# Munsey's Magazine/Volume 94/Issue 4/The Triumph of Thomasine

Extracted from Munsey Magazine, 1928 Sept, pp. 610–616. Title illustration may be omitted.
The Triumph of Thomasine
By J. S. Fletcher
"ARE YOU THE EDITOR?" "I WAS," HE ANSWERED.
We Must Warn Ambitious Girl Authors That We Have Never Known an Editor Who Reacted Like the Bright Young Man in This Story
Thomasine O'Connor had been pretty badly disappointed in love, so she ran away from home and went to London, with a very slender balance in the Post Office Savings Bank and an unquenchable resolve to make her own living and be independent of all men forever.
It was a pity that no one reminded her, before she started, that she was that unfortunate anomaly of modern growth, a clever young woman who had not been specifically trained. She could sing a little, play a little, dance a little, and typewrite a bit. She had possibilities in her; but she lacked concentration, she had not found herself, and she had never quite made up her mind to do one thing particularly well.
By the end of her first fortnight in London her unlimited self-confidence, which was Thomasine's best asset, had procured her a post as typewriter in a West End solicitor's office at twelve shillings a week. She had asserted her speed to be a hundred words a minute, imagining, in a burst of hopefulness, that it could not possibly be less, although, as a matter of fact, she had never taken the trouble to find out exactly what it was.
It was unfortunate that the very day—a week after her engagement—when she had put it to her employer that, since she seemed to give him every satisfaction, an increase of salary would be only reasonable, he should take it into his head to time her speed, and find that it scarcely came to thirty words a minute. An extremely unpleasant little interview ensued. He told her that she had got her situation under false pretenses. Thomasine replied that he could not expect to hire proficiency at a starvation wage; and at the end of the fortnight she was once again upon the market.
Her next engagement was a companionship to a "young lady." She was required to accompany the young lady on expeditions to museums and picture galleries, to "know her London well," and to discourse with historical and geographical intelligence on everything they saw.
She embarked on her new duties with enormous cheerfulness and courage. Her unlimited self-confidence inspired the family with trust; but on the first day of her engagement, Thomasine and the young lady were missing at lunch time. They reappeared in time for tea, the charge a little sulky and aggrieved, the companion undaunted. In the evening, when it was put to Thomasine to explain why a lady "knowing her London" inside and out should get into the Bakerloo Tube for Belgrave Square, and ride triumphantly to Waterloo, a little altercation followed; and Thomasine remarked with spirit that, since she did not seem able to hit off their requirements, they had better part.
The result of giving Thomasine "another chance" was a little scene at the British Museum, in which she was overheard by a member of the family descanting, in answer to a question from the young lady, on the Elgin Marbles.
"These," said the companion, a little fluttered at the suddenness of the demand, "were executed by the unaided hand of Mr. Elgin, a person of impatient disposition, who undertook things which he seldom finished, and who was a famous statesman in the reign of—well, roughly speaking, William and Mary."
Thomasine was once again upon the market; but, strange to say, her boundless self-confidence had remained unshaken by her vicissitudes. This time she sought the counsel of a tried and trusty friend.
"Why not start writing?" Mrs. Montague said. "Your letters are graphic and original. Some famous man—I can't remember who—said that this was the first test of a capacity for authorship. You're clever, Thomasine, you're self-confident and amusing—why not make a start? There's no harm in trying, anyway. You never know what you can do till you've tried. At least you've had some experience of life."
"Life!" exclaimed Thomasine, thinking of the faithless lover. "I should like to meet any one of my age who's had more experience of life!"
She agreed that she was amusing, that—yes, she supposed she had a certain reputation for letter writing—in short, that she would try her hand.
"Fortunes are made in stories for the magazines," added the confidential friend. "In a day's work, Thomasine, you could make twice or three times the money you could ever make as typewriter to a tiresome man, or companion to a fussy woman. Make a start, keep your eyes open, don't be afraid to launch out boldly, and let me see what you can do. You can rely on me, dear, to tell you exactly what I think."
Thomasine was quite excited. Before nightfall she had drawn a pound out of the savings bank, hired a cranky typewriter, and bought a goodly stock of paper, notebooks, envelopes, and pens.
That night she sat up until twelve o'clock, for she felt that it would be wrong to stem the tide of inspiration which flowed in such abundance from her pen. Besides, said Thomasine to herself, to burn midnight kerosene is to be a "true devotee at the shrine of art," as she had seen it put somewhere.
At twelve o'clock she had finished her first tale, and was trembling from the evaporation of emotion. How long it was she did not know, but it seemed to Thomasine to contain many, many thousands of precious words. AH the miseries and mournfulness which life could yield and Thomasine could remember she had amassed and poured out in a flood of lurid depressingness. She completely put aside her own humor and audacity, her confident and cheerful way of looking at things, and dwelt upon the agonies, tears, and tortures of mankind.
"It must be great and human," she murmured to herself, finding her own eyes wet. Delicious agony to bring tears of happy parentage into one's own eyes!
At this delirious point, Thomasine's landlady, who had been seething upon her lodger's mat in uncontrollable annoyance at the expenditure of gas, looked in, perceived the mass of scattered paper, and asked if she was addressing envelopes.
"Oh, no!" said Thomasine with staggering dignity. "It's not addressing envelopes, Mrs. Poynter; it's—it's authorship!"
By noon of the following day the cranky typewriter had ground out a decent copy of "The Tragedy of Theresa." By four o'clock the manuscript was in the hands of the confidential friend. She sent her "candid verdict" by return of post. How Thomasine blessed that trusty woman!
"It is great and human," wrote the trusty friend. "How you think of it, I can't imagine!"
"Great and human!" ejaculated the new author. "My own words! How strange!"
"I am sure," the letter continued, "any magazine would jump at it. You have got it in you, Thomasine. You will get there, if you keep pegging away!"
"You are a truly great critic," Thomasine wrote back, also by return, her very soul overflowing with an almost hysterical gratitude. "I agree with every word you say. Why don't you go on the papers as a critic? You would make a fortune. Don't be afraid," she ended, "about my not pegging away. I have got it in me, I believe. All that is now needed is a fierce endurance, and time, that softener of all ills."
II
The editor sat at his desk in the office of Nature's Mirror. It was his day for reading manuscripts, and he was surrounded by a sea of bulky envelopes. He was extremely young, very bright, a curious mixture of ideals and practicability, and full of an inspiring zeal. It was a stroke of uncommonly good luck to find himself, at twenty-four, editor of a popular magazine; but Carrington Cleveson, the proprietor of Nature's Mirror, had a peculiar knack of getting hold of enthusiastic young fellows with something in them, and of getting that something out of them as fast as possible.
"I know It's a good berth, sir," he said to Cleveson. "I mean to stick to it and make a name for myself!"
"Stick to us," said Cleveson, "and we'll stick to you, my boy!"
Nature's Mirror had prospered under young Marcus Monkman, and it reflected something of his beaming enthusiasm back into the world's face. He knew the readers of the magazine just as a doctor knows, from a patient's pulse, every heartbeat of the man. He must have known them by instinct, somehow, for nobody had taught him the symptoms of the public taste. He had a peculiar delight in crushing out contributors who either could not or would not gauge the wants of Nature's Mirror, and a peculiar knack of luring the best "stuff" out of Cleveson's favorite authors. He was proud of his post, proud of Cleveson's approbation, and not a little proud of his own cleverness.
This morning he had been sorting out certain stories for reconsideration, a few as definitely suitable, and others as clearly out of the question. After about half an hour of this work he opened a small but bulky envelope. It was far smaller than the usual size for folding manuscripts, and the editor did not know what to make of it when he took out a typescript folded several times into a thick square, and glanced at it.
The story was typed in a very amateurish way, and the paper was pierced with a large hole at the right-hand corner, and tied up with ribbon. Young Monkman had sisters, and he recognized that it was washing ribbon, of the kind that petticoats and things are threaded with. He read the letter inclosed, which ran thus:
Dear Mr. Editor:
I do hope you will find space for the inclosed contribution in Nature's Mirror. I think I may say, with all due modesty, that you will find it a good deal above the average of your usual contributions. A certain critic has said of my little tale that "it is truly great and human"; but I must leave this to your judgment. I shall hope to hear from you by return of post, if possible, or some time to-morrow, and that your decision will be favorable.
With kind regards.
Always yours sincerely, Iona.
There was no stamped and addressed envelope inclosed, the length of the story submitted was not mentioned, the author confidently expected a decision by return of post, and she signed herself "Iona" with the calm assurance of an established Ouida!
"Unfortunate woman!" the editor exclaimed in genuine horror. "Is it possible that such things are still done?"
Partially smoothing out the crinkled sheets, he looked at the first page of the story, and ran his fingers through his hair. Then he glanced at the last page, and uttered a low groan.
One afternoon, at the end of a fortnight from the launching of Thomasine's first literary dreadnought, her landlady appeared beaming at her door.
"It's fat, and it's rather like a lawyer's letter," she remarked. "You wouldn't surprise me if it was a legacy."
Thomasine tore open the envelope. Around "The Tragedy of Theresa" was wrapped a printed form, expressing the editor's thanks for the offer of the manuscript and his regret at having to decline it.
With tears in her eyes Thomasine wrote off to the trusty friend. By return, for Mrs. Montague did everything by return, she received the following message:
Keep up your heart. This is your first reverse. Keep on firing broadsides into them, and remember that you have got it in you!
By this time Thomasine had completed and typewritten another tale, entitled "The Sorrows of Sophia," and the joys of renewed parentage had consoled and fortified her for her disappointment in her first-born. Before nightfall she had fired "The Sorrows of Sophia" like a broadside into Nature's Mirror, with the accompanying note:
Dear Mr. Editor:
Although not in the least discouraged by your inability to recognize merit in "The Tragedy of Theresa," I confess to being rather hurt by your curt way of returning it—after some delay, and without explanation. I now send you "The Sorrows of Sophia," which I regard as the best story I have yet written, and which I think you will accept. In any case I wish you would express some criticism which might prove helpful to me and might serve to show me how I have incurred your disapproval.
Confident of an early reply,
I am yours always, Iona.
So confident, indeed, was Thomasine that she went out forthwith, and on the strength of "The Sorrows of Sophia," she ordered a large packet of visiting cards to be printed bearing one golden word—"Iona." This made her feel that she had taken another step upon the road to greatness.
Three days later "Sophia" came back like a prodigal daughter. Wrapped about her was a letter from the editor to Thomasine:
Dear Madam:
You asked me for a criticism of your stories. Contributors are not in the habit of making such a demand upon the editor to whom they submit their matter, and, if they do, editors are not in the habit of taking any notice of them. However, since you press me for an opinion, I am obliged to tell you that your work is amateurish, dismal, lacking in humor, totally devoid of regard to real life as it is, and in my opinion not only utterly unsuited to our requirements but equally unsuited to those of any other magazine.
I am, dear madam,
Yours faithfully. The Editor.
Thomasine first wept her wrath out in a flood of tears, then poured it in a flood of indignation on the trusty friend.
"Don't mind what the silly old thing says," wrote the consoling Mrs. Montague. "They get such a lot of nonsense shot in at them that they have neither the heart nor the time to read the more serious and artistic contributions. My own impression is that he has never read your story."
"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Thomasine, on receiving this letter. "What an intuition that woman has! I might have thought of that. What he says about my work is proof positive that he has never looked at it!"
She cogitated deeply, and a look of adventurous audacity sprang into her eyes.
III
"What's that?" said Marcus Monkman a day later, raising a ruffled head from his desk, as an office boy appeared. "Letters?"
He ran through the mail. Midway he paused, stared, and uttered a wild exclamation:
"What, again?" he cried. "Here I have only just recovered from 'The Tragedy of Theresa,' when 'The Sorrows of Sophia' is thrust upon me. I have just cast 'Sophia' into outer darkness when 'The Morbidities of Maria,' very likely, shows its head!"
For it was unmistakably Iona's writing. This time the envelope was larger and thicker, and seemed to contain cardboard. A kind of humorous despair, coupled with a morbid curiosity to see what Iona was capable of perpetrating, came over the editor. He opened the envelope. It contained a photograph of a young girl in a white dress, with "Yours sincerely Iona," scrawled across the chest and arms.
Monkman's cheeks grew crimson.
"Alas, poor Iona!" he exclaimed, poring over the dainty, saucy face, with its lovable lines and irresistibly sweet features. "Alas, my poor little Iona!"
He looked around, to make sure that no one's eyes were on him. Then he put the photograph into his breast pocket and turned to the typescript inclosed. It was "The Sorrows of Sophia" come back to roost. He laid it upon a pile of manuscripts which were to be put into type as soon as possible.
The same evening found Thomasine reading a letter, her whole face tremendous with the incredible ecstasy she felt:
Dear Madam:
In "The Sorrows of Sophia" allow me to suggest to you that you have found yourself at last. Your touch has gained in firmness, your style is crisp and mellow, your characterization is true to the type that you strive so faithfully to represent. I should be glad to learn what terms you would accept for the story, and should be pleased to consider more stories from your pen.
Yours faithfully. The Editor.
Some months later a taxicab drove up to the office of Nature's Mirror, and Thomasine, getting out, inquired if she could see Mr. Monkman. She noticed that at mention of the editor's name the attendant grinned with pointedoess.
"Yes, you can see him," the attendant said. "He's there on the doorstep."
The editor was not going in, but out. He was walking slowly, with his head bent. Thomasine hurried after him.
"Are you the editor of Nature's Mirror?" she said.
"I was," he answered.
Thomasine paused. She felt that she was on delicate ground.
"We have had some correspondence," she began. "I wanted to ask you something."
She took out her card case and handed him a card.
"Iona!" he exclaimed. "I felt quite sure—"
Thomasine bowed her head.
"I am no other," she answered. "You have published a series of my stories."
"I did," he answered.
She thought she heard him drawing a deep sigh.
"I sent you a signed photograph," she continued, "a few months since, and, in spite of repeated letters asking for its return, I have not been able to get it back from you."
Young Mr. Monkman became extremely red.
"It must have been mislaid," he muttered.
"That was extremely careless!" answered Thomasine, with proper severity.
He admitted that it was.
"It was the only copy that I had," she continued. She paused. "There was one other matter which I should like to have cleared up. Perhaps you can throw some light upon it. Directly after submitting 'The Tragedy of Theresa' to you for consideration, I sent you 'The Sorrows of Sophia.' You returned it with an almost savage criticism upon its utter unsuitability for publication in any form whatsoever. Within two days I sent it back to you. You then wrote, accepting it with apparent avidity, and telling me that in 'Sophia' I had found myself, and that my touch had gained in firmness."
She saw him flush again.
"Strange!" he said. "It must have been that by some oversight Sophia was put back into her envelope, the first time, without being read at all."
"Ah!" she triumphantly replied. "I thought as much! Then there was another thing I wanted your advice upon"—she broke off—"but you're too busy—"
"Iona," he replied, "if I may call you so, I have nothing whatever to do. I had an interview with my chief this morning. He has given me what is vulgarly known as the push."
Thomasine flushed and started.
"Accept my sincere regrets," she began. She looked at him and saw that, instead of an extreme depression, a curious kind of chivalrous exhilaration shone from his face. "You were too go-ahead for them?" she ventured.
"Not too go-ahead, perhaps, but too—disinterested," he said. "The cause of my dismissal was the publication of a series of stories from the pen of a contributor in whose personality I had more faith than in her literary ability."
Her eyes grew round with admiration.
"It was noble of you," she said, "to risk your position for the sake of one who was nothing to you, and who probably wrote trash!"
"This morning," continued Monkman, "Cleveson came into my office with a sheaf of correspondence from readers of the Mirror, complaining of the series I have mentioned. He demanded an explanation of my conduct. Until this morning he had not noticed that those stories had been running in the magazine for several weeks. I gave him a truthful explanation—"
"You gave him a truthful explanation, and he gave you the push!" said Thomasine. "It sounds rather like playing consequences," she added a bit ruefully.
Suddenly Marcus Monkman's face broke out into an unaccountable expression of ecstasy.
"He didn't know what he was doing in showing me the door," the young editor said joyously. "I happen to be a man with money behind me, and I am starting in a month or two, an opposition magazine, which will shatter Nature's Mirror into a thousand smithereens!"
Thomasine clapped her hands.
"Bravo, Mr. Editor!" she exclaimed.
"Already I have a list of my contributors mapped out in my head," he said. "A prominent feature of the magazine will be a series of tales in which Iona reveals a hitherto unsuspected vein of humor."
"But do you think Iona has a vein of humor?" Thomasine began.
"Iona has a fund of most audacious humor," he replied enthusiastically. "She has a well of it, from which, with a little judicious assistance from me, I hope to see her draw weekly buckets full of cheeriness and fun!"
A year later Thomasine came into the office of the editor of Cupid's Confessions. The editor looked up from his desk with a smile, and handed his wife a letter.
"Dear Mr. Editor," she read, "please let us have lots more of Iona's funny stories. They buck up all our family for the week."
Thomasine Monkman kissed her husband's head, which was all that she could conveniently embrace.
"You dear, clever old thing! I'm so fearfully glad!" she said.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1935, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 88 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse