it means to me to know that this tremendous sacrifice was made wholly for my sake. I am proud to have been instrumental in making Edna the happy bride of Count Czenor. I wish I could kiss the hand which writes those beautiful stories.

Could you come to see me tomorrow afternoon at four? The old bear is going to Vienna and will be gone three days.

Your devoted and everlastingly grateful,

JULIE.